Snooky's Last Show by William P. Adams, Irish coffee

 We now join The Snooky Mathers Show, which is already in progress… announcer Toddy Rodgers is at the mic.

       “Our next guest is no stranger to the show… let’s give a warm Mathers welcome to the star of Good Night Nurse! the one and only Kiki Chattaway!”

       The studio audience erupts in applause as Kiki strides from backstage with confidence onto the set, air-kissing long-time co-host Jimmy Crisp then, in an exaggerated tango, slinks over to funnyman Snooky Mathers, the host with the most, where he dips her seductively, eliciting howls of raucous cheering from the audience.

       “Ring-a-ding-ding!” cries Snooky, his trademark catchphrase delivered with the same panache after nearly thirty years in show business.

       Kiki, dramatically fanning a hand in front of her heart-shaped face, falls gracefully into the chair next to Snooky’s set desk.

       “Woo! You know how to get a gal’s motor running, Shnookums!”

       Jimmy interjects, grinning and fawning, “He’s still got it. Hahaha!”

       Snooky smugly settles into his high-backed, ergonomic captain’s chair and takes a swig from his famous mug, which, not coincidentally, is graced with a likeness of his famous mug – and, if the rumors are true, contains a bit of liquid fortification.

       “Kiki Chattaway, we haven’t seen you in so long; I guess no one wants to work with an aging actress.”

       Kiki answers with a playful pout, “Oh, Snooky, you’re terrible! - you know I was just here after the Emmys, and I’m still miffed about the snub!”

       Jimmy nods in agreement, then says, “So true, so true - you were robbed, Ms. Chattaway. That was a travesty!”

       Snooky takes another pull from the mugged mug, then eyeballs Kiki with a renewed focus.

       “My dear, you look like something the cat dragged in after a three-day bender. Seriously, Kiki, you look like shit!”

       The audience's reaction is a smattering of polite laughter and confused murmuring. Jimmy Crisp gulps, looks uneasy, but maintains an obsequious grin.

       Kiki, stunned by the Snookster’s unexpected comments, manages a stilted laugh and stammers, “Snooky, darling, I think you’ve had one too many sips from that mug. Let’s get back on track—season two of ‘Good Night Nurse’ will blow your socks off!”

       “Season two, shmeason two. Why don’t you give us a song now, doll? Let’s liven things up here!”

       Kiki, wide-eyed and shrinking into her seat, looks over at Jimmy, who makes a quick shoulder shrug.

       “Uh, I have nothing prepared, and you know I’m not a singer, Snooky. Is there something wrong?”

       With concern etched on his usually jolly moon face, Jimmy stands up and tries to mitigate the uncomfortable interview.

       “He’s fine, Kiki, just pressure from doing the show.”

       Snooky looks daggers at his co-host.

       “Shut up, you simpering moron, and sit your fat ass down. I don’t pay you to have opinions!”

       Jimmy takes a seat and looks down at his shoes.

       The audience is visibly squirming in their seats as camera two pans over them.

       Snooky turns back to a mortified Kiki Chattaway, still seated and looking sick to her stomach. “Well, how about that song, babe? Howsabout Leaving on a Jet Plane’ Or better yet, Hit the Road, Jack – and don’t you come back no more no more no more. Ring-a-ding-ding!”

       Kiki looks frantically in the direction of show director Lenny Shackleford who motions for the cameras to keep rolling as Snooky bounds out of his chair, lurching toward center stage next to the Snooky Mathers Show Orchestra.

       “What, no song from the washed-up Nurse Dishrag? Well, that’s just too bad. Here’s something better…”

       Snooky begins a clumsy soft-shoe dance, and bandleader Sonny Wiggins, after a quick look at Lenny, starts the band up in a syncopated accompaniment.

       Jimmy finally grows a backbone and escorts a shaken and unbelieving Kiki Chattaway off set.

       The audience finds its groove again and cheers as Snooky butchers the Old Soft Shoe before tripping over his own feet and landing in a heap.

       Cut to commercial.

       The Snooky Mathers Show is now on hiatus for the foreseeable future.

About the author

William P. Adams resides in the Pacific Northwest and writes short fiction in various genres. His work has appeared in Rockvale Review, Neither Fish Nor Foul, Macrame Lit, Bright Flash Literary Review, and others. 

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Last Night in Dublin by Brent Cronin, Irish coffee,

 He’d heard birds chirping when he finally shut his eyes for the night, and because of his impending morning flight, he’d only slept for an hour or two. His phone alarm rattled his brain at 6:30 a.m. Delirious, he reached for the device on the nightstand, stopped the alarm, and set it for 7 a.m. His body craved sleep more than anything—except the woman next to him, who remained heavy with sleep as he traced her hip under the covers. He was in and out for the next precious half-hour, feeling her soft skin, kissing her face. Sometimes she turned to meet his mouth before turning away and drifting back to what seemed like peaceful slumber. She had no plane to catch.

At the ugly sound of the alarm, he forced himself to roll out of bed. He found his pants in a pile near the bathroom, shook them out, stepped into them. There were three small twin beds in the room (it had been the only room available), and they had occupied the middle one, where she still slept. On the windowsill sat a crumpled, translucent red condom. He retrieved it and threw it in the bathroom trash. He didn’t want her to have to deal with it.

 

He pulled on his sweater and slid back onto the bed, enveloping the sleeping woman. She turned and they kissed more. He wanted to tell her he loved her; he felt it in that moment, even though they’d only met the night before. Guinness, conversation, a silent disco, more Guinness, spontaneously latching onto a pub crawl; a bar with a dance floor she hadn’t been to since she was eighteen. Dancing to ABBA. Sitting on concrete steps in the rain, calling hotels between her pulling him in for kisses.

A taxi waited for him outside the hotel.

“Get lucky last night?” asked the driver, glancing at him in the rear-view mirror.

“Maybe. What makes you say that?”

“Why else would you be out at this hour?”

The driver dropped him off at his hostel, and he rode the elevator up to the six-bed dorm room he’d paid for but hadn’t slept in. He pulled his luggage from underneath the bunk bed and packed in a hurry, cramming the still-wet towel into the suitcase and sitting on it to zip it shut.

On the plane, he sat next to a priest. There was irony in that, he was sure. What a strange life—to choose celibacy. Last night, to him, had been sacred.

About the author 

Originally from Seattle, Brent Cronin is an MFA student at West Virginia University. He writes autofiction with a direct, deadpan style, and has been published in Dunes Review, The Listening Eye, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. You might find him riding his motorcycle in the Appalachian hills. 

brentcronin.com

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Big J’s Xmas Visit by Michael Barrington, Irish coffee

It was just after the 7:30 AM Mass, the Bishop had just gone into the sacristy and on the life-sized crucifix hanging on the back wall of the sanctuary, there was movement. Jesus managed to pull his legs free, the rusty nail clanking and bouncing as it hit then settled on the marble floor. He freed his left hand and finally the right.  Very gingerly, he slid down onto the altar, his bare feet leaving bloody imprints on the crisp, freshly starched, and ironed white cloth covering the table. As he made his way to the men’s room, he passed three parish gossips praying the rosary together, whose jaws dropped with shock at the indecency of a man wearing nothing but a loincloth in the cathedral and the Bishop being present.

Jesus washed up as best he could in the men’s room, carefully removed his crown of thorns, and stuffed it in the trash can, pressing it down as far as he could. ‘Wouldn't want anybody else to get their hands caught on that,’ he murmured to himself.

As he exited the front door, he shivered with cold; it was a freezing December morning. Waiting in line for the bus, he sensed that the heavily bundled up people, were staring silently at him. ‘So much for the happy season,’ he thought, ‘but on the other hand, I probably don't look too great.’

‘So, ‘ad a rough night then?’ It was the ticket collector, a heavy-set man who was smiling and standing next to him. Jesus had noticed that the man greeted every passenger the same way, welcoming each one as if into his own home. He laughed, he joked, clearly enjoying his work. ‘No need to answer, lad, it shows. Should stay off the bloody sauce for a while if I were in your shoes. Am glad you're not sitting down, would really bugger up the seat with that dirty cloth you're wearing.’ Jesus nodded in agreement. ‘Not from round 'ere, I reckon. So, where you're going?’

‘I need to get to the LBGTQ Shelter, but am not sure where it is exactly.’

‘Don’t worry about it lad; you're on the right bus. I'll let you know which stop it is.’

‘Thank you. You’re very helpful.’

‘Think nowt of it,’ he chipped back, then looking Jesus up and down, said, ‘and I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve got no bus fare,’ and let out a chuckle.

‘Yes, I'm afraid so. But I’ll remember your number and pay you later.’

‘It's only a few pence. I too 'ave been there and done it, and too many times. But I’m dry now. This one’s on me.’

The shelter was a brightly painted, large warehouse looking out of place next to several other partially derelict and destroyed buildings. Men and women, many carrying brown paper bags, some with old backpacks, a few with small shopping carts stuffed with their belongings, stood patiently in line. Jesus didn't know what to do. At that very moment, a young woman in her mid-twenties, suddenly caught sight of him, ran out and threw her arms around him. ‘You must be Big J,’ she said with delight, ‘I’m Jocelyn. We got an anonymous phone call this morning that you would be arriving. This is just wonderful, come and meet the gang.” Then as she held his hand, he allowed himself to be led into an Aladdin’s cave of warmth, bright lights, the smell of breakfast and lots of laughter.

‘This is my wife Amy,’ Jocelyn said, introducing a pretty dark-haired woman of the same age. ‘She runs the place, or rather she helps us keep it all together. ‘

‘You need to be seen by our volunteer doctor’ she said softly. ‘Paul’s very good. Then how about a shower? After that we’ll have breakfast together.’

‘Sounds wonderful,’ he replied.

‘Then follow me, I’ll take you to him.’

As they made their way through a maze of passageways with the sound of Christmas music playing over a PA system, Jesus couldn’t help but pick up on the happy atmosphere.

‘Hey, Paul, this is Big J. He’s just arrived and has some bloody wounds. I hope you can take care of him; if not, then we'll follow our usual plan B and take him to Victoria Hospital urgent care. But you know how I feel about that place. They really don't like our people.’

‘Hi, Big J, welcome to my pad.’ They were standing in a small but well-equipped room set up as a nursing station. ‘And don’t worry about what Amy says, I'm sure there's nothing I can't manage.’ Then looking him over from head to toes, said caringly, ‘why don't we first head over to the showers, it looks like you’ve not had one for a while?’

Wrapped in warm towels and with flip flops on his feet, Paul led Big J back to the first aid station. ‘Your wounds don’t look good,’ Paul began, ‘especially the one on your side, but I think I can stitch it up. I’ll also have to put some sutures on both wrists and your feet. I’m actually amazed you can walk. Whoever it was, they really did a number on you. You must have been a really bad boy,’ he said jokingly. ‘There’s a huge bruise on one shoulder. But your back man, it’s a mess. I’ll do the best I can. The skin is so broken, it will take some time to heal. A couple of shots should handle any infection and I’ve enough pain killers that should help for a while. The good news is that your head wounds are not deep, and after you’re done with James, our hairdresser, I’ll take another look.’

            An hour later, Paul announced, ‘Big J, that’s about as much as I can do. Your body could only take this much punishment because you're in such good physical shape. I’m now going to get some clothes and better footwear,’ and soon  returned with some underwear, a pair of jeans, a T shirt and a large woollen jumper. ‘You'll look great in that,’ he joked, ‘might even win the ugly Xmas sweater competition. I've brought some socks and found these trainers, which are probably a size or two too large but should work for you.’

‘You’re very kind,’ Jesus replied, ‘One day I’ll pay you back.’

‘Oh, don’t think about it,’ he said, ‘you're not anyone special; we treat everybody who comes here the same way. But before I take you to James, would you like a cup of tea first or will you wait for breakfast?’

‘No, thank you,’ Big J responded, ‘I’ll wait. I love family meals.’

‘Soooooooooooooooooo what have I here?’ James asked, extending a heavily tattooed hand with ring-covered fingers. They were now in a room set up like a professional hairdresser’s salon. ‘I heard you were in the building. So, Paul,’ he suggested, ‘why don't you leave Big J with me and when I'm done, I'll take him over to the dining room.’

‘Excellent idea.’

Big J looked at James, trying to remember whom he resembled, then realized it was his cousin, except that he was a fisherman. This James had the hands and long, slender fingers of an artist. ‘I really like what you’re wearing,’ said Jesus ‘and your hair looks wonderful, very unique.’

‘That's kind of you,’ he answered, preening himself. He was wearing a pale blue top, with a bright square design, each quadrant a different color, with long, wide flowing sleeves. His blue skintight, multi-colored yoga pants were eye-catching. But his most striking feature was his hair. Both sides of his head were shaved to the scalp and dyed a dark green. The rest was bright yellow three-inch-high thatch standing up straight Mohican style. Big J paid no attention to the ring through his nose and the scorpion tattoo on his neck; he only noticed his eyes. They seemed to sparkle with acceptance and kindness.

‘Then let’s get started,’ he said caringly looking at the wounds, ‘I’ll be extra careful. Let me give your hair a shampoo with conditioner, then we can discuss what you would like me to do with it. How’s that?’

‘Yes, that sounds like a plan.’

‘You know, Big J, there are many women who would die to have hair like yours. It’s so thick. So, what’s your fancy?’

‘I really don’t know. I’ve had long hair for years. It was very fashionable back in the day. What do you think? What would you suggest?’

‘Certainly not long,’ James exclaimed, ‘that is so yesterday. But did you ever see that painting by Salvador Dali of Christ of St John of the Cross? He gave you short but tousled hair. Shall we go for that look?'

‘Yes, I really liked it,’ Jesus answered with a little laugh, ‘and now my head is in your hands. But what about the beard?’

‘Am soooooooooooooooo happy you asked,’ James said. ‘It's really got to go. Or on second thoughts, what about just a short jaw-lined look.’

‘And you don’t think a goatee would suit me?’

There was a long pause as James walked around him, looking at his face from several angles, carefully touching the beard.

‘No, I really don’t think so. Let’s go with a really modern look. It will just seem like you haven’t shaved for several days. It would be tre̒s chic.’

‘I submit to your superior knowledge,’ Big J responded with a chuckle.

Thirty minutes later they were seated in the dining room with about one hundred men and women. Jesus looked along the lines of people being fed; nobody asked about their age, beliefs, nationality, culture, sexual orientation, political allegiance or marital status. They were simply poor, hungry and homeless.

Sliding onto an open seat next to him, Paul carefully examined Big J’s head and hair. ‘Here’s some medication. Just dab it on each wound twice a day,’ and slipped him a tube of antiseptic cream.

‘I'll never forget your kindness,’ he answered softly, and lightly touched his shoulder with his bandaged hand.

‘Wow, that’s quite a transformation,’ Jocelyn commented. ‘You’re beginning to look almost human again. I hope you’re beginning to feel a little better. How long will you be staying with us?’

‘Just today and tonight,’ Jesus answered. ‘I’d like to earn my keep by working here today, then tomorrow I need to be in Oldham.’

‘Oh, that’s too short, Big J. Are you sure you can’t stay longer? That’s a rhetorical question,’ she quickly added, ‘so don’t answer it. I’m just being selfish. You know how Amy and I feel about you. And we can help you with getting to Oldham,” she added in a tearful voice.

‘I wish I could stay,’ he replied gently, ‘but I can’t. I got a call from Kate. She calls me every day and said she was struggling with her Xmas decorations and trimming her tree. Getting old can be a real burden. I said I would help her. It's all such an important part of getting ready for my birthday. Most people take it quite seriously, and it’s a really big deal for them. I just wish the churches would get on board with the Xmas spirit, but that’s something I can’t do much about. The pastors need to listen to the people, to take their cue from them, to be leaders of joy. But I live in hope. Anyway, I need somehow to get to Oldham so I can help her and Bernard.’

‘That will not be a problem,’ answered a woman wearing a colorful traditional dress.  ‘I’m Ezyan from Afghanistan,’ she said smilingly, ‘you’ll be working with Yemane and me this morning, pointing to a young black man. He’s from Senegal and speaks awful English,’ she teased. ‘We’ll be putting together free food bags for the people who are lined up outside. Times are very hard, and there is so much poverty. And if you’re an illegal like so many of us and have lost everything, a place like this is a real haven of hope. Meanwhile, I’ll find out exactly how to get to Oldham. I’m sure there will be a good bus service.’  

‘Hey, Big J, over here.’ A group of men and women were walking alongside tables stacked with canned, packaged goods and fresh produce, dropping one of each item into a large carry bag. It was then deposited on a table near the entrance where staff, all wearing Santa hats, were handing them out. A tall olive-skinned man wearing a reindeer-type hat, was waving him over. ‘We heard you were coming today. Come and work with us. We have the first shift. Ezyan and Yemane are in charge, but they’ll let you work with me. We have no real hierarchy here. Our common goal is to simply get the job done. My name is Yasra and I’m from Palestine, Bethlehem actually, ask me anything you want to know about the place. I know you were born there but I learned your parents had to run for it soon afterwards. I know the feeling. I escaped last year after losing my wife and child in an Israeli attack. We were minding our own business, just trying to hide and get out of the way. I’ve not been back to the mosque since, I'm too angry with Allah, but the team here is really helping me with my grief and anger. I just love this place and these people. And oh, by the way, is that the best they could do in the sweater department,’ he added with a laugh.

‘So happy to meet you Yasra. And yes I'll be happy to work alongside you. Am so sorry for your loss. And hey, I got all these clothes for free. Not too long ago I was almost naked. What’s not to like? But I have a question for you. I noticed that there are banners everywhere with the letters LGBTQ. The same banner is over the front door. What do the letters mean?’

‘That’s an easy one. It’s what drives us, what makes us tick, what makes us who we are. It’s our slogan our philosophy; Love, Brotherhood, Giving, Tenderness and Question.’

‘I think I get the first three, but what about the last two?’

‘Everybody who comes through those doors has been wounded in some way. Everybody. We're the walking wounded. In a brutal world, we need to reach out with tenderness to each other. Treat each other tenderly. The word says it all. And Question? Jocelyn and Amy ask us every day and occasionally multiple times during the day, to question ourselves, our motives. It’s as if they were brought up knowing the Quran, but I know they’re Catholics. Why we are here? Why do we do what we do? I guess it's a way of purifying our intentions.’

‘Tell me more’, Big J requested, ‘there must be more to it.’

‘Well, there is. I’m a Muslim. The Quran teaches that purity is the sincerity of intention behind any action or behavior. Islam regards the motives behind what people say or do as essential and that these motives should always be to pursue the pleasure, approval, and satisfaction of God. Whether the individual himself or the people discover these motives or not, a person must acknowledge that God sees and knows what is in a person’s heart at all times. Here I see the Quran in action, and I am part of it. And didn’t you preach a similar message?’ He held up his hand. ‘No need to answer, Big J;  I've seen what Christians can do to each other. It’s just that here at LGBTQ, the message is vibrant, is real.’

‘Good news Big J. I found a phone number for Kate and Bernard’s address you gave me, so I called them. Ezyan was walking towards him offering the information. ‘You do know I’ll never forget our meeting,’ she said with tears in her eyes. ‘Today is very special for me. I'm a Yasidi, a survivor, a woman who was raped multiple times. My whole family was exterminated just because of its beliefs. But I know where I stand with you and that gives me peace and comfort, even though we've never met before. I can feel it.’

 Standing, looking at each other, Big J reached out and gently drew her to silently himself, their arms wrapped around each other. As they separated, she explained, ‘I’ll put you on the bus that will take you all the way to Oldham city center. They’ll meet you there and drive you home. Kate and Bernard will spoil you rotten. They’re so excited. I also told them a little about your schedule that you would be visiting several other families but that you had to be back in the cathedral by the evening of the 24^th. They understood and said they’d drive you there themselves. You’ve made our Xmas preparations here so very special, Big J, and I’m sure once you've helped them dress their tree, put up their lights, hung the holly wreath on their door, and wrapped some presents, it will also be their best Xmas ever. And oh, Kate says she bakes a mean mince pie and has a special birthday cake for you.’

 

About the author

Michael Barrington, is an international writer specializing in historical novels: Let the Peacock Sing, The Ethiopian Affair, Becoming Anya, The Baron of Bengal Street, No Room for Heroes. His 40 short stories and articles have been published in the USA & UK. He also blogs on his website: www.mbwriter.net.  

 

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On the Ferris Wheel by Kathrin Spinnler, Irish Coffee

Abby never went to the fair on a Saturday, the busiest day of the week. But today was special. She faced the long queue with a grim smile.

 

By the time it was her turn, her feet had gone numb. She slid into the seat and exhaled. Finally, time to enjoy this last moment of freedom.

 

As the attendant was about to lower the safety bar, a wizened old lady stepped forward and approached her two-seater cab.

 

'You don’t mind if I join you, do you, love?'

 

Abby pursed her lips. 'No, of course not,' she said, wondering why she could never just be honest.

 

The Ferris wheel juddered, and the cab rose into the air. Abby looked at the city spread out below and inhaled deeply. Bad idea. She wrinkled her nose and glanced sideways at the lady. When had she last showered? And was that… marijuana she smelled?

 

Without warning, the creaky Ferris wheel jerked and stopped. Abby wasn’t concerned. It did that sometimes.

 

She turned her back on the lady and scanned the skyscrapers. Her last day as a single woman in the city. Her last time at the fairground. Blake didn’t like fairgrounds.

 

A weight pressed down on her chest. What’s wrong with me? He’s a good guy.

 

It was just the life change that scared her. Abby glanced down at her watch. Ten minutes had gone by. The smell from her neighbour was getting overwhelming.

 

Suddenly, the woman spoke. 'Looks like we’re stuck.'

 

'I suppose.' Abby looked straight ahead. Don’t engage.

 

'Not afraid of heights, are you?' The lady chuckled.

 

'No.'

 

'Getting hitched?'

 

Abby raised her eyebrows and turned her head, just in time to see the lady eyeing Abby’s engagement ring. 'Yes. Tomorrow.'

 

'Exciting.' There was a pause. 'I got married around your age, too. Biggest mistake of my life.'

 

'Oh.' Abby sighed and checked her watch again. Fifteen minutes. Can we move now? What’s the problem with this Ferris wheel?

 

'I wasn’t sure about it, either, but I didn’t dare call it off at the last minute.'

 

Abby turned to face the wizened lady, frowning. 'What gives you the impression I’m not sure?'

 

'I can tell.' The woman shrugged, her cloudy eyes unfocused. 'Jake was dark, handsome, and popular. When he started courting me, I couldn’t believe my luck. My parents were so proud. I, a baker, marrying a lawyer? But there were warning signs. The drinking. The flirting. The demeaning comments.'

 

A hot flush crept over Abby’s face. Was this an elaborate joke set up by her bridesmaids? 'I’m a baker, and my fiancé Blake is a lawyer,' she stammered.

 

'Ah, well? There you have it.' An almost angelic smile lit up the old woman’s face.

 

'Then what happened?' Abby asked, despite herself.

 

'We got married. The drinking got worse. The flirting turned into affairs. And the comments, well…' She pulled up her sleeve to reveal her arm, scarred red and purple from years of abuse.

 

Bile rose in Abby’s throat at the sight of the cuts and sores. 'That’s… I’m so… sorry. But surely, you must tell someone! You can get help!'

 

'I don’t need help. It’s too late for me. But not for you, Abby.'

 

Another momentary silence engulfed them. Only then did Abby realise that the world around her had stopped moving. No cars whizzed by on the roads below, and the blinking skyscraper lights were static, frozen in time. She turned back to her neighbour, who stared straight ahead.

 

'Who… who are you? And how do you know my name?'

 

The old lady raised her eyebrows and smiled at Abby. 'Can’t you guess?'

 

'You’re…'

 

Abby reached out to touch her future, but before she could do so, the old lady snapped her fingers. The ferris wheel juddered back into motion, causing Abby to lurch forwards. By the time she recovered, the seat beside her was empty.

 

About the author 

 Kathrin Spinnler grew up in a small town near Bern, Switzerland, surrounded by the stunning alpine countryside. Now living in North London, she works as a content writer and language teacher. When not working, you can find her curled up reading a book or hiking around the local green spaces. 

 

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Glory

 

Arin felt the chill radiate from the stone arches in the church vestibule. She joked about how they’d need to pass out hard hats if she ever went back. The church looked stable enough, and not at all bothered by her presence. She guessed maybe what the old priest had said about one sinner not being stronger than the blood of Christ was right.

She blessed herself with holy water from the stone bowl that sat between the very back benches of the sanctuary. What did she need sanctuary from, she wondered. Oh yes. The demons that decided to attack her mother. ‘If you’re a person of faith,’ the doctor said, ‘you might want to stop by your church on the way home.’ He made it sound like her mother wouldn’t have that opportunity again.

The bottom of the stone basin felt cool and slick as she dragged her fingers through the water. Her mother always smacked her hand when she did that as a child. She couldn’t do that right now. But just the fact that she was in a Catholic church would be enough to wake her mother from her unconscious state. 

Brigid Marie Buckley was strong. She’d been a fighter all her life. She fought her three brothers, her alcoholic mother, and abusive father. She fought her husband, who thought since her father hit her, it was okay for him to do it, too. She fought him until he woke to the smell of chicken frying in the middle of the night, and found her standing over him. Her small hands barely held on to the cast iron chicken fryer.

‘Hit me now, why don’t you? You wanted to hit me. Do it now.’  The next thing they knew, he was running into the night, no pants, no shoes, just his undershirt and boxers. None of that prepared her for the fights with her daughter growing up.

She always wanted a daughter. Arin said she would have been better off with just a doll to dress up and play with. She tried to dress up Arin, but she fought her, from the time she could find her hands, her mother said. She fought her mother every step of the way, from childhood, through her teenage years, and even through college. Brigid won a few battles, lost many more. In the end, she relented and took comfort in the ones she bested her daughter on. Church was not one of them.

Brigid took her to the old priest, and asked him to have a word with her. Remind her that the Bible required her to honor her father and her mother, though the father part was okay to overlook, she said. Arin nearly went mad. After telling the priest what he could do with his rosary beads, and his cross after that, she swore she’d never be back and stormed out the huge doors. They slammed so hard the stained glass windows shook. She was as good as her word. She had not returned. Until today.

She’d tried praying. More, since her mother became ill, but she’d been annoyed with God for quite a while now. It was bad enough being a Catholic in a family full of Baptists. Southern Baptists. Christmas dinners were always colorful. One grandmother said she had no patience for those Papists. The other declared she should try being baptized by water again, only hold her head under for longer this time. They both claimed to love God, and swore that God loved them, even if He wasn’t too thrilled with the idiot across the table. Arin decided to give Him one last chance.

For someone who was supposed to answer prayers, He didn’t seem to have much time for hers. That was part of the reason she decided to drop by His house for a visit. His track record wasn’t great with her. Her mother struggled from the time her father left, though in fairness, she struggled before. Even after he was gone, the effects he had on her and her mother still lingered. He said he’d come back and get Brigid if she ever had another man in his house. It seemed she took him at his word. She was so afraid he would return, she wouldn’t even be there when a man came to work on the house. Arin had to miss school just to be there when they got a new water heater installed. When her mother came home and saw the van still there, she couldn’t come past the front steps. Arin had to answer the phone four different times to assure the neighbors everything was okay. Her mother just wanted to enjoy the last few warm fall days. The excuse might have been more plausible if it hadn’t been barely above freezing outside.

‘She doesn’t have to worry about him anymore, you know. He’s not going to bother her again.’ If Arin jumped any harder, she would have physically lifted off the pew.

‘Who the hell said that?’ Arin looked around, even though she knew there was no one near. Under the pew. That was it. Except there was no one there. Or at the end of the pew. Or lying down on the pew in front of her. Or behind her.  That was it. But it wasn’t.

‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Stress induced auditory hallucinations. Just fucking perfect.’

‘Watch your mouth. And you’re not hearing things,’ the voice said. ‘Well, in the strictest sense, you are. But what you’re hearing isn’t a hallucination.’

Arin stood up and started to ease toward the center aisle.   

‘Oh sit down. This is my house. You are my child. I’d never do anything to hurt you.’ 

Arin collapsed back onto the pew.‘Okay. Hang on a minute. You make it sound like you’re God or somebody.’

‘A Just God. Not just somebody.’

‘This isn’t funny. I’ve been praying to you for—’

‘Thirty-four years, 11 months, 5 days, and well, do you need the minutes? I could tell you, but that lapses into the realm of parlor tricks.’

Words were beyond her right now. The voice sighed, and she felt the room grow warmer. And brighter. ‘Yes. I do know. But it’s not like you could count them to confirm I was right, now is it?’

The voice paused, and she felt a breeze on her scalp.  

 ‘I would recommend you deep condition sometimes, though.  And it wouldn’t kill you to get your hair done once in awhile. You’re beautiful. I made you that way.’

‘But isn’t vanity—’

‘Vanity is excessive. Being all I made you to be is just being smart.’

She ran her hand through her hair, and could swear she heard someone sigh. ‘Would it be too much trouble for me to see you?’ she said.

‘Well, not too much trouble. But if you saw Me, you’d die. What you perceive as my physical form is more than the limitations of your human mind can handle. But you have some idea what I look like. I made you in my image.’

She shook her head, and waited for the fog lift. It didn’t. 

‘I gave you a measure of faith,’ the voice said. ‘Use some of it.’

‘Okay. Okay. Let’s assume for a minute you are who you say you are.’

by Robin J. Greene

Irish coffee

‘I Am.’

‘Okay. Why now? Why here? And why my mother?’

The voice sighed again. It felt like someone sat down next to her on the pew. She couldn’t help but lean into what felt like strong, sure arms, and a chest that just seemed to invite her closer. It felt like she was small and nothing could hurt her, ever. ‘I’ve always been here. You just chose to not hear Me. That’s the problem with giving you free will.  Sometimes My children use it when they should just let go and let Me take care of them.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Then help my mother.’

‘I already have. And always do. She listens better than you, though not as well when we’re talking about you. I see where you get it from. But then, ultimately, you get it from Me. I have to be stubborn to deal with My children.’

‘I’ll do anything if you make her well. I’ll go back to church. I’ll be a good Catholic.’

‘You should know by now religion doesn’t matter. Faith is what matters. Faith that I will take care of you, and confidence. Confidence in yourself for a change.’

The arms felt closer, and warmer. The church looked like it just opened from the top to let all the light of the world shine in. But when she looked again, it was the same cool, dark space it had always been. And there was still no one there that she could see. ‘But if it came down to that, I’d—’

‘Yes,’ the voice said. ‘I know you would. You would die for her. But think about it. Do you believe that would make her happy? Do you think if she knew you gave your life for hers, she’d ever be happy again? ‘

‘Well, I guess not. But I don’t have anything else to offer.’

‘You’ve offered more than enough. The rest is up to Me. I will say this, though. Rather than die for her, will you live for her? Will you make sure all the things she taught you, and all the sacrifices she made for you are not in vain? Will you truly live for her? Will you live for Me? Live your life for My glory, and thereby for hers? Live for Me.’

The gloom returned to the church. The cool settled back in. She felt alone again. Then the arms hugged her. At that moment, she knew she would never really be alone.

About the author

Robin, a woman of a certain age, loves to write. She’s had lots of jobs, including her first, as a turn down girl for a hotel. Make of that what you will. Her current gig is teaching. Marking papers keeps her supplied with fiction. After four continents, she loves London.