Artwork by Cynthia Yatchman, Issue 13.
Check out these short story excerpts from Issue 13:
FICTION
When the officers came into the church to arrest Ezekiel Freeman, the congregation fell into an uproar. It was easy to see why. White cops come into a mixed church on Sunday morning and arrest an elderly black man, and with no warning. Ezekiel had not resisted. Still, they pulled him to the hardwood, turning over several foldable chairs, causing even more commotion as his body scraped against the gym floor … READ MORE >
— Hampton D. Harmon, The Rattle of Bones
Why in a lot of TV shows — the action kind I watched when I had my own set — do they make hostages strip down to their underwear? I’m thinking mostly of bank robberies because I’m in a bank right now, but on TV it’s not just banks. One reason I can think of is it makes it easy to distinguish between the robbers and hostages. You can spot the difference right away, no thinking required. Two, maybe it’s to discourage people from making a run for it. What lady wants to run into the street in her bra and panties, right? Three — and this one makes the most sense to me — to show who’s in control, who’s got the power. Plus, where are you going to hide a weapon or cell phone? “Hey, Ace, I see that Glock in your tighty whiteys! Hand it over!” … READ MORE >
— Paul Michael Garrison, Alice Will Never Believe This
It was one of those new churches, all angles and timber and ceilings made of massive rectangles of glass to admit as much natural light as possible. Jesus hung high above the altar, backlit by green, yellow, and red stained glass, and there was a tiny fleck of red from His forehead just where the crown of thorns bites in … READ MORE >
— Brian J Doughan, First Kiss
You don’t often see nuns walking out of a casino, or priests at a rave. But I saw both on the same day. How quickly a coincidence can turn into a nightmare; just so when I saw a Cardinal hanging ten at the beach.
I was raised as a good Baptist: baptized at 8, took notes on every anecdote-laden sermon, not a lick of dancing (that the congregation ever knew about). But now, I fear that for some reason, the Catholic church seems to be following me, luring me to mass … READ MORE >
— Bradley Warner, I’m Going to Be Kidnapped by Catholics
The Front Range received its first snowfall of the season on the day Sherri Norman began to die. There it was, a silent surprise, when she walked out of the doctor’s office. Fluffy white flakes swirling down like a second chance.
For everyone except her, of course.
She stepped gingerly across the slick parking lot and took refuge in her car, turning the heat up to full blast. While the ancient Chevy’s heating system slowly caught up with her request, she gripped the wheel and stared unseeingly ahead, watching the white whirl against the mountains and blinking through her mental fog to the doctor’s words. … READ MORE >
— Ashlyn McKayla Ohm, Birthday Candles
Her visit was unannounced. Radiating energy and self-confidence, she followed him into his den.
“That music is WEIRD!” The would-be girlfriend’s voice had a sharp, judgmental edge.
“That particular piece is called ‘Stabat Mater,’” he murmured as he cut off the recording. “It’s Latin for ‘the mother stood.’ It’s a medieval hymn that has attracted the attention of several composers over the centuries. It speaks of Mary, the mother of Jesus, witnessing the suffering of her son as he dies on the cross. I think it invites us to enter a space where we share the agony of people helplessly witnessing the suffering of those close to them.” … READ MORE >
— John Farquhar Young, Stabat Mater
She felt it again. The panic, at first just tip-toeing through her stomach, almost unnoticeable, if you were trying to ignore it. And Lucy most definitely was. Why hadn’t she paused to think at that first fork? She always chose the wrong path at that fork in the path and had to turn around later. But this time she hadn’t really been paying attention, and now she couldn’t remember which trail she had taken. Did she need to turn around? She had already gone so far. And if Lucy really had chosen the right path originally, she would have to walk this same part of the trail all over again later. Ugh. She didn’t have time for this; she had to get to her shift by four … READ MORE >
— Hannah Doorenbos, Lost Again
Rumor has it if you cried here, your tears could freeze your eyelids shut. Minuscule ice crystals would form, and a kaleidoscope of rainbow would be the last thing you’d see for a while. Maybe forever.
I wasn’t planning on finding out.
Smoke pierced my nostrils despite thick puffs of snow. Some of the girls arriving this morning were as young as twelve, the age of accountability. Nadia’s age now. The same age I had been when I was arrested four years ago. I wanted to scream for her, but screams were no better than tears. … READ MORE >
— Candace Behrmann, A Frozen Hope
There is a woman — sixty years old, though she wears it lightly, as if age brushed past her without quite settling in. Her days are full, her life vibrant with color. She is generous with her time and her words. She feeds the hungry. Her home is open to those who need shelter. She writes things in hopes of making people feel seen. She creates spaces of quiet beauty, where even sorrow can take off its shoes and rest awhile.
She is not lonely in the usual sense … READ MORE >
— Victoria Stewart, The Woman and the Raven
NONFICTION
I was twenty-six the first and only time I went to a therapist. I saw her for six months, and now, I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what all we talked about. I know, when I first started to see her, I was trying to convince myself I wanted to get a PhD. I know she helped me admit I did not, in fact, want to do that. I know she was one of the few people in my life who understood why, which is a mystery to me now, as she didn’t seem to understand much else about me. Or maybe it’s that her understanding was too severe, and I couldn’t take the searing gaze of it, having lately been wounded as badly as I’d ever been by a man who’d claimed to love me. I know that’s why I started seeing her — the man, his promise of marriage, his sharp U-turn, the numberless and namelessly cruel things he had said in the end to make me loosen my grip … READ MORE >
— Jessica Lynne Henkle, How to Want
In an attempt at poetry, the pastor called it a “drizzly, late summer day.” The good, clean Christians of San Diego filed into the rows of white chairs with their perfectly arranged hair and cake-topper babydoll dresses, slurping coffee from earth-colored mugs they bought at Target and greeting only the familiar faces around them. I’ve never met anyone I didn’t already know here, in this outreaching, disciple-focused church. The sanctuary looked built to house Pinterest weddings and keep its residents happy all the days of their lives, and the people looked like they hated poverty and wouldn’t lift a finger against it as long as they could come up with excuses not to. The pastor had a stupid haircut and a lyrical lilt in his voice just smug enough to match a narcissistic uncle at Thanksgiving. When he introduced the Holy Spirit as the topic for the week, I practically rolled my eyes … READ MORE >
— Milla Jade Kuiper, I Briefly Stop Believing in God at Church the Morning After a Hozier Concert
Before arriving as newly minted missionaries in Guayaquil, Ecuador in 1993, my wife Lil and I had read the guidebooks about its reputation as a dangerous pickpocket mecca. Others who had lived there before warned us about the prevalence of armed assaults and violence. Their words had the desired effect, and on my first visit downtown, I walked the crowded, chaotic streets like a rabbit under the watchful eye of an eagle. I was on the alert, and everyone coming towards me looked suspicious. I felt like a spy in a John Le Carre novel, stopping to look for reflections in store windows to make sure no one was following me. As advised by a guidebook, I moved my wallet to a front pocket and shoved various bills inside my socks for safekeeping. But, as nothing happened on that or on subsequent visits downtown, or in our neighbourhood, I grew more confident and less anxious. I was always aware of the potential dangers, but I acted as though nothing would happen to me … READ MORE >
— Timothy Horne, A Close Call
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