plays over stained glass
as I sink to my knees
before the God who made me.
My eyes fill when
I lift them to meet His.
We glow as
love burns a bridge between us,
and I am consumed
but not destroyed.
At long last,
I am home.
Maria is blessed.
Displayed in front of the Catholic school assembly, Lydia felt like an ostrich: swollen belly perched on teenaged stork-thin legs, dying to bury her head in the sand.
Afterwards, the nuns expelled her. It was then she decided “pro-life” was a crow veiled in a habit, not an olive-branched dove.
Krista Robey is an unapologetic Midwestern Millennial, who will advocate for Oxford commas until the day she dies.
Ponder I, alone: “What brought me here?”
The wind says nothing.
“What force?” cry I.
“God?” I wait for any answer.
“Nothing, then,” ponder I, alone. No fate steered my course. I chose this path.
I turn away to family dinner. How I despise political turkey.
Andrew is an unpublished fiction writer in the Washington area. In his spare time he enjoys pens, pads, word processors and pudding.
The order has arrived. There’s Hastings, sitting in a corner stroking his lucky rabbit’s foot. Cranston, his eyes closed, intoning the Rosary. Others praying under their breath, crossing themselves. Superstitious fools!
Suddenly a whistle shrills.
I check my watch. Thirteen hundred hours. I’m enveloped by a dark sense of foreboding.
David McTigue is from Liverpool UK who writes to fight his inner demons.
My brother entered the seminary at 14, hungry for faith.
He came home wounded in ways we could see but not understand.
He lifted weights nightly,
until with bulging muscles he shoved his fist through a window
attempting to close it.
Something at least a surgeon could fix.
Margie Nairn is a retired nurse and emerging writer in Corvallis, Oregon, where she writes memoir, poetry, and silly limericks for her daughter.
That summer the churches stopped selling religion.
You had to know a guy who knew a guy.
I was living by the ocean with a sea captain’s daughter.
He brought home boxes of the stuff.
We shared holy communion. We wept through miracles.
Her and me. Us and the sea.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
God sits in a diner, wearing skinny jeans, developing universes on an old PC.
Nearby, Betsy gathers strength for a breakup, a traumatic severing.
Her apparent anguish moves him to abandon godhood, connect as a human.
He stands. She leaves.
Her Bible follows her empty coffee cup into the trash.
After chasing his muse from Virginia to Manhattan, Richard Day Gore settled in Southern California, where he spends his time pushing
around words, paint brushes, and guitar strings. See more at richarddaygore.com.
The heart of the great scientist had beat its final defiance. The ganglionic sparks had begun their exodus from the bland greyness confined to the mind which the world had so treasured.
Their energy encountered an embrace beyond description.
“So what’s this crap about me not existing?” the Creator posed.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion. And sometimes he barges in on subjects a tad too soon… where angels fear to tread.
Folks at church think it be a sin just to pause by the basement doorway where that type music flowed raw. Our hymns was crumbs compared. But I took me a sip of saxophone, a gulp of jazz piano, and drank myself to heaven. Was blind but now I see.
Beverly C. Lucey prefers to write short pieces because she is always getting interrupted. Her work has been published online and in anthologies.
At the wedding reception, Mother admired her new daughter-in-law who wore hijab and long sleeves in the hot Texas sun. Never a guarantee. Still, this relationship seemed solid.
“Religious differences aside, she’s family now. No one will bother her!” Mother rested her hand on the concealed weapon under her blouse.
T.J. Barnum has been writing after work for a number of years, but has started submitting only recently. Barnum’s short memoir piece entitled “Daddy Jim Teaches Me To Shoot” will appear in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature in April, 2018.