She turned on the television with her remote. Mom must have been watching that Scottish comedian before she turned over the night shift to the nurse—the morning news was on. A big red banner flashed across the screen: BREAKING NEWS.
Her mother was on the television. People were smiling, laughing, excited. Lauren felt the happiness flow into her. She was feeling so sleepy suddenly. She thought to call to Dad, to tell him Mommy was on the television, but her breath hitched in her throat.
So tired.
She watched instead, heard her mother talking about the little girl she’d seen. Another red sign came on the screen: JESSICA SCOTT FOUND!
The newscaster said that Jessica had been missing for over seven years. That was longer than Lauren had been alive. Her mom had found the lost girl. They both looked so happy.
It filled Lauren’s heart with joy. Her breath caught once more, and her mother’s smile shepherded her away.
MADONNA IN THE GRASS
Flash Pan Alley 2007; Translated to Finnish as “Ruohikon Madonna” ASSA, No. 2, 2008, Edited and Published by Juri Nummelin.
“There she is.”
Papillion muttered the words, breathing deeply. His eye was pressed hard to the scope of his rifle, the fine cross lines breaking the scene below into quadrants. Upper left, a grassy field. Bottom left, parking lot. Bottom right, a line of people, sweating, stinking masses gathered to pay homage. Upper right, the prize. Nestled deep on a hard wooden table, surrounded by bleeding flowers, a sheet of metal imprinted with the image of the Virgin Mary.
A scam, he thought, then instinctively lifted his right hand off the trigger and crossed himself. Papillion may be a heathen, but he was a respectful heathen. What if it wasn’t? What if somehow, the hand of God had come down and touched the slab of iron, imprinting the face of the mother of the Lord into the very molecules? Who was he to say that it couldn’t have happened?
A realist, that’s who. A man who knew it was a falsehood, a lie perpetrated to force the means to an end.
He settled his finger back on the pull and used his falcon sight to follow her progress.
Long, wavy black hair cascaded down her back, a subdued headband held the unruly mess off her forehead. She was dressed in a white skirt with eyelet lace along the hem that just skimmed her knees, a white button down oxford cloth shirt with a yellow scarf tied around her waist. The straps of espadrilles wound around her slim ankles, and Papillion licked his lips. He’d always been a leg-man. And the sister was a beautiful example of what a woman’s legs were supposed to look like.
He watched her move through the crowd, saw their deference to her. Lucia. She was a powerful woman. A woman that more than one faction wanted dead.
Papillion could retire after this hit. But it was a delicate operation. He needed to wait for Sister Lucia to announce the hoax. Then the shooting could be blamed on one of the faithful on the ground, someone so overcome with the emotion of the appearance of their holy mother that a declaration of foolery would tip them over the edge.
Fatima, this was not.
***
Lucia stared at the face of the holy Mother. She waited, tuning out the noise, the heat, the fetid stench of the unwashed. Was she in the presence of a miracle? Had a great secret been revealed, a battle for good won? She waited, and felt nothing. Disappointment filled her. Another hoax. The last time she’d felt the presence of God was in a field, with no attendance other than a small rabbit. There was nothing holy here.
She rose, shaking her head. The faithful moaned with hatred, denials were shouted. She simply ignored them, walked back to her Jeep. A flash caught her eye, high on the cliff rising to the heavens to her right. Papillion, she assumed. He’d been waiting for a chance to take her out for months now.
Lucia stopped. She spread her legs, spread her arms, threw her head back. Presented herself to him, a target. Waited to feel the slam of the bullet in her chest. When it didn’t come, she smiled. An honest assassin, Papillion. Or smart enough to know that when she found the real miracle, she wouldn’t be able to hide her joy.
She climbed into the Jeep, closed the door on another falsehood. One day, she prayed. One day.
***
One day, Papillion prayed. One day she will find God, and I will help her meet him. His eyes were closed; he felt the flash, the burn from below instinctively. When he could finally pry his eyelids apart, the Jeep was gone. Lucia too. There was only a deep crater in the dirt, blackened and smoking. Pilgrims were scattered carelessly in the brush. Red and black mingled with the desert browns, painting the sands with raucous color.
One day had arrived at last.
CHIMERA
Flashing in the Gutter 2006 (appeared in two parts – Chimera and Redux); Surreal South 09, edited by Pinckney Benedict and Laura Benedict, Press 53, 2009
I do not sleep anymore.
I can’t take the risk, not again. I won’t survive it again.
“I’ll see you in hell.”
These words are rooted in my brain. They aren’t even words, exactly. Not enunciated and pronounced, but hissed and lingering, seeping into my skin and settling into my bones, my heart, my mind.
The room is dark, silent and reproachful. I’ve forgotten the nightlight again and the gloom is penetrating, the white walls lost in the abyss. There is no boundary to the room, it is infinite, black and salty. I can’t smell the sulfur, even though I’ve been told I would. It is more than the scent of the sea, slightly brackish, dead fish and seaweed making it offensive.
The hissing begins again. “I’m here to take you. It is your time.”
I realize this has happened before. I’ve been in this bed, this room, this murky gloom when the demon came to me. How many times have I fought him off?
I turn to face him. He has come through the shuttered window. The night air blows behind him, sweet jasmine and bougainvillea overpowered by his rankness. He doesn’t resemble anything I’ve seen before, any depiction drawn or imagined. He is taupe, nearly translucent, skinny ferret like body supported by long boned feet, hands ending in claws that drip a viscous liquid. I assume it is the remnants of bitter souls from the night’s catch. I’m not sure how I know he is male, there are no external clues to his gender.
“Tiiiiiimmmmeee.” That sibilant voice again. I feel a drop of slime hit my forehead. His hands are past my shoulder now, reaching around to scoop me in his arms. His mouth, crowded with sharp teeth, spit trails stringing between upper and lower jaws, grows wider, bigger, and I feel the claws rake across my back. He is pulling me in, consuming, sucking. I feel my soul depart from my heart and begin to leave my body.
No. I will not let him take me.
I take a breath so deep that pieces of his spittle fly into my mouth and scream. Louder, longer than I knew I could. My body convulses, tiny tears surface in my throat. And still I scream. I know, deep in my heart, that he will leave if I continue. They don’t like screams.