Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

When somebody you love dies, you have to think of everything in steps. Otherwise, one thing becomes two things and two things become the world and the world cracks like an old clay pot dropped from a building. One foot. Then the other. Check.

Walk up to the dead body, alone. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Cry. Stop. Stare.

Register that my brother looks like a transgender geisha. There are no earrings. He always wears his earrings. Touch his hands. Feel his stomach for the autopsy scar. I search for signs that this is real. This is him. For some reason there is truth in the sloppy scar. I find it, and for a brief moment, I want to puncture it. I want to put my hand inside of him and dig for the warmth through all this cold. Breath. Remove hand. Touch his hair. Contemplate taking a piece in case I ever get the chance to clone him. Stand up. Walk to the seats for the grieving family. Wait for the others. Check.

One hand. Two hands. Cigarette hands. Old people hands. Cold hands like Billy’s. Black hands. White hands. Dirty hands. Hands of workers. Hands of mothers. Every hand that has ever existed since the cavemen touches mine and says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your fucking loss. But why? You didn’t kill him; he killed himself. Keep my mouth shut. Remain polite. Check.

Then sleep comes.

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

The bill is $8800. $8800 to touch a dead body and put it in the ground. $8800 to watch some priest swing incense over the casket when we all know very well my brother smoked Newports. $8800 to write my own eulogy, only to have the priest take my words and claim them as his own. $8800 to tell the world he’s never coming back. $8800 to decompose with dignity. $8800 paid. In full. Check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Printed eulogy. Shot of whisky. Check.

The priest says my name, and even though I know I’m first to speak, I’m startled. I resort back to lists.

One foot. The other. One foot. The other. Three steps. The podium. Check.

My voice sounds foreign, like somebody who is unsure they are using the right word when speaking a new language. Take a breath. Look at the paper. Read the words. Mean them. Check.

Talk about our relationship. Talk about his relationship with my mother. With his wife. His stepchildren. Talk to the crowd. Check.

I get to the most important part of the speech. “His death does not stop these things from being.” His death does not stop these things from being. He has not stopped being. He is my brother. He is your friend. Your family. He is. I can’t tell you what death is; I can only tell you what it is not. Death is not finite. Comfort all, if only for a frozen moment in time. Check.

And then the pallbearers sweep him away. Seven grown men with storms in their eyes. Seven men with bellies that swell and hold, each man afraid that breathing will release that storm. We follow like his entourage. My sister and mother, two Jackie O’s in a classless world. They seem to have figured out the secret of the list. One foot. The other. One foot the other. We all check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Arrive at the gravesite. Take another shot of whisky. Make my sister laugh. Make my mother laugh. Try and fail to make my brother laugh. Doors open. We get out. One foot. Two feet. 14 feet total. All cold and numb and moving on their own accord. Checks for everyone.

Words are said that nobody hears. We are each given a rose to decompose alongside my brothers rotting body. I give him my empty nip. I hear him laugh and I laugh.

Couldn’t save me some?

Not where you’re going.

Have conversations in my head with my dead brother. Check.

Snow falls in all the beauty that the famous poets of past and present have written about. It falls slowly, like powder from a soap box in an old movie. The fragility of each flake is not lost on me. It comes, impresses, touches our hearts, and melts back into the earth. Gone too soon.

My brother is snowing on us all, and nobody else can see it.

And just like that, he leaves us, but not before sending the sun. “It’ll be okay,” he says.

It’ll be okay.

I know.

Find hope in the sunshine. Check.

I only feel free in the confines of you.

When in absolute solidarity,

I'm fenced in by--thoughts--anxieties

Labeled: love, future, self.

Then you walk in

Angry with all of the disappointments of the world

Disappointments often overlooked by normal folk:

Lack of kindness, skill, consideration.

I am consumed by your presence

By your existential outlook on what is

And what should be.

Suddenly it seems my thoughts

My pain, my sadness, my joy

Are not restrictions

They are not the shotty qualities that must be

Rewired, reworked, fixed...

They make me more human.

Magnificant uncertainties and vulnerabilities

Pour forth

Tearing flesh from soul until I am but air.

The planks fall back, and I become nothing and everything

All at once.

And for you, it seems so easy.

Cybele stood at the grave where her son’s body was rotting beneath her feet. The bitter air of midwinter swam around the exposed areas of her skin, but as she looked at his name on the rock before her, she was engulfed by an anesthetic numbness so powerful she wondered if she’d every feel anything again, for the rest of her life. She didn’t expect she was long for this world anyway; she thought perhaps she’d kill herself.

She remembered his birth: the pain, the tearing of flesh, the endless rivers of blood that poured from within her. And then, a boy. A marvelous baby boy with skin like silk and cotton hair. The doctor had put him in her arms, and she promised that she’d protect him. No matter what, no matter when, she’d be there to keep him from harm.

And she had broken that promise. Her baby, a full grown man now, on the piss stinking bathroom floor with a mouth full of vomit. “Asphyxiation,” they’d called it in the autopsy report. If only she’d gotten there faster. If only she’d loved him fiercer. If only she’d never let him grow up and move out on his own.

She wanted—needed—to feel it one last time. To feel what it was like when he was so fresh and new. The fear, the excitement. The overwhelming responsibility that comes with pushing life from within one’s being. She slid to her knees and rested her back against the stone, the last gift she’d purchased for him. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the agony that was thirty three years old.

But merely thinking was not enough, so she started to push, to grunt. Her eyes squinted, and despite the snow that fell around her, she started to sweat. One, two, three…one, two three…she numbered each breath, and held her own hand for comfort, support. You can do this. She brushed her hair from her forehead.

Something stirred within her stomach and the skin fluttered like disturbed water. Cybele choked back a sob, and she frantically removed her pants, her undergarments. She folded them neatly and set them off to the side, not wanting to disrupt the space around her. Her back arched as her legs spread open, the wind filling her womb like balloons from so many birthday parties.

The knife in her pocket was there at all times; she had toyed with the thought of slitting her own throat. She removed it now and flicked it open, a thick onyx blade sharp as a butcher’s cleaver.

Cybele placed the blade at the entryway to her womb, delicate fingers like surgeon’s holding the handle, guiding it on its journey. She applied pressure, testing its limits, testing her depth. As she felt it pierce flesh, she slit herself open in one swift motion, and the dam was broken and the rivers of blood flowed forth with life once more.

She put the knife aside and thrust her fist inside of her vagina. Hair met the tips of her fingers, and she screamed to the tune of a lullaby. She pulled at the head, not ungently, eager to see his face. She was ravenous for his face.

Cybele pushed one final time, shouting to heaven to bring him back, and from her loins slid forth a man with vomit green flesh and maggots falling like tears from his hollow eye sockets. As he spit the putrid creatures from his cracked lips he cried, “Mommy? Mommy what have you done to me?”

And Cybele crawled toward his head and held it in her bosom, rocking him back and forth and whispering, “baby, you are perfect.”

Cybele stood at the grave where her son’s body was rotting beneath her feet. The bitter air of midwinter swam around the exposed areas of her skin, but as she looked at his name on the rock before her, she was engulfed by an anesthetic numbness so powerful she wondered if she’d every feel anything again, for the rest of her life. She didn’t expect she was long for this world anyway; she thought perhaps she’d kill herself.

She remembered his birth: the pain, the tearing of flesh, the endless rivers of blood that poured from within her. And then, a boy. A marvelous baby boy with skin like silk and cotton hair. The doctor had put him in her arms, and she promised that she’d protect him. No matter what, no matter when, she’d be there to keep him from harm.

And she had broken that promise. Her baby, a full grown man now, on the piss stinking bathroom floor with a mouth full of vomit. “Asphyxiation,” they’d called it in the autopsy report. If only she’d gotten there faster. If only she’d loved him fiercer. If only she’d never let him grow up and move out on his own.

She wanted—needed—to feel it one last time. To feel what it was like when he was so fresh and new. The fear, the excitement. The overwhelming responsibility that comes with pushing life from within one’s being. She slid to her knees and rested her back against the stone, the last gift she’d purchased for him. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the agony that was thirty three years old.

But merely thinking was not enough, so she started to push, to grunt. Her eyes squinted, and despite the snow that fell around her, she started to sweat. One, two, three…one, two three…she numbered each breath, and held her own hand for comfort, support. You can do this. She brushed her hair from her forehead.

Something stirred within her stomach and the skin fluttered like disturbed water. Cybele choked back a sob, and she frantically removed her pants, her undergarments. She folded them neatly and set them off to the side, not wanting to disrupt the space around her. Her back arched as her legs spread open, the wind filling her womb like balloons from so many birthday parties.

The knife in her pocket was there at all times; she had toyed with the thought of slitting her own throat. She removed it now and flicked it open, a thick onyx blade sharp as a butcher’s cleaver.

Cybele placed the blade at the entryway to her womb, delicate fingers like surgeon’s holding the handle, guiding it on its journey. She applied pressure, testing its limits, testing her depth. As she felt it pierce flesh, she slit herself open in one swift motion, and the dam was broken and the rivers of blood flowed forth with life once more.

She put the knife aside and thrust her fist inside of her vagina. Hair met the tips of her fingers, and she screamed to the tune of a lullaby. She pulled at the head, not ungently, eager to see his face. She was ravenous for his face.

Cybele pushed one final time, shouting to heaven to bring him back, and from her loins slid forth a man with vomit green flesh and maggots falling like tears from his hollow eye sockets. As he spit the putrid creatures from his cracked lips he cried, “Mommy? Mommy what have you done to me?”

And Cybele crawled toward his head and held it in her bosom, rocking him back and forth and whispering, “baby, you are perfect.”

She rocks me to sleep in her arms every night. She holds me and sways and coos hush baby hush. You’re safe, she says. You’re safe as you’ll ever be.

I look into her eyes and can’t speak words. I cry like a newborn because it’s what I am when she holds me and sways and coos hush baby hush. And I don’t feel safe, at night, with this creature, human in form I think. She’s all I’ve ever known.

I used to fight back and claw at her eyes, but her grip is strong. So strong that I’ve grown to full form and still can’t get out of her arms. Let me go, I say. I’m a woman, let me go.

But she holds me and sways and coos hush baby hush. So I’ve taken to closing my eyes and dreaming of my dimension twin. The me from another world. I imagine her eating daisies and swinging from willows and playing the harmonica with a blade of grass. She is free, exposed, filthy as swine. She lives as she pleases, she fucks as she pleases.

She doesn’t like when I dream. She puts her mouth over my head and takes my thoughts, takes my breath. She slips inside of my body and moves my arms, punches my fists. She stumbles and falls and crawls, all while screaming I hate you to the walls of the hallow room.

And once her pain has become my own, she ejects herself from my body, lifeless now, and swaddles me in cotton, takes me in her arms, and sways and coos hush baby hush. She never looks at me as she rocks, squeezing tighter until I nearly suffocate from the pressure. But she never grants me the mercy of death. She needs me to stay hidden.

When she is done with me, she puts me back in my cage for the next time the world crumbles. Its crumbling is chronic. And when she walks toward the door and I try my words and say meekly, mother, please let me go, she turns and coos hush baby hush.

****This is a first draft, and any comments would be VERY appreciated!****

Jeremiah and his mother, Loretta, sat at the kitchen table, the aqua laminate of the counters, appliances, and cabinets creating an ill-fitting backdrop for their weekly Sunday School lessons. It had been the new fad of 1963, and the change was Loretta’s way of coping with the death of John F. Kennedy. Because they didn’t have much money, Loretta set about the project on her own, spending the entire Winter sanding, cutting, installing, and applying veneer. She had been fiercely in love with the late president. His intoxicating charisma and sapphire eyes would leave her punch drunk with desire. Jeremiah sat on his knees, still in his ivory cotton sleep clothes, leaning forward as she read, petting their Golden Retriever, Titus, and feeling like he’d never grow up.

“But Mary stood outside the tomb weepin’…”

“Why she cryin’, Maw?”

“…And as she wept, she bent down to look into the tomb, and she saw two angels in white sittin’ where the body of Jesus had lain, one at the head and the other at the feet…”

“But Maw, where did Jesus’ body go?” Loretta slammed the book closed and looked at him with those eyes, the eyes of a devout Catholic mother that could burn holes into your forehead.

“Child, will you let me finish?”

Titus let out a whimper. Earnest walked into the room, the darkness before dawn still visible from the window above the sink. “Loretta, will you stop tryin’a poison Jeremiah’s li’l mind? You knows chil’en is susceptible to that bologna.”

He looked like he hadn’t slept again. He had returned from Vietnam that Summer, the Summer of ’67, and his blood shot eyes were the new normal. “Some Gook got me right through the bottom a my good foot,” he’d say, and pulse his right foot the way one does when they involuntarily twitch (he always had a good something and a bad something). He hadn’t shared much else about his time over there, but they knew that when he slept, he was back in the trenches, back with his dying friends and hidden landmines and the men who spoke words he couldn’t understand yet wanted him dead all the same. They’d heard the stories from neighbors, friends. Some of their men never came home, not even in pieces.

And Earnest didn’t believe in God anymore.

“Earnest,” Loretta started. That’s how she always started her conversations with him. Earnest. And then she’d cut off right after that, as if what she had wanted to say was too hard or too painful, and she’d swallow it back down into her belly.

Loretta looked down at her worn hands and held her breath. The lump in her throat moved, and then she looked back toward her husband. “Why you dressed in your huntin’ gear?”

“‘Cause I’m goin’ huntin’.”

“But Earnest, it’s a Sunday.”

Earnest walked toward the table, and the walls stopped breathing, the air grew thin. They hadn’t feared Earnest before he’d gone away a few years prior. He was a dark eyed man with leather skin, browned and creased from 36 years of Louisiana sun. Quiet, sensitive, a man passed over by the evolution of the times, never quite becoming comfortable with life outside of the trees, the brush, the ponds and rivers and lakes. But the war left him quiet, left him sensitive, and left him a recluse. But it gave him something new, too. His heart was now filled with anger, with rage, and worst of all, with sadness. His moods had become unpredictable.

“I don’t care what the law is, Loretta. This is my land. I served this country!”

Barely a whisper, she replied, “But it’s New Years Eve, Ernie…“

But Earnest had already turned his back, whistled for Titus, and stormed off to the shed. Loretta got up, grabbed an old t-shirt turned rag, and started cleaning the spotless counters. Sunday school was over.

Jeremiah stared at the doorframe where Earnest had vanished from. Ever since his father started having episodes, he was uneasy about leaving him unsupervised. Sometimes he’d find Earnest under tables or behind the couch, holding his knees, weeping. “Oh God, oh God, oh God…” he’d rock, and rock, and Jeremiah would sit beside him and pull his head to his lap, stroking his thinning hair until his breathing became a melody of 1-2-3, 1-2-3.

He hopped off the chair and raced to his bedroom. The house was one single floor, and if you turned left out of the kitchen, you’d bump right into a door that said “JEREMIAH’S ROOM NO GIRLS ALLOWED.” He burst into the bedroom, afraid his father would leave before he had the chance to catch him. He put on his faded dungarees and some old knee-high rubber boots, a brown long sleeve t-shirt, his too tight Carhartt.

He ran through the weathered front door as it screamed after him for the mercy of oil to hinges, and bounded down the three front steps. His father had just emerged from the shed with his Winchester Model 12 slung lazily over his right shoulder and Titus on his heels. Earnest didn’t see his son following, about ten feet behind, but he knew he was there and didn’t protest his presence. You see, Jeremiah was the only thing that calmed the explosions, dulled the ringing, dubbed over the bloody images that clung to his irises. The little boy was a savior who’d never asked for the responsibility. And, like father like son, he wasn’t much for conversation. So they walked into the brush as equals, the sound of sticks cracking underfoot and the suction of their boots to the wet grass the only sweet instrumental playing under the melody of the Waterthrush.

Loretta watched them from the window and said a prayer: “He will command his angels concerning you to guard you carefully.”

***

Loretta lived to dance. Earnest didn’t have much rhythm, but in his youth he was quite charming, and when he’d take his wife’s hand in his and drag her to the center of the living room, his two left feet didn’t matter. When they were first married, they danced nearly every evening, their wedding song emanating softly from the record player in the corner of the room, a gift from Earnest’s best friend, Micah.

“Earth angel, earth angel

The one I adore

Love you forever and ever more

I'm just a fool

A fool in love with you”

Loretta loved her husband, swooned when he touched her. And when she became with child, she knew that, albeit their lack of financial stability or consistent work for Earnest, despite the size of their home and each of their parents being deceased, they would be a happy family. And they were, for quite some time. And they would be still, if Earnest hadn’t gone off to war. At least that’s what she liked to tell herself.

But the thing was, Loretta had noticed something about her husband long before he had left for Vietnam. Something that she could never tell anyone, or he’d surely be hanged. It was Gueydan, Louisiana, after all.

***

Jeremiah and Earnest settled into the high, marshy grass by the pond.

Jeremiah had a gun of his own, gifted on his 8th birthday, but the boy wasn’t much of a shooter. He had shot one single waterfowl his entire life, and seeing the dead bird, something that was once alive and now deceased by his own doing, gave him such a feeling in his stomach that he vomited right there, all over its innards. His father had clapped one strong hand on his shoulder and walked away, toward home, never speaking about it again.

That was the thing about Earnest: he knew without saying. And he knew his son would never be a hunter, never a man who could see that to live, something else had to die. But instead of disappointment, he felt hope. Hope that his son, his smart boy who loved to read and draw and put together puzzle after puzzle for hours without tire, could have a future where someone else could do the killing for him. A future of education and discovery and a fearlessness of self-expression. Something Earnest had never known, not once in his whole life. And as he walked ahead of his son, he wept in silence.

So when Jeremiah went hunting, he never brought his gun. Instead, he’d lay on his back in the moist blanket of grass, staring up at the sky and counting cloud after endless cloud, never looking where his father’s barrel was aimed.

That day was no different: Earnest lay on his stomach while Titus followed suit. Jeremiah pulled up his hood, protecting his head from the dew and his ears from the cold. While the man and beast huddled close together, touching, watching, Jeremiah sunk backward into the ground, becoming the dirt and releasing himself to the marsh. He was the blades, he was the air. And the bullets were nothing but sounds that passed through his soul, unnerving, sure, but lesser than he, incapable of destroying something so large and all encompassing. And as he counted 1,2,3…25 clouds pass him by, he thought: these are my clouds, that, right there, is my sky. And those birds that fall, feathers and blood, splashing into the pond, are Phoenix. They will rise again because I said it is so.

***

Loretta stood in the little bathroom, a Frankfurter and a copy of the 1963 Times—the one with John Kennedy splashed across the cover—laid on the sink. She began to draw a bath, too hot for most, but just the way she liked it. A half-melted candle swayed cooly in its metal tray, a poor man’s silver, moving to the rhythm of the running faucet.

Loretta stared into the mirror, scanned the face of a woman almost forty. For a lower-class woman, she had managed to age gracefully. Her hair, naturally curly, was still golden brown like a girls, the few grays she’d quickly plucked by steady fingers. Her mother had thick skin, and her mother before her, too. Her cheeks permanently flushed, glowing from the sun she got while working in the garden. Not too much, never too much. And she always wore glasses like Jackie ONassis to keep the crows feet at bay.

But there were fine lines around her mouth from when she used to smile, and her eyes were purple and swollen from all the nights she lay awake with her lids closed. As she moved her eyes down to her breasts, she grabbed them in her hands, worked at her nipples, and while they hardened under her cool touch, her breath quickened, her knees weakened. They were supple, untouched by gravity and breast feeding, still eighteen and perfect. And how unfortunate it was that they were so neglected, unadmired and hidden under unflattering dresses and cooking smocks?

She kept one hand one her breasts, afraid if she let go, the loneliness would creep back in and destroy the moment. She placed the photo of JFK above the faucet, his eyes looking right where she, exposed, completely naked with nothing to hide from, would be in mere moments. The idea made her inner thighs swim.

She took the Frankfurter off the sink and slid into the bath tub. She melted into the water, a foreign species, someone from another time. The chill of their house met with the heat of the water and filled the room with a romantic fog. She looked at John and smiled, shy but confident. She felt like a real woman.

Loretta spread her legs, draped them, open, over each side of the tub. She kept her eyes, half wide in an old Hollywood smolder, on John, who sort of smiled like Earnest…but she pushed that thought away. And she slid the Frankfurter into her vagina, warm and erotic and now a part of who she was. Little explosions set off in her toes, her chest, her eyes. Slowly, and then faster, harder, until it felt like fucking.

And as she reached climax, she remembered: Earnest and Micah, the way they looked at one another when they thought they were alone. And how she’d turn up the news, listen to Mr. Kennedy, trying not to think about what they did out in that shed. The sins they were committing, the infidelity, the disrespect, and in her own home. And Kennedy: Jackie, Marilyn, Judith, Anita…but never a Michael, never a Rick.

While Loretta came she screamed. And tears filled her face, filled her tub. The damn around her heart—years of secrets, of complete and utter loneliness, deceit, rage—pouring out until she reached over the ledge to the toilet and and coughed up bile and air.

She caught her breath and sniffled. Stepped out of the tub, soaked the floor. Walked to the living room, a woman in flesh and nothing else. And she picked up the old record player and smashed it on the ground, beating it with a hammer until it was nothing but a graveyard for their marriage.

***

Endless hours passed before anyone spoke. “Good day fer huntin’,” said Earnest. Jeremiah nodded to no one. Titus was now in the pond, splashing around and collecting their kill, his mouth full of raw flesh.

The Louisiana winter could be felt all around. The humidity of the warmer months was far behind them now, and January, the coldest month of the year, was making its presence known. Jeremiah huddled further into his jacket as the sky grew darker and the sun abandoned them to heat themselves.

Earnest was still looking down the barrel of his gun, but his son could see his disposition had softened. He peeked at him from the corner of his eye and saw his father, shoulders relaxed, comfortable in this element, away from the sound of man, the eyes of man.

For Earnest, hunting wasn’t about the killing. He did it, of course, to feed his family. But it did something for him, too. It was a release that some find in exercise or meditation or cleaning the whole house, top to bottom. He could unwind, watch nature work. Covered by the brush, there was no need to hide.

He’d thought that after Vietnam, hunting would be ruined for him. He’d thought: "if I never have to shoot nothin’ again, it’d be too soon.” But after months spent in the isolation of his home, the walls with their secrets and Loretta with his, he began to crave the feeling of the cool metal in his hands, yearn for the crickets in his ears and the gibberish of the bull frogs.

So one day, he tried it out. He went to his shed, took out his gun, and shot it aimlessly into the summer sky. Then once more, and again. He went through a whole box of bullets before the sun started to shine, and Loretta and Jeremiah watched from the window and listened to him laugh for the first time since before he’d left home. All those years, and it was the bullets that made him smile.

That’s what they thought. But for Earnest, it wasn’t the gun or the bullets or even the hunt. It was the realization that, for the rest of his life, nobody could ever make him kill someone again. He’d been injured in combat, and there was no going back. Nobody was sending him back.

And he thought of this now, with his son by his side, how maybe nobody was in control of him, not here in this marsh. In his marsh with his creatures and all this land that belonged to him. And Jeremiah, still so pure and the brightest boy he’d ever known…maybe he’d understand.

Earnest kept his eye on the pond while he spoke to Jeremiah.

“Son, I never did tell ya what happen ter me over there.”

Jeremiah replied: “well, we never thought you wanted to talk about it, Paw.” And when his father didn’t speak, he said, “do you wanna talk about it, Paw?”

“I think I might.”

Jeremiah rolled onto his side, looking at his father to show that he respected him, no matter what he was about to say. But Earnest kept looking forward, and that was okay, too.

“You knows when I enlisted, yer Uncle Micah came along wit me.” Earnest’s voice cracked, and he took a deep breath, held it. Jeremiah, a saint, patient and calm, curious.

“Love comes in all shapes and sizes, Son. All shapes and sizes, you remember that, ya hear?” Jeremiah shook his head, yes.

“Your Uncle Micah and me…well, we was two peas in a pod when we was chil’len your age. Nothin’ we didn’t do together. This land was my daddy’s land, and when I die, it’s yours. Funny how that works.”

“Yes, funny Paw.”

“And we’d spend our Summers in this here pond. Swinging from that old rope swing, catching frogs til’ the sun gone down. We even had our first kiss here.”

“You never told me that, Paw. Was it Maw?”

“I told you son, love comes in all shapes and sizes. I love your maw very much, but we got a different kinda love. Your Uncle Micah…that kinda love only happens once in a lifetime. Maybe it ain’t right, but it sure is special.”

Something began to dawn on Jeremiah: the camping trips he wasn’t invited on, the late nights out in the shed after they’d told him to go to bed. His eyes widened as he looked at his father, and he wondered my God, who are you? And am I what you are, too?

“Your Uncle Micah didn’t make it back son, and that’s my fault. I left myself open—I left myself open and that gook saws it and Micah saws it. Micah was quicker than the bullet, but not stronger. And that’s why I’m here wit a hole in my foot, and he’s six feet under wit seven in his back.”

All these years, Jeremiah wondered, his mouth slightly agape, his wordless tongue stuck to the top of his pallet.

A bird flew into view, and Jeremiah recognized it at once. Pure, albino, one of God’s many gifts. A rare white wood duck, never in his twelve years had he seen one. His father had spotted it, too.

They sat in silence, distracted by the air between them and the marvel that swam through the sky. Jeremiah was only taken from the moment when he heard his father cock the gun. His left eye squinted, finger on the barrel, the echo of Jeremiah’s voice shouting “NO!”

And the splash of the bird as it hit the pond, so sudden and with such power, even the bull frogs silenced their croaks for mourning.

***

Loretta put on her robe and set about cleaning up the mess she made. There would be no music anymore. There had been no music for quite some time.

She scanned the room around her: the upholstery of the olive chair and maroon sofa—the look of an ugly Christmas—bought at a second hand shop. An old wooden coffee table, made by Earnest. The globe in the corner that has belonged to her father. The emerald rug with black diamond stitching, sewn by Earnest’s grandmother. The lamp, the curtains, even the Zenith television had belonged to somebody else before she acquired them. Nothing had been her own.

She looked down at the gold band on her finger. Plain, simple, no gems in the precious metal. It had been Earnest’s mothers.

Loretta took the ring off her finger, placing it on the side table where the record player once stood. She walked from the living room and out the back door, struck with the realization that she’d spent years as a stranger in her own home.

***

Earnest lowered his rifle and stood from his blind, now vulnerable to his surroundings.

“Why, Paw?” Whispered Jeremiah, disappointment and a dull, aching sadness taking his voice. “Why’d ya kill it?”

Earnest didn’t respond. Jeremiah got to his knees and tugged on his father’s arm. “Paw? You didn’t have to kill that duck. It was too beautiful to die.”

Earnest looked down at his son, kneeling before him, as in prayer. “God don’t spare no man just ’cause he got a pretty face, boy. You remember that.”

And with that, he freed his arm, not ungently, from the fingers of the boy and thought: I just stole the last of my son’s innocence, and he’ll never look at me the same. But at least it was me who’d done it.

And Jeremiah thought: my Paw does still believes in God. He believes in God, and he hates him.

Earnest walked toward the pond where the bird had fallen into the shallow water, barely two inches deep. Titus ran toward the body, hesitated, and stopped. The dog sniffed, whimpered.

“Titus?” Earnest called. He walked toward the dog and stood no more than five feet back, observing his odd behavior.

Titus looked up at his master and ran toward the trees, toward the trail back home.

“Damn dog,” cussed Earnest, but an uneasiness ran down his spine just the same.

He walked forward until he stood in the water, stood over the corpse. He looked down at the duck, its eyes still wide. He knelt down and touched its chest, its body still warm. As he stroked the white feathers and reached for its neck, a wing fluttered and startled Earnest back to standing.

“My goodness, the thing ain’t dead,” Earnest told himself.

“Everything all right, Paw?”

But before Earnest could answer, the duck began to flap, slowly, and faster, faster, a frantic newborn coming into the world. Earnest fell backward into the water as the creature stood and expanded, one inch, two…a foot.

Jeremiah watched on in wonder.

The bird kept growing until he was twice the size of Earnest and as wide as a Southern live oak. His back cracked and distorted, bones slithering from his shoulders like climbing ivy. First flesh spread, and then feathers, now black onyx, the feeble pinions gone and in their place, two glorious wings, stoic in nature, threatening.

The blood and plumage shed from the body, and beneath was human-like flesh, a nude figure in the shape of man. But the creature was not human, as the blue, ethereal light that emanated from his torso nearly blinded Earnest, made Jeremiah squint deeper than the hottest August sun. His hair was fire, his eyes were ice. He was the most frighteningly perfect creature they’d ever seen.

He lifted Earnest from the water, made him stand before him.

“Azrael.”

The creature nodded, his face without expression, unchanging, fierce. Earnest looked at the angel, but he saw his son, his wife, Micah. He saw Jeremiah running toward him when he’d come back from a hunt. He saw his wedding day, the day he thought he’d left all his sins behind. He saw nights in the old, beat up tent in the arms of the man he loved. He felt those arms now, around his shoulders, pulling at his waist.

Azrael. He looked down at the rifle that had struck him only moments ago. He put one hand forward, removed the gun from Earnest’s hand. There was no struggle for power.

Jeremiah shouted something that was never heard. Words he’d never forget.

Azrael lifted the rifle to Earnest’s chin. He held it there a moment, a moment for a final prayer: “be my guide on the way of perfection, making me more and more acceptable in the eyes of God.”

And the gun went off, and Jeremiah’s screams were no longer silenced.

***

Loretta was in the garden when she heard the screams. She’d thought it strange when moments before, Titus came bounding through the brush and under the steps of the porch. She walked toward the sound, and as the wailing became louder, more unbearable, she began to run.

Ever since Earnest’s return she’d feared he might harm someone. He’d never put his hands on either of them, not once in all his life. But there was a look about him, a vacancy in his voice and clouds in his eyes that said the Earnest who’d laughed and danced all that time ago was gone for good. He had been so quiet, so volatile.

As she approached the path, Jeremiah broke through the brush and into her arms, knocking the wind from her chest. She held his head to her bosom and shouted, over and over again, “what’s happened, child? What’s happened to my boy?”

And when he’d told her his father had been hurt, hurt so bad he was probably dead, a guilty relief swept through her soul as she, in an instant, had regained her freedom.

***

After the funeral, when all the neighbors had gone, Jeremiah returned to the woods, to the pond where his father’s body had been. “A suicide,” the police said.

He stood and looked at the water from where they had laid, only a week ago, father and son in the tall, cool grass. He smiled when he saw Earnest’s imprint was still there. He bent down, caressed it, imagined it was still warm. Imagined he’d return to keep hunting.

When Jeremiah told his mother what happened, she smiled a sad smile and brushed his hair from his forehead.

“Jeremiah,” she said. “My weeping prophet. How hard life will be for you, and how very beautiful.” He didn’t understand her words, and he wouldn’t until his time came.

He stroked the grass one last time, and as he turned to leave, something on the shore caught his eye. Two angels, all in white, one at the head and one at the foot where his father’s body had once been.

And he knew that, wherever Earnest was, his sins had been forgiven and his demons were no more.

1985

Adrian Hoggard sat alone on the shore of Averill Lake contemplating suicide. He was a small, white haired boy with a pale complexion and the somber look of an iron deficiency. While most people carry the weight of the world on their shoulders, Adrian carried it under his eyes. Although a boy of only twelve years old, a deep line nested comfortably and visibly between his dark, unruly brows. A babe in age, and yet he had already garnered a scar of wisdom while looking at a severe world through a lens of severity.

Adrian’s only friend had been his mother, Margot, a quiet Irish immigrant with a softness that stretched from her belly to her eyes. It had been a year to the day since she had passed from a severe case of pneumonia, and he missed her with a fierceness that spread through his throat like vomit. “Complain that you have no shoes until you meet a man who has no feet,” she’d tell him after yet another day of getting bullied by Mikey Schilowsky, the tallest and fattest kid in school. Her old Irish Proverbs would always provide him with comfort, realign the tilt of his axis. But without her, his world was upright, and he was clinging onto air while gravity forgot his name.

October brought with it the sun of Summer and the air of Winter, but Adrian still took off his shoes, rolled up his grey slacks to his knees, and walked into the water. The cold of the lake slapped at his ankles like a crowd of angry fathers—one back hand, and another, another—reminding him of the man at home, sleeping on the sofa. He walked further, to his calves and just below his knees, the water dying the sloppy cuffs of his pants an almost black. It had always made him angry that his father never taught him to swim, but on this day, he was grateful. Adrian closed his eyes, his face full of blissful fire. “I’m coming, Mama,” a whisper only a mother could hear. “Open your arms ’cause here I come.”

He took a deep breath, and a large pebble landed on his skull with a thud. His thin fingers shot up instinctively, looking for the intruder, and came away with a spot of blood. Adrian turned around, and before seeing the boys, he already knew who had cast the stone.

“Why you in the water, Faggot?” Shouted Mikey Schilowsky, followed by the laughter of the four stupid boys who were always with him. Adrian looked down at his reflection in the water and wondered why God hated him so much.

“Did that blow to the head make you retarded or somethin’? I asked you a question.”

He stared into his own eyes. “’Cause I feel like it,” he mumbled, an instinctual fear chilling his bones like a hail storm in January.

“What’s that, Retard?”

Adrian broke from his trance and looked up at the circus playing in Mikey’s eyes. “’Cause I fucking feel like it.”

The ruckus in Mikey’s glare faltered for a fleeting moment, a flash of apprehension before the confidence of adrenaline. “Hey fellas! Seems like the faggot finally pulled his balls outta his ass hole! Why don’t you come say that to my face, Adrianna?” Adrian stared at him, contemplating. He was about to die anyway. “Or you can just run home and tell your mama on us.” A baleful smile tip toed delicately across Mikey Schilowsky’s stout face. He knew that he had him. “Oh wait, you can’t. And you know why you can’t, Hoggard?”

Silence stabbed sloppy holes in the space between the two mortal enemies. Like dogs before a storm, the boys could feel disaster preparing to strike. And then, Mikey spoke and the tornado touched down.

“Because your mama is fucking dead.”

Adrian’s mama used to say “beware of the anger of a patient man,” and he considered himself to be quite patient. But something had been building up inside of him since her passing. The stinging had at first been slight, like heartburn after too much orange juice. Then the sting had started to burn, and night after night—his father covered in piss on the worn yellow couch, drunk, neglectful—the fire festered. The boys at school fed brush to the flames, but it was the unrelenting ache of his mother’s absence that shot sparks into his brain. Mikey’s words brought on these sparks, the heat so remorselessly violent that Adrian could see the reds and yellows and blues behind his eyes.

He did not see himself running through the water, falling and soaking through his white t-shirt. He did not see the boys laughing at him, their crooked teeth like wolves, metal on their molars making even the sun squint in the wake of the imposing glare. He did not see Mikey Schilowsky’s fat jowls loosen, ready to taunt, to torture, only to be silenced by his fist striking him directly on the bridge of his snout. While this happened, the flames partnered up for the Waltz, and Adrian joined their dance.

“’Cause I fucking feel like it.”

It took Mikey only a moment to remember who he was: the biggest, baddest, toughest twelve year old in all of Vermont. He spat the blood from his teeth and smiled a pink smile so forbidding that even the filthiest swine would cower beneath their barracks.

“Grab him,” he commanded the boys who stood awaiting their orders. They listened, seizing the arms of poor Adrian Hoggard, a boy who had already accepted his fate. “Take him over to the edge of the lake!” The boys dragged his body, the weight of lifelessness scraping his knees against the unforgiving grains of moist sand. Adrian felt something, relief perhaps, flirting with the overwhelming feeling of nothing.

Mikey Schilowsky grabbed a handful of his wispy hair and tugged, hard, forcing him to stare into an upside-down pair of brown eyes that were full of shit. As he spoke, Mikey’s breath assaulted Adrian’s senses: the air, swampy and bacterial, and the smell, a combination of old sugar and an improperly smoked cigarette. Adrian held his breath while stringy spit rained down on his cheeks and forehead.

“Any last words, Faggard?”

Adrian said nothing, but in his mind he prayed, not to God, but to his sweet, sweet mama. I’m coming, Mama. I’m coming home.

Mikey pushed him forward, his hands splashing in the shallow waters of the shore. Hair still in hand, Mikey plunged Adrian’s head below the water, the tip of his nose violently meeting its end in the murkiness of shattered lake and sand.

At first, Adrian did not struggle. He had planned to die long before Mikey and his gang showed up and disrupted the ceremony. He held his breath and, as in hospice care, patiently waited to pass on.

Instinct is an interesting habit of cognitive creatures. Although Adrian had welcomed death—he embraced it, took solace in its warm finality—as his breath let go and the air turned wet, his limbs gamboled with fear. The muscles in his neck tensed against the portly fingers entangled in his skull, but Mikey Schilowsky’s angry gorilla palms controlled his head like a joystick. The boys on his arms were not more forgiving, fearing that letting go would lead them to the same sodden fate. As he struggled against their grip, their fingers branded bruises into his translucent skin while the whole world quaked.

***

And then, the water became temperate as an island coast. Adrian’s eyes opened like shutters, and the lake was pellucid and white. It was the purest color he’d ever seen, a white cleaner than packaged socks. Yet there was a serene softness to it; it didn’t blind him like the midday sun, nor did it make his head ache like the walls of the hospital where his mother died. It was a physical manifestation of the serenity he’d had been searching for his whole life and had experienced so little of.

This is it, he thought. This is the light that people talk about. Adrian reached for the light, not with his hand but with his soul. As he began to crawl from his skin and leave his flesh behind, a voice—not aloud, yet heard clearly by Adrian—called out to him.

At first, he could not understand what the voice was saying.

Mama?

But the voice was deep, etherial, and undeniably belonging to a man. It bellowed against the walls of his brain, of the lake that had now become a womb. The distortion cleared as Adrian focused his mind on the sound, the deafening cacophony of aquatic life ceasing existence and paving the way for a cosmos of light, spirit, and voice.

Adrian. The voice was saying his name. Without opening his mouth, Adrian responded, a telepathic power not uncommon in the wide open space between the living and the dead.

Yes? Yes, who’s there?

God.

God?

You are my son, Adrian.

But my father is at home on the sofa.

That man, do you feel loved by him, Adrian?

Adrian needn’t think much about it. He had known the answer to this question all his life, but there were a multitude of feelings that accompanied it: sadness, bitterness, and resentment. The level of paternal love required by a little boys DNA was never fulfilled with a game of catch or informal banter about the pretty girls at school. Instead, there was a black eye, or a “you’re a pussy, boy!” when he was too drunk to aim his fist properly.

In his state of euphoria, however, these feelings belonged to someone from a different time, and Adrian held within his grasp the cold facts of his life without any sort of pathos to accompany them. The answer was simple: no, Adrian had not felt loved by his father, never once in his whole twelve years of life.

I love you, Adrian. I love you, as I love all of my children. I am your father, and you are my son.

Adrian began to cry, an inexplicable lightness furrowed into his brows, smoothing the creases of trauma, loneliness, and abuse. A foreign sensation, a joyous smile unfurled across his lips, now so red and plump and filled with heat, with life. He laughed and watched the bubbles escape his mouth, and then he laughed some more.

Can I come to you now, Father?

Through the white, a figure appeared—grandiose and magnificant, not of mankind—and for the first time, the voice was given a mouth.

“Dear, sweet Adrian. You are very special. I have chosen you to be one of my vessels on Earth as I conduct the universe from the infinite sky.”

“But Father, what does that mean?”

“It means you have a purpose on Earth, and once you fulfill it, you may join me and your earthly mother in the eternal afterlife.”

“And my purpose has not been fulfilled?”

“No, my son. It has not.”

“And what is my purpose, Father?”

“You will be a physical body, learned in my word. You will go forth and share it. You will lead my children to me, so that I may be their Father, too. And through this, you will deliver them from evil.”

“And if I do this, Father—if I share your word—I can come back to you and to my mama?”

“When your time has expired and your mission complete, yes, we will welcome you at the gates with arms opened wide as eagle’s wings and songs of the angel’s choir.” Adrian exhaled, a breath he’d been holding since conception. “Keep me within your heart, always, and you will find your way back into the light.”

With God’s parting words came water vomit and torched lungs. Adrian’s eyes opened as wide as an acid trip, his pupils expanding and contacting in the new light of dawn. The world around him had grown darker as his spirit had grown brighter.

He tried to sit up on the damp sand, but the effort was futile. He did not hear the boys, only moments before, running from his lifeless body and screaming, “he’s dead! He’s dead!” The only sounds that his ears and his brain recognized were the foul hacking from his chest and the echo of God’s last words.

As he rolled onto his side and folded his legs delicately into his abdomen, he wrapped his arms around himself, the desire to be held, even in his own arms, overwhelming him. But his arms were not his arms alone any longer, for he was now employed by God. And the arms that were wrapping his knees like a fragile gift were no different than the arms that would one day embrace him at the entrance to Heaven. He would never be alone again.

When a man finds purpose, the way the world looks changes. As dusk made its journey into a starry blackness, Adrian looked to the sky, and everything was different. And the stars became quite yellow, and the lap of the water on the shore was singing a soft hymn. Adrian himself was not so heavy, either. He spread his limbs like the stars he was admiring, imitating their gentle twinkle. Then he walked on air, through the whispering trees, to the gravel path. He glided like a water strider to The Church of St. Thomas, where finally, he could lay his head for the night.

***

2019

Father Hoggard stood at the front of the classroom—an old, dusty suite in the back of the rectory. The windows, while beautifully stained variant shades of blue, did not open, and so the room was always stuffy and smelling of congested young children. The alpine diamond patterned rug had once been a brilliant red, but muddy little feet had faded its luster over the years, graying the color to a dull burgundy. Father Hoggard did not mind the state of the room however, for it was a reminder of all the children who had come to learn the word of the Lord.

The children had been attending class once a week for the entire academic year, and this would be the final meeting of the Confraternity of Christine Doctrine before they were to receive their First Holy Communion. There were seven of them this year, the number of the Lord, and they were each seven years of age. Father Hoggard knew that this wasn’t a coincidence. God was sending him a sign, signaling that this was the year for the mission He had been preparing him for.

It had been 34 years since he’d heard the voice of God, but his faith never faltered. On the contrary, it had given him a greater drive, an insatiable thirst for the blood of Christ and the peace he’d felt that night on the shore. Because of his constant search for a connection, he sought out signs: coins dropped on the pavement, shapes in the clouds, a humid breeze that painted dewy skin. He only knew he’d found Him when his heart felt empty, not in regards to loneliness or despair, but rather, in lightness and freedom from dead weight lifted.

Today, his heart was light as a popover as he prepared the children for their final march toward the path of God. They sat at the chipped mahogany table, long and square, two benches on each side. Their delicate little fingers were crossed and laid on the surface, and their backs elongated in the posture of royalty. Father Hoggard had trained the Lord’s soldiers quite well, and he looked upon them, satisfied by their attentiveness.

“Boys and girls of the Church of St. Thomas,” he began. “These are our final moments together before I set you forth on your mission. This Sunday, after you eat the body of Christ and drink his blood for the first time in your lives, you will officially be responsible for your own souls. Sins made will be yours to seek forgiveness of.”

Michael raised his hand, straight arm, as he was taught. “Yes, Michael?” Called Father Hoggard.

Michael had always been the meekest boy of the group, fragile glass bones with a bit of a stutter in his walk—a child who has also heard “you’re a pussy, boy!” From his earthly father. He had white hair like goose feathers and eyes with cotton irises. Father Hoggard had taken quite an interest in him. His interest was not of a sexual nature, as so many have come to believe of all priests because in most cases, it had been the shocking truth. And his truth—perhaps more shocking than grown men using the veil of religion to hide their homosexual pedophiliac desires—was that he had never been attracted to anyone sexually, male or female, in his entire life. He had once found his mother to be quite pretty, but that’s the only memory he had of being pleased by a woman’s appearance.

So no, his fondness did not stem from lust. It stemmed from a reflection, a mirroring of himself in another being. He wanted to save Michael, just as God had saved him.

“Father, I was just wondering…” said Michael, putting his hand down and staring at the papery fingernails on it.

“Go on, Michael. Remember what we say?”

“Don’t make little of your dish for it may be an ignorant man who judges it.”

“And what does it mean?”

“It means to never undersell yourself.”

Father Hoggard nodded in approval, looking on the boy with calm eyes that gave him courage.

“Well, Father…I have a question about what we’re supposed to do at the end of the service.” Michael took a deep breath. “I think what we’re supposed to do might be against one of the Ten Commandments.”

The students around the table gasped as if Michael had just said “shit” in front of a priest. But Father Hoggard only smiled, as he had been prepared for someone to question his orders.

“I see. And what makes you think that, Michael?”

Michael looked around at the faces of his peers, all wide eyed and ready to judge. But he remembered that only God could judge him, and his muscles relaxed into the inset of his shoulder blades.

“Umm…well actually, there’s two. Two Commandments. The first is honor thy mother and thy father.”

“Your mother left you, Michael. You do not have to honor a woman who you do not call Mother, a woman you have no memory of ever meeting.”

“Yes, but—my father?”

Father Hoggard remembered his conversation with God all those years ago. “Have you ever felt loved by your father, Michael?”

“Well…”

“Has he ever told you he loved you?”

“No, Father.”

“There is no honoring a man with no honor.”

“Yes, Father. But the other Commandment? Thou shalt no—“

Father Hoggard lifted a hand, older, more withered, than the hands of the children before him. His hand was the universal signal for silence, and Michael obeyed. “There is a lot of work to be done today, Michael. We must continue forth with our final preparations.”

***

Father Hoggard lead the children from the entryway of the rectory and out onto the sidewalk. The May air was attempting to shake the cold from its limbs, but Winter clung on like a desperate woman. The children buttoned up their sweaters and zippered their jackets, and then they joined hands to cross the street to the church. They stomped up the stairs—left, left, left, right, left—and entered through the imposing oak doors, the wood stained a deep and threatening brown.

The children lined up to rehearse the entrance that they would make in just three day’s time. Because there were seven of them, there were two lines of three and one solo child to lead the army and carry the cross.

“Michael,” Father Hoggard called. “Come to the front. You will be holding the cross.”

Michael gaped at the man before him, a mixture of panic and privilege turning his feet to cinderblocks. He was to lead them in their mission, the one that will take them directly to God and eternal happiness when they reach the afterlife. He would be the first seen by the Lord, the one carrying the cross, just as Jesus had all those years ago. It was a burden of the highest esteem.

He regained control of his feet, and walked toward the priest. Father Hoggard placed the cross in his arms like a newborn baby, delicate, easily harmed. But as Michael felt the cold of the gold metal stroke the tips of his fingers, he felt the strength of the compound. He dared to apply pressure to the structure, pulling his hands just slightly in opposite directions on either end of the cross. The brass did not quiver under the weight; there was no movement at all. And Jesus, made of stone and paint, a man half dressed in a quilted skirt and a crown of thorn and blood, stared down at his fingers, as if saying “try me.” And this made Michael feel powerful.

“Michael,” said Father Hoggard, kneeling so their eyes could meet. “Do you accept your mission?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the cross, marveling at the vision before him. There was sudden heat in his hands and a voice in his head. Honor thy Father.

“I accept.”

“Excellent, Michael.” Father Hoggard stood, now addressing the rest of the children. “Now let’s line up and file to your pew. Remember to sit where your name has been taped to the backing of the seat. And don’t forget children,” he made eye contact with each and every one of them before continuing on. “Make sure your weapons aren’t visible from under your seats.”

***

Sunday had arrived with the swiftness of a Frigatebird. The air was much warmer than it had been a few days prior, Spring grabbing onto the sun and hugging him closer to the atmosphere. The rains of April brought the true brilliancy of green to the lawn outside of the church steps and the islands in the parking lot. The Magnolia Butterfly Trees were in full bloom, neon yellow petals snowing on giddy children as they played tag under the flimsy branches.

There was a purity to the day—not of an artificial, sterile kind—brought on by the sweet air and laughter of children. As the bells began to chime, the parents wrangled their little swine and herded them into the church. There was a tidal wave of commotion as people realized that family’s had been assigned specific seating, something that had never been done before, at least as far as Karen, Susan, Lisa, and the other mothers from the PTA were concerned. They had but a few moments to complain before Father Hoggard approached the pulpit, his mere presence enough to trigger a silent discomfort. People always seemed to think priests could smell their sins, and in the case of Father Hoggard, they were not wrong.

“Welcome friends, to The Church of St. Thomas. Today’s sermon will be followed by the First Holy Communion of seven young community members.” Coos and giggles bounced off the walls and up to the cathedral ceilings. The parents were excited to see their angels dressed like angels.

“I’d like to speak to you about the Lord’s children. These children are like the branches on the trees. Once a branch falls off or is broken off, what happens to the leaves?” Father Hoggard waited, as if he were expecting somebody to stand up and respond.

“Have you ever been to an apple orchard? I’m sure most of you have. If you pull a branch off of one of the trees what happens to the apples?” Father Hoggard looked around the room, scanning the members of the congregation for a reaction, perhaps a glint of recognition or understanding in their eyes. But they were all vacant, Jesus had left them or never been there at all. “They die. The branch can no longer produce fruit. The children are the fruit of the lord.” Father Hoggard pulled out a branch from a pine tree, demonstrating how the needles had browned, withered, and died.

“Please rise for the singing of a hymn. If you’d like to follow along, turn your books to page 25. ”Everyone stood, singing from their throats—a soft, breathy sound blanketing the entire congregation.

“…Advocate and loving mother,

Mediatrix of all grace:

Heaven’s blessings she dispenses

On our

sinful

human

race.”

The organs roared with the familiar tune, but the tempo had slowed, the octaves, lowered. A strange, ominous feeling descended upon their guts as the clouds assaulted the sun and the room grew darker.

Father Hoggard had fire in his eyes, the same fire that he’d had as a child, a fire that’s always been. “You are all sinners. You were born into natural sin, baptized to be cleansed of it, and continued forth into life, incapable of retaining purity. You have begged, borrowed, and stolen. You have committed adultery, hurt one another, even attempted murdered. You have hated your fellow brothers and sisters. All of this, and little or no remorse. You are sinners. You are sinners. You are sinners! Damned be the sinner in the eye of our lord!”

The people of the church looked down, guilty of what they had just been accused of. They stared at their veiny hands and fiddled with cheap plastic buttons, fearing that looking at the alter—at Father Hoggard’s eyes—would turn them to breathing flames.

“Let us pray. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee and I detest all my sins…”

Beg for mercy.

“…because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend thee, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love.”

Fear Me.

“I firmly resolve, with the help of thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life.”

Amen.

Father Hoggard began to weep. After all these years, the voice of God rang through his pulsing skull, his brain fighting to be released, to be freed from his body and into the arms of the Lord.

The people in the congregation became uncomfortable, disturbed by such an open display of emotion in a public place by a person of power. The old, thin woman on the organ stepped toward him, but he held up his hand in protestation.

“Fear not my tears, for they are tears of joy. The Lord is with us today. Now let us bring forth the children to receive Him in their hearts, their souls. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” Father Hoggard signed the cross as the people in the pews confusedly followed suit.

***

The doors to the church groaned open with a sound like a bleating goat, slaughtered. Seven fair children stepped forth, eyes wide and unsmiling. Mothers tried to wave, but the soldiers had been trained. Their white gloved hands were static in prayer. White suits and dresses covered their fragile bodies, white shoes protected their small toes, and white socks with delicate lace accents were folded over the shiny fake leather of those belonging to the little girls. Pearls garnished the slim necks of some, others wore no jewelry at all. The uniform differed very little from one child to the next.

Michael began the march forward, the cross held high above his head. As they made their way down the aisle, cameras flashed and parents cooed.

“Mary! Look here!” Shouted a grandmother to the little girl at the back of the line, but Mary knew better. They all knew better.

Father Hoggard stepped away from the podium, down the three stairs, and met the children at the front of the church.

“Body of Christ?”

“Amen.”

After the last child received the body, the children took the seats they were assigned, and Father Hoggard returned to his position at the altar and continued the sermon. “These are the Lord’s children. They no longer belong to you. God is their father, their mother. Their sister, brother, and their friend. He will love them unfalteringly, without boundaries, in a way none of you have proved yourselves capable of.”

Angry muttering spread like the plague across the entire body of people. One man with whisky stained breath and a soiled flannel shirt stood up and yelled “fuck you, faggot!” But everyone was too personally offended to notice.

“Please quiet down for a bidding prayer on deliverance lead by Michael Schilowsky.”

As the child approached the altar, the congregation quieted, fearing that further conversation would prove the accusations set upon them true. Michael stepped up to the podium and adjusted the microphone to his height, the awkward movement sending wailing feedback through bleeding ears. The sound did not phase Michael however, for he was prepared.

“Dear Heavenly Father, We the children, your children, pray for deliverance from the evil in this world. We pray for our separation from drunkards, infidels, and adulterers. We ask to remain pure of heart and sound of mind so that we may walk the path of your son, Jesus Christ. Give us the strength to resist temptation, to overcome fear, and to carry out the mission you have sent us here to complete today.”

Seven little voices rang out in Amen. Michael returned to his seat, rejoining his troop.

“Thank you, Michael. Children, it is time. Take your positions.”

Seven little pairs of hands reached under the pew in which they were sat, seven machine guns waiting for those hands, raw metal meeting raw flesh. As the weapons were produced, there was an uproar in the church, the people in the back running from the building. They were not of concern, not today. Their families were right behind them, seated in the sections that had been labeled for them.

Mary shot without hesitation, shooting her father in the shoulder and her mother through the forehead. Her father wrestled the gun from her hands and, after seeing his wife was dead, shot his daughter and then himself.

Bullets charged through the house of God. Showers of rainbow glass landed in finely combed hair. Children screamed as they murdered and fought to murder. A soldier, Zeke, had been pinned down by a large man. Father Hoggard observed from up high.

Michael’s section had only one person sitting in it. Mikey Schilowsky, still big and fat and ugly as ever, looked into the eyes of his son, the same eyes as the woman who had left him all those years ago.

“You’re too much of a pussy to shoot me, boy.”

Michael smiled at his earthly father, and he too had the fire eyes. He placed the barrel above his dirty snout, the cold round metal resting firmly on his greasy brow. And as Mikey went to grab the gun from his son, he pulled the trigger, and the mighty Mikey Schilowsky fell the same way all men do.

Through the chaos emerged Father Haggard, and he stood beside Michael as the world around them crumbled. The father and the son. He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder, a silent way of saying well done.

Michael stared down at the man, the drunk who’d beaten him and starved him and called him all those names. He stood over his body and spat on his face.

“Deliver us from evil."

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

When somebody you love dies, you have to think of everything in steps. Otherwise, one thing becomes two things and two things become the world and the world cracks like an old clay pot dropped from a building. One foot. Then the other. Check.

Walk up to the dead body, alone. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Cry. Stop. Stare. 

Register that my brother looks like a transgender geisha. There are no earrings. He always wears his earrings. Touch his hands. Feel his stomach for the autopsy scar. I search for signs that this is real. This is him. For some reason there is truth in the sloppy scar. I find it, and for a brief moment, I want to puncture it. I want to put my hand inside of him and dig for the warmth through all this cold. Breath. Remove hand. Touch his hair. Stand up. Walk to the seats for the grieving family. Wait for the others. Check.

One hand. Two hands. Cigarette hands. Old people hands. Cold hands like Billy’s. Black hands. White hands. Dirty hands. Hands of workers. Hands of mothers. Every hand that has ever existed since the cavemen touches mine and says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your fucking loss. But why? You didn’t kill him; he killed himself. Keep my mouth shut. Remain polite. Check.

Then sleep comes.

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

The bill is $8800. $8800 to touch a dead body and put it in the ground. $8800 to watch some priest swing incense over the casket when we all know very well my brother smoked Newports. $8800 to write my own eulogy, only to have that same priest later take my words and claim them as his own. $8800 to tell the world he’s never coming back. $8800 to decompose with dignity. $8800 paid. In full. Check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Printed eulogy. Shot of whisky. Check.

The priest says my name, and even though I know I’m first to speak, I’m startled. I resort back to lists.

One foot. The other. One foot. The other. Three steps. The podium. Check.

My voice sounds foreign, like somebody who is unsure they are using the right word when speaking a new language. Cómo se dice my brother is dead? Take a breath. Look at the paper. Read the words. Mean them. Check.

Talk about our relationship. Talk about his relationship with my mother. With his wife. His stepchildren. Talk to the crowd. Check.

I get to the most important part of the speech. “His death does not stop these things from being.” His death does not stop these things from being. He has not stopped being. He is my brother. He is your friend. Your family. He is. I can’t tell you what death is; I can only tell you what it is not. 

Death is not finite. 

Comfort all, if only for a frozen moment in time. Check.

And then the pallbearers sweep him away. Seven grown men with storms in their eyes. Seven men with bellies that swell and hold, each man afraid that breathing will release that storm. 

We follow like his entourage. My sister and mother, two Jackie O’s in a classless world. They seem to have figured out the secret of the list. One foot. The other. One foot the other. We all check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Arrive at the gravesite. Take another shot of whisky. Make my sister laugh. Make my mother laugh. Try and fail to make my surviving brother laugh. Doors open. We get out. One foot. Two feet. 14 feet total. All cold and numb and moving on their own accord. 

Checks for everyone.

Words are said that nobody hears. We are each given a rose to decompose alongside my brothers rotting body. 

I give him my empty whisky nip. 

I hear him laugh and I laugh.

Couldn’t save me some?

Not where you’re going.

Have conversations in my head with my dead brother. Check.

Snow falls in all the beauty that the famous poets of past and present have written about. The fragility of each flake is not lost on me. It comes, impresses, touches our hearts, and melts back into the earth. Gone too soon. My brother is snowing on us all, and nobody else can see it.

And just like that, he leaves us, but not before sending the sun. 

“It’ll be okay,” he says. 

It’ll be okay.

I know.

Find hope in the sunshine. Check.

1985

Adrian Hoggard sat alone on the shore of Averill Lake contemplating suicide. He was a small, white haired boy with a pale complexion and the somber look of an iron deficiency. While most people carry the weight of the world on their shoulders, Adrian carried it under his eyes. Although a boy of only twelve years old, a deep line nested comfortably and visibly between his dark, unruly brows. A babe in age, and yet he had already garnered a scar of wisdom while looking at a severe world through a lens of severity.

Adrian’s only friend had been his mother, Margot, a quiet Irish immigrant with a softness that stretched from her belly to her eyes. It had been a year to the day since she had passed from a severe case of pneumonia, and he missed her with a fierceness that spread through his throat like vomit. “Complain that you have no shoes until you meet a man who has no feet,” she’d tell him after yet another day of getting bullied by Mikey Schilowsky, the tallest and fattest kid in school. Her old Irish Proverbs would always provide him with comfort, realign the tilt of his axis. But without her, his world was upright, and he was clinging onto air while gravity forgot his name.

October brought with it the sun of Summer and the air of Winter, but Adrian still took off his shoes, rolled up his grey slacks to his knees, and walked into the water. The cold of the lake slapped at his ankles like a crowd of angry fathers—one back hand, and another, another—reminding him of the man at home, sleeping on the sofa. He walked further, to his calves and just below his knees, the water dying the sloppy cuffs of his pants an almost black. It had always made him angry that his father never taught him to swim, but on this day, he was grateful. Adrian closed his eyes, his face full of blissful fire. “I’m coming, Mama,” a whisper only a mother could hear. “Open your arms ’cause here I come.”

He took a deep breath, and a large pebble landed on his skull with a thud. His thin fingers shot up instinctively, looking for the intruder, and came away with a spot of blood. Adrian turned around, and before seeing the boys, he already knew who had cast the stone.

“Why you in the water, Faggot?” Shouted Mikey Schilowsky, followed by the laughter of the four stupid boys who were always with him. Adrian looked down at his reflection in the water and wondered why God hated him so much.

“Did that blow to the head make you retarded or somethin’? I asked you a question.”

He stared into his own eyes. “’Cause I feel like it,” he mumbled, an instinctual fear chilling his bones like a hail storm in January.

“What’s that, Retard?”

Adrian broke from his trance and looked up at the circus playing in Mikey’s eyes. “’Cause I fucking feel like it.”

The ruckus in Mikey’s glare faltered for a fleeting moment, a flash of apprehension before the confidence of adrenaline. “Hey fellas! Seems like the faggot finally pulled his balls outta his ass hole! Why don’t you come say that to my face, Adrianna?” Adrian stared at him, contemplating. He was about to die anyway. “Or you can just run home and tell your mama on us.” A baleful smile tip toed delicately across Mikey Schilowsky’s stout face. He knew that he had him. “Oh wait, you can’t. And you know why you can’t, Hoggard?”

Silence stabbed sloppy holes in the space between the two mortal enemies. Like dogs before a storm, the boys could feel disaster preparing to strike. And then, Mikey spoke and the tornado touched down.

“Because your mama is fucking dead.”

Adrian’s mama used to say “beware of the anger of a patient man,” and he considered himself to be quite patient. But something had been building up inside of him since her passing. The stinging had at first been slight, like heartburn after too much orange juice. Then the sting had started to burn, and night after night—his father covered in piss on the worn yellow couch, drunk, neglectful—the fire festered. The boys at school fed brush to the flames, but it was the unrelenting ache of his mother’s absence that shot sparks into his brain. Mikey’s words brought on these sparks, the heat so remorselessly violent that Adrian could see the reds and yellows and blues behind his eyes.

He did not see himself running through the water, falling and soaking through his white t-shirt. He did not see the boys laughing at him, their crooked teeth like wolves, metal on their molars making even the sun squint in the wake of the imposing glare. He did not see Mikey Schilowsky’s fat jowls loosen, ready to taunt, to torture, only to be silenced by his fist striking him directly on the bridge of his snout. While this happened, the flames partnered up for the Waltz, and Adrian joined their dance.

“’Cause I fucking feel like it.”

It took Mikey only a moment to remember who he was: the biggest, baddest, toughest twelve year old in all of Vermont. He spat the blood from his teeth and smiled a pink smile so forbidding that even the filthiest swine would cower beneath their barracks.

“Grab him,” he commanded the boys who stood awaiting their orders. They listened, seizing the arms of poor Adrian Hoggard, a boy who had already accepted his fate. “Take him over to the edge of the lake!” The boys dragged his body, the weight of lifelessness scraping his knees against the unforgiving grains of moist sand. Adrian felt something, relief perhaps, flirting with the overwhelming feeling of nothing.

Mikey Schilowsky grabbed a handful of his wispy hair and tugged, hard, forcing him to stare into an upside-down pair of brown eyes that were full of shit. As he spoke, Mikey’s breath assaulted Adrian’s senses: the air, swampy and bacterial, and the smell, a combination of old sugar and an improperly smoked cigarette. Adrian held his breath while stringy spit rained down on his cheeks and forehead.

“Any last words, Faggard?”

Adrian said nothing, but in his mind he prayed, not to God, but to his sweet, sweet mama. I’m coming, Mama. I’m coming home.

Mikey pushed him forward, his hands splashing in the shallow waters of the shore. Hair still in hand, Mikey plunged Adrian’s head below the water, the tip of his nose violently meeting its end in the murkiness of shattered lake and sand.

At first, Adrian did not struggle. He had planned to die long before Mikey and his gang showed up and disrupted the ceremony. He held his breath and, as in hospice care, patiently waited to pass on.

Instinct is an interesting habit of cognitive creatures. Although Adrian had welcomed death—he embraced it, took solace in its warm finality—as his breath let go and the air turned wet, his limbs gamboled with fear. The muscles in his neck tensed against the portly fingers entangled in his skull, but Mikey Schilowsky’s angry gorilla palms controlled his head like a joystick. The boys on his arms were not more forgiving, fearing that letting go would lead them to the same sodden fate. As he struggled against their grip, their fingers branded bruises into his translucent skin while the whole world quaked.

***

And then, the water became temperate as an island coast. Adrian’s eyes opened like shutters, and the lake was pellucid and white. It was the purest color he’d ever seen, a white cleaner than packaged socks. Yet there was a serene softness to it; it didn’t blind him like the midday sun, nor did it make his head ache like the walls of the hospital where his mother died. It was a physical manifestation of the serenity he’d had been searching for his whole life and had experienced so little of.

This is it, he thought. This is the light that people talk about. Adrian reached for the light, not with his hand but with his soul. As he began to crawl from his skin and leave his flesh behind, a voice—not aloud, yet heard clearly by Adrian—called out to him.

At first, he could not understand what the voice was saying.

Mama?

But the voice was deep, etherial, and undeniably belonging to a man. It bellowed against the walls of his brain, of the lake that had now become a womb. The distortion cleared as Adrian focused his mind on the sound, the deafening cacophony of aquatic life ceasing existence and paving the way for a cosmos of light, spirit, and voice.

Adrian. The voice was saying his name. Without opening his mouth, Adrian responded, a telepathic power not uncommon in the wide open space between the living and the dead.

Yes? Yes, who’s there?

God.

God?

You are my son, Adrian.

But my father is at home on the sofa.

That man, do you feel loved by him, Adrian?

Adrian needn’t think much about it. He had known the answer to this question all his life, but there were a multitude of feelings that accompanied it: sadness, bitterness, and resentment. The level of paternal love required by a little boys DNA was never fulfilled with a game of catch or informal banter about the pretty girls at school. Instead, there was a black eye, or a “you’re a pussy, boy!” when he was too drunk to aim his fist properly.

In his state of euphoria, however, these feelings belonged to someone from a different time, and Adrian held within his grasp the cold facts of his life without any sort of pathos to accompany them. The answer was simple: no, Adrian had not felt loved by his father, never once in his whole twelve years of life.

I love you, Adrian. I love you, as I love all of my children. I am your father, and you are my son.

Adrian began to cry, an inexplicable lightness furrowed into his brows, smoothing the creases of trauma, loneliness, and abuse. A foreign sensation, a joyous smile unfurled across his lips, now so red and plump and filled with heat, with life. He laughed and watched the bubbles escape his mouth, and then he laughed some more.

Can I come to you now, Father?

Through the white, a figure appeared—grandiose and magnificant, not of mankind—and for the first time, the voice was given a mouth.

“Dear, sweet Adrian. You are very special. I have chosen you to be one of my vessels on Earth as I conduct the universe from the infinite sky.”

“But Father, what does that mean?”

“It means you have a purpose on Earth, and once you fulfill it, you may join me and your earthly mother in the eternal afterlife.”

“And my purpose has not been fulfilled?”

“No, my son. It has not.”

“And what is my purpose, Father?”

“You will be a physical body, learned in my word. You will go forth and share it. You will lead my children to me, so that I may be their Father, too. And through this, you will deliver them from evil.”

“And if I do this, Father—if I share your word—I can come back to you and to my mama?”

“When your time has expired and your mission complete, yes, we will welcome you at the gates with arms opened wide as eagle’s wings and songs of the angel’s choir.” Adrian exhaled, a breath he’d been holding since conception. “Keep me within your heart, always, and you will find your way back into the light.”

With God’s parting words came water vomit and torched lungs. Adrian’s eyes opened as wide as an acid trip, his pupils expanding and contacting in the new light of dawn. The world around him had grown darker as his spirit had grown brighter.

He tried to sit up on the damp sand, but the effort was futile. He did not hear the boys, only moments before, running from his lifeless body and screaming, “he’s dead! He’s dead!” The only sounds that his ears and his brain recognized were the foul hacking from his chest and the echo of God’s last words.

As he rolled onto his side and folded his legs delicately into his abdomen, he wrapped his arms around himself, the desire to be held, even in his own arms, overwhelming him. But his arms were not his arms alone any longer, for he was now employed by God. And the arms that were wrapping his knees like a fragile gift were no different than the arms that would one day embrace him at the entrance to Heaven. He would never be alone again.

When a man finds purpose, the way the world looks changes. As dusk made its journey into a starry blackness, Adrian looked to the sky, and everything was different. And the stars became quite yellow, and the lap of the water on the shore was singing a soft hymn. Adrian himself was not so heavy, either. He spread his limbs like the stars he was admiring, imitating their gentle twinkle. Then he walked on air, through the whispering trees, to the gravel path. He glided like a water strider to The Church of St. Thomas, where finally, he could lay his head for the night.

***

2019

Father Hoggard stood at the front of the classroom—an old, dusty suite in the back of the rectory. The windows, while beautifully stained variant shades of blue, did not open, and so the room was always stuffy and smelling of congested young children. The alpine diamond patterned rug had once been a brilliant red, but muddy little feet had faded its luster over the years, graying the color to a dull burgundy. Father Hoggard did not mind the state of the room however, for it was a reminder of all the children who had come to learn the word of the Lord.

The children had been attending class once a week for the entire academic year, and this would be the final meeting of the Confraternity of Christine Doctrine before they were to receive their First Holy Communion. There were seven of them this year, the number of the Lord, and they were each seven years of age. Father Hoggard knew that this wasn’t a coincidence. God was sending him a sign, signaling that this was the year for the mission He had been preparing him for.

It had been 34 years since he’d heard the voice of God, but his faith never faltered. On the contrary, it had given him a greater drive, an insatiable thirst for the blood of Christ and the peace he’d felt that night on the shore. Because of his constant search for a connection, he sought out signs: coins dropped on the pavement, shapes in the clouds, a humid breeze that painted dewy skin. He only knew he’d found Him when his heart felt empty, not in regards to loneliness or despair, but rather, in lightness and freedom from dead weight lifted.

Today, his heart was light as a popover as he prepared the children for their final march toward the path of God. They sat at the chipped mahogany table, long and square, two benches on each side. Their delicate little fingers were crossed and laid on the surface, and their backs elongated in the posture of royalty. Father Hoggard had trained the Lord’s soldiers quite well, and he looked upon them, satisfied by their attentiveness.

“Boys and girls of the Church of St. Thomas,” he began. “These are our final moments together before I set you forth on your mission. This Sunday, after you eat the body of Christ and drink his blood for the first time in your lives, you will officially be responsible for your own souls. Sins made will be yours to seek forgiveness of.”

Michael raised his hand, straight arm, as he was taught. “Yes, Michael?” Called Father Hoggard.

Michael had always been the meekest boy of the group, fragile glass bones with a bit of a stutter in his walk—a child who has also heard “you’re a pussy, boy!” From his earthly father. He had white hair like goose feathers and eyes with cotton irises. Father Hoggard had taken quite an interest in him. His interest was not of a sexual nature, as so many have come to believe of all priests because in most cases, it had been the shocking truth. And his truth—perhaps more shocking than grown men using the veil of religion to hide their homosexual pedophiliac desires—was that he had never been attracted to anyone sexually, male or female, in his entire life. He had once found his mother to be quite pretty, but that’s the only memory he had of being pleased by a woman’s appearance.

So no, his fondness did not stem from lust. It stemmed from a reflection, a mirroring of himself in another being. He wanted to save Michael, just as God had saved him.

“Father, I was just wondering…” said Michael, putting his hand down and staring at the papery fingernails on it.

“Go on, Michael. Remember what we say?”

“Don’t make little of your dish for it may be an ignorant man who judges it.”

“And what does it mean?”

“It means to never undersell yourself.”

Father Hoggard nodded in approval, looking on the boy with calm eyes that gave him courage.

“Well, Father…I have a question about what we’re supposed to do at the end of the service.” Michael took a deep breath. “I think what we’re supposed to do might be against one of the Ten Commandments.”

The students around the table gasped as if Michael had just said “shit” in front of a priest. But Father Hoggard only smiled, as he had been prepared for someone to question his orders.

“I see. And what makes you think that, Michael?”

Michael looked around at the faces of his peers, all wide eyed and ready to judge. But he remembered that only God could judge him, and his muscles relaxed into the inset of his shoulder blades.

“Umm…well actually, there’s two. Two Commandments. The first is honor thy mother and thy father.”

“Your mother left you, Michael. You do not have to honor a woman who you do not call Mother, a woman you have no memory of ever meeting.”

“Yes, but—my father?”

Father Hoggard remembered his conversation with God all those years ago. “Have you ever felt loved by your father, Michael?”

“Well…”

“Has he ever told you he loved you?”

“No, Father.”

“There is no honoring a man with no honor.”

“Yes, Father. But the other Commandment? Thou shalt no—“

Father Hoggard lifted a hand, older, more withered, than the hands of the children before him. His hand was the universal signal for silence, and Michael obeyed. “There is a lot of work to be done today, Michael. We must continue forth with our final preparations.”

***

Father Hoggard lead the children from the entryway of the rectory and out onto the sidewalk. The May air was attempting to shake the cold from its limbs, but Winter clung on like a desperate woman. The children buttoned up their sweaters and zipped their jackets, and then they joined hands to cross the street to the church. They stomped up the stairs—left, left, left, right, left—and entered through the imposing oak doors, the wood stained a deep and threatening brown.

The children lined up to rehearse the entrance that they would make in just three day’s time. Because there were seven children, there were two lines of three and one solo child to lead the army and carry the cross.

“Michael,” Father Hoggard called. “Come to the front. You will be holding the cross.”

Michael gaped at the man before him, a mixture of panic and privilege turning his feet to cinderblocks. He was to lead them in their mission, the one that will take them directly to God and eternal happiness when they reach the afterlife. He would be the first seen by the Lord, the one carrying the cross, just as Jesus had all those years ago. It was a burden of the highest esteem.

He regained control of his feet, and walked toward the priest. Father Hoggard placed the cross in his arms like a newborn baby, delicate, easily harmed. But as Michael felt the cold of the gold metal stroke the tips of his fingers, he felt the strength of the compound. He dared to apply pressure to the structure, pulling his hands just slightly in opposite directions on either end of the cross. The brass did not quiver under the weight, there was no movement at all. And Jesus, made of stone and paint, a man half dressed in a quilted skirt and a crown of thorn and blood, stared down at his fingers, as if saying “try me.” And this made Michael feel powerful.

“Michael,” said Father Hoggard, kneeling so their eyes could meet. “Do you accept your mission?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the cross, marveling at the vision before him. There was sudden heat in his hands and a voice in his head. Honor thy Father.

“I accept.”

“Excellent, Michael.” Father Hoggard stood, now addressing the rest of the children. “Now let’s line up and file to your pew. Remember to sit where your name has been taped to the backing of the seat. And don’t forget children,” he made eye contact with each and every one of them before continuing on. “Make sure your weapons aren’t visible from under your seats.”

***

Sunday had arrived with the swiftness of a Frigatebird. The air was much warmer than it had been a few days prior, Spring grabbing onto the sun and hugging him closer to the atmosphere. The rains of April brought the true brilliancy of green to the lawn outside of the church steps and the islands in the parking lot. The Magnolia Butterfly Trees were in full bloom, neon yellow petals snowing on giddy children as they played tag under the flimsy branches.

There was a purity to the day—not of an artificial, sterile kind—brought on by the sweet air and laughter of children. As the bells began to chime, the parents wrangled their little swine and herded them into the church. There was a tidal wave of commotion as people realized that family’s had been assigned specific seating, something that had never been done before, at least as far as Karen, Susan, Lisa, and the other mothers from the PTA were concerned. They had but a few moments to complain before Father Hoggard approached the pulpit, his mere presence enough to trigger a silent discomfort. People always seemed to think priests can smell their sins, and in the case of Father Hoggard, they were not wrong.

“Welcome friends, to The Church of St. Thomas. Today’s sermon will be followed by the First Holy Communion of seven young community members.” Coos and giggles bounced off the walls and up to the cathedral ceilings. The parents were excited to see their angels dressed like angels.

“I’d like to speak to you about the Lord’s children. These children are like the branches on the trees. Once a branch falls off or is broken off, what happens to the leaves?” Father Hoggard waited, as if he were expecting somebody to stand up and respond.

“Have you ever been to an apple orchard? I’m sure most of you have. If you pull a branch off of one of the trees what happens to the apples?” Father Hoggard looked around the room, scanning the members of the congregation for a reaction, perhaps a glint of recognition or understanding in their eyes. But they were all vacant, Jesus had left them or never been there at all. “They die. The branch can no longer produce fruit. The children are the fruit of the lord.” Father Hoggard pulled out a branch from a pine tree, demonstrating how the needles had browned, withered, and died.

“Please rise for the singing of a hymn. If you’d like to follow along, turn your books to page 25. ”Everyone stood, singing from their throats—a soft, breathy sound blanketing the entire congregation.

“…Advocate and loving mother,

Mediatrix of all grace:

Heaven’s blessings she dispenses

On our

sinful

human

race.”

The organs roared with the familiar tune, but the tempo had slowed, the octaves, lowered. A strange, ominous feeling descended upon their guts as the clouds assaulted the sun and the room grew darker.

Father Hoggard had fire in his eyes, the same fire that he’d had as a child, a fire that’s always been. “You are all sinners. You were born into natural sin, baptized to be cleansed of it, and continued forth into life, incapable of retaining purity. You have begged, borrowed, and stolen. You have committed adultery, hurt one another, even attempted murdered. You have hated your fellow brothers and sisters. All of this, and little or no remorse. You are sinners. You are sinners. You are sinners! Damned be the sinner in the eye of our lord!”

The people of the church looked down, guilty of what they had just been accused of. They stared at their veiny hands and fiddled with cheap plastic buttons, fearing that looking at the alter—at Father Hoggard’s eyes—would turn them to breathing flames.

“Let us pray. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee and I detest all my sins…”

Beg for mercy.

“…because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend thee, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love.”

Fear Me.

“I firmly resolve, with the help of thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life.”

Amen.

Father Hoggard began to weep. After all these years, the voice of God rang through his pulsing skull, his brain fighting to be released, to be freed from his body and in the arms of the Lord.

The people in the congregation became uncomfortable, disturbed by such an open display of emotion in a public place by a person of power. The old, thin woman on the organ stepped toward him, but he held up his hand in protestation.

“Fear not my tears, for they are tears of joy. The Lord is with us today. Now let us bring forth the children to receive Him in their hearts, their souls. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” Father Hoggard signed the cross as the people in the pews confusedly followed suit.

***

The doors to the church groaned open with a sound like a bleating goat, slaughtered. Seven fair children stepped forth, eyes wide and unsmiling. Mothers tried to wave, but the soldiers had been trained. Their white gloved hands were static in prayer. White suits and dresses covered their fragile bodies, white shoes protected their small toes, and white socks with delicate lace accents were folded over the shiny fake leather of those belonging to the little girls. Pearls garnished the slim necks of some, others wore no jewelry at all. The uniform differed very little from one child to the next.

Michael began the march forward, the cross held high above his head. As they made their way down the aisle, cameras flashed and parents cooed.

“Mary! Look here!” Shouted a grandmother to the little girl at the back of the line, but Mary knew better. They all knew better.

Father Hoggard stepped away from the podium, down the three stairs, and met the children at the front of the church.

“Body of Christ?”

“Amen.”

After the last child received the body, the children took the seats they were assigned, and Father Hoggard returned to his position at the altar and continued the sermon. “These are the Lord’s children. They no longer belong to you. God is their father, their mother. Their sister, brother, and their friend. He will love them unfalteringly, without boundaries, in a way none of you have proved yourselves capable of.”

Angry muttering spread like the plague across the entire body of people. One man with whisky stained breath and a soiled flannel shirt stood up and yelled “fuck you, faggot!” But everyone was too personally offended to notice.

“Please quiet down for a bidding prayer on deliverance lead by Michael Schilowsky.”

As the child approached the altar, the congregation quieted, fearing that further conversation would prove the accusations set upon them true. Michael stepped up to the podium and adjusted the microphone to his height, the awkward movement sending wailing feedback through bleeding ears. The sound did not phase Michael however, for he was prepared.

“Dear Heavenly Father, We the children, your children, pray for deliverance from the evil in this world. We pray for our separation from drunkards, infidels, and adulterers. We ask to remain pure of heart and sound of mind so that we may walk the path of your son, Jesus Christ. Give us the strength to resist temptation, to overcome fear, and to carry out the mission you have sent us here to complete today.”

Seven little voices rang out in Amen. Michael returned to his seat, rejoining his troop.

“Thank you, Michael. Children, it is time. Take your positions.”

Seven little pairs of hands reached under the pew in which they were sat, seven machine guns waiting for those hands, raw metal meeting raw flesh. As the weapons were produced, there was an uproar in the church, the people in the back running from the building. They were not of concern, not today. Their families were right behind them, seated in the sections that had been labeled for them.

Mary shot without hesitation, shooting her father in the shoulder and her mother through the forehead. Her father wrestled the gun from her hands and, after seeing his wife was dead, shot his daughter and then himself.

Shots echoed through the house of God. Showers of rainbow glass landed in finely combed hair. Children screamed as they murdered and fought to murder. A soldier, Zeke, had been pinned down by a large man. Father Hoggard observed from up high.

Michael’s section had only one person sitting in it. Mikey Schilowsky, still big and fat and ugly as ever, looked into the eyes of his son, the same eyes as the woman who had left him.

“You’re too much of a pussy to shoot me, boy.”

Michael smiled at his earthly father, and he too had the fire eyes. He placed the barrel above his dirty snout, the cold round metal resting firmly on his greasy brow. And as Mikey went to grab the gun from his son, he pulled the trigger, and the mighty Mikey Schilowsky fell the same way all men do.

Through the chaos emerged Father Haggard, and he stood beside Michael as the world around them crumbled. The father and the son. He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder, a silent way of saying well done.

Michael stared down at the man, the drunk who’d beaten him and starved him and called him all those names. He stood over his body and spit on his face.

“Deliver us from evil."