A Matter of Perspective
"She never had children of her own so now she's trying to steal ours," Sheila's shrill voice carried through the night air, despite her attempt to whisper.
"Steal? Don't you think that's a little harsh?" Her sister-in-law Iris's deeper voice just reached the open window where Genevieve stood in shadow, sipping a glass of wine and listening to her brother's wives discuss her influence on their children.
She couldn't help chuckling to herself. Sheila really was a little twit, she thought. Nice of Iris to defend her, but she lacked imagination. It was no surprise both of their children enjoyed their aunt's company to that of their mothers.
But Sheila wasn't finished yet.
"Isn't it bad enough that our husband's care more about her opinion than about ours?" It was an old argument and Iris' sigh was audible in the dark stillness.
"She's their big sister, they let her say her piece, it doesn't mean that they don't do exactly what they planned to all along."
"Martin might, Adam changes his mind to match whatever she thinks it should be," Sheila snapped.
Genevieve had to admit she had a point. Martin had always been the more stubborn brother. Adam was easy to influence if you knew how to make an intelligent argument. He wasn't influenced by emotion, which was why his wife didn't find him easy to sway. With Martin you practically had to argue in the opposite direction to get him to do what you wanted. Iris didn't have the subtlety for such manipulation, nor could she easily spot it, which might be why she found Genevieve so much less threatening than Sheila did.
"You have to admit this trip was a generous gift," Iris continued in her calm, reasonable way.
"And so is her offer to take Sean to Africa with her," she added, more doubtfully.
"Would you want Michael running around Africa for months on end, eating and probably catching God knows what?!" Sheila sounded a little hysterical.
"Sean is seventeen," Iris replied, "Mikey is seven. And you know Sean's dying to go. He worked so hard to get good grades this past year, so she would take him. At least she made that a requirement. Genevieve won't let anything happen to him. You know she loves our kids."
"Oh yes, she loves them. Loves them so much she wants to make them hers!"
"Not really," Iris sounded exasperated now.
"So you have no problem with the fact that Miranda just spent a year of her life bumming around South America?"
"Central America," Genevieve corrected, under her breath.
Sheila knew this had been a sore point for Iris, but Iris didn't bite.
"I didn't love the idea at first, you know that. But she's had her gap year now, and she speaks Spanish quite well as a result, and that won't do her any harm when she goes looking for a job after university, if she keeps it up."
"I think it might have been good for her, really," she added, reluctantly.
"And what if she doesn't want to go to university, now that she's had her year of freedom? Then what?" Sheila demanded.
"Oh, she's going to university," stated Iris flatly.
"How do you plan to make her, if she doesn't want to," Sheila continued voicing the fears Iris preferred to avoid.
"She has to get a degree in a field that will allow her to support herself. She knows that. We've been telling her all her life," Iris insisted.
"Yes, you've told her, while you wore yourself to the bone working shifts at the hospital and Genevieve sent her exotic presents from around the world," Sheila wasn't even attempting to whisper anymore and Genevieve saw Iris make a shushing motion with her hand and glance in the direction of the house. They wouldn't see her, standing in the shadow of the curtain, in a room with no light on, and Genevieve smiled to herself, enjoying her surreptitious invisibility.
"Just because people think her travel books are funny, she gets to live this glamorous lifestyle, swanning around the world and never doing a day of real work," Sheila hissed more quietly but no less vehemently.
Genevieve snorted. Other than occasionally selling Tupperware or scented candles Sheila hadn't worked since she got pregnant in the first year of her marriage. Lucky for her Adam liked the idea of having his children home with their mother.
"Aunty Gen?"
Genevieve turned from the open window to smile at her niece. Casually reaching out and pulling the window closed she let the curtain fall back into place, shutting out the tropical night.
"What's up honey?" she asked, clicking on a lamp and bathing the spare, simple room of the rented house with warm light.
"Aunty Gen, I don't know what to do!"
Miranda's face was the perfect picture of nineteen-year-old tragedy. Genevieve picked up the wine bottle from a side table and poured the rest of it into her glass before crossing to the rattan couch. She settled herself gracefully on one end of the seat and held out her hand to her niece.
"Tell me," she offered. Miranda joined her on the couch, sitting close enough to her aunt to rest her head briefly on her shoulder before sitting up and facing her squarely.
"Aunty Gen, I don't want to go to university this fall," she announced.
"Why not?" The question held no judgment, just honest curiosity.
"Because I don't know what to take! I know I don't want to be a nurse like my mom. I don't want to go into business or anything like that. The only thing that doesn't sound terrible is teaching, and if I was going to teach I would rather teach English in another country like I did in Nicaragua and Honduras. I wish you could get paid for that!"
"Oh, you can," Genevieve said calmly. "Not a lot, but enough to live on, if you're careful."
"Would I have to go to university to do that? Would I have to have a four-year degree?" Miranda demanded eagerly.
"It depends on where you want to teach, but the training you took while we were in Costa Rica, plus your volunteer hours in the other countries we've been too might be enough for some positions."
"You did keep your certificate and the reference letters like I told you too?" she added, treating it like a rhetorical question but still relieved when Miranda quickly nodded.
"Oh yes, I've got a file with everything, sample lesson plans and all. Do you really think I could do that!"
"It certainly wouldn't hurt to look into it," Genevieve said with a faint smile.
"Oh, Aunty Gen, do you think I could go to China?" Miranda was leaning forward now, her hands gripping each other in her excitement.
"It's definitely an option. Although you would make more money in Japan or South Korea."
"No, it has to be China!" Miranda insisted. "Not that I wouldn't love to see Japan and Korea too, but I've been dying to visit China ever since I read you book about sailing down the Yangtze!"
"I got dysentery on the Yangtze," Genevieve pointed out wryly.
"I know, it sounded amazing!"
Genevieve threw back her head and laughed. How could she argue with such youthful enthusiasm? She reached under the sofa, pulling her laptop out from where she had stashed it earlier, when she first heard voices in the garden.
Waking it up she said, "I know the government of China hires English teachers for its public schools, that would probably be the easiest way to get your visa approved."
Finding the site she was looking for she passed the laptop to her niece, watching over her shoulder as Miranda began to read.
The door to the living room swung open and a tousle haired small boy stood in the door way, rubbing his eyes.
"Mike," chided his aunt, "What are you doing out of bed?"
"Mum and Aunty Sheila are talking outside my window and Sean's snoring and I can't sleep," he grumbled.
"Your dad and Adam still not back from snook fishing yet?" she asked. He shook his dark blond curls.
"Alright," Genevieve caved. "Come curl up on the sofa until you fall asleep."
Miranda shifted to a chair to make room for her little brother, still glued to the laptop, poring over details of teaching opportunities in China.
Michael climbed onto the sofa and lay down, putting his head on his aunt's lap. Genevieve pulled the afghan off the wicker back of the sofa and spread it over him, then stroked his hair as he settled in, sipping her wine and listening to the tap of keys as Miranda planned her future.
The Lap of the Lord
“Let me get this straight, you want me to... suck your dick?”
"Not in so many words, but yes” God leans back, casually stretching his arms above his head. His white robe billows about him gently in the breeze. We’re sitting together on a white park bench. In the distance I can see children running around a brightly colored playground. Birds chip in the trees overhead as glittering rays of sunlight stream through the foliage. "Consider it... a test of faith."
“What does the Messiah's manhood look like anyhow?”
“What do you think it looks like?” God muses, prophetically.
“Like a big shiny golden dildo?” I shrug “Maybe some halos around it for good measure? And miracles shoot out the tip-- to give sight to the blind or cure polio. Or maybe God’s immaculate-ejaculate cripples you?”
God laughs. It’s a hearty sound like Santa Claus and every TV sitcom father rolled into one. “Really? I’m the same guy who dreamed up platypuses, aardvarks, and elephants… I made you in my image, and you think my divine-ding-dong is some gaudy sex toy?”
“Haha, gaudy. God-y.”
God chuckles “You always did like puns.”
“That’s the thing, you’re all knowing and all seeing. You already know if I’m going to do it or not."
“I suppose” God shrugs nonchalantly.
“So why even bother with this conversation?”
“You watched Titanic seven times in theaters.” He scratches his beard absently.
I sit there in silence. Sometimes it’s easy to forget He knows all things.
“Yeah so?”
“You already knew the ending. That doesn’t keep it from being a good movie.” He elbows me playfully. “And how does it end?”
“Jack drowns.”
“No before that. “
“Jack draws some boobies.”
“After that.”
I sigh. “The ship goes down.”
“Bazzzing son!” God makes some finger guns and points them in my direction playfully, a wide grin plastered across his face.
“That’s another thing. If we’re all your children, y’know lambs and such isn’t it incest to suck-off my savior?”
“Sure, you’re one of my creations. But you’re not my son” Got makes mock stigmata on his wrists, and then extends his arms out from him at his sides like a man on a cross. “You guys nailed my one-and-only to the wall, remember?”
I look down, dejected for a moment. God puts his cross-bearing-arm around me. It’s warm and comforting. God continues: “You’re more like, if I made a crude drawing and then jerked off to it.” He gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I still remember that by the way. You were one horny thirteen year old. Beating off to boxy boobs and triangle shaped vagainas. You’re definitely no Jack Dawson.” He’s rubbing both my shoulders now. His grip is so strong. I can feel his warm breath on my neck. It’s intoxicating, smelling like peanut butter and cinnamon.
“But isn’t it wrong?”
God smiles. “I impregnate virgin girls without their knowledge or consent. I make fathers set their kids on fire. I kill a bunch of innocent little babies because some people didn’t decorate their doorways the way I wanted. I drown half the planet, and give you guys a little rainbow at the end to say ‘oops sorry, my bad’... "
The will of God is strong. His hands are at my neck. Pushing and prodding my head at a slow sinking angle, like the Titanic going down, down. down.
“Heck the first guy I made… he wanted a girlfriend. And I could’ve easily made him a brand new person; I literally just made him out of nothingness five seconds earlier. But instead, I made him give up his rib, just so he can fuck his rib. His own rib! Isn’t that twisted? And you think a little fellatio bothers me?”
“Mhmmn mmm mhhmmm...”
“Shh… don’t talk with your mouth full my son.”
In the distance I can hear the children laughing and running on the playground. The birds chirp overhead as the leaves rustle in the trees.
And then, sirens.
- - - -
On the news that night, two men are shown led away in handcuffs: "...a local man and an escaped mental patient claiming to be God were caught engaging in sexual acts in a public park... "
Thanks Be to God
God and I had been on one date before.
It was an eye-opening experience in which I learned that God moves through all objects of nature. Even the leaves that rustle in the trees with the wind are a part of God's hand.
I used to look at nature and see God.
That was before my husband passed away.
He passed a few years ago and after that, I shied away from society.
I went out only when it was absolute necessity as I could not bear to see couples together for I had lost my one partner in this life.
I could not even find peace in nature.
I resented God for taking him away for me...
It was about a month ago that I decided to attend a marriage conference that was intended for couples.
I felt it was something I had to do if anything was ever going to change in my life.
I braved myself to be alone in a room full of pairs.
That night God and I had our second date in my hotel room.
After room service had delivered my meal, I slept for a while on the couch.
I awoke suddenly and gazed out of my window just to catch the last of a magnificently
beautiful sunset. Some stars and the moon were beginning to shine in the still blue and pink sky and the moon was reflected in the totally calm, blue and pink river.
I believe God was sending me a message to remind me that he loved me.
I resolved that the moon's reflection in the water was a part of His signature.
I realized that God had never disappeared all those years.
He was simply waiting for me to find him again.
It is often in our suffering that God awakens a strong desire in us for nothing more than Himself.
I plan on attending more dates with God.
Fiction—The Immortality Cube
There's always that one friend who sticks to the group like a discount sticker on a used book, and who is tolerated by necessity because any removal might leave behind a sticky residue. Among Skye, Keith, and Kim, this was Lames, whose Mom had long admitted to being high when she tried to write "James" on his birth certificate. When Skye, Keith, and Kim came upon the Cube, without hesitation they excluded Lames from the Pact. And they didn't care years later when, at Lames's 89th birthday, he glared bitterly at their youthful bodies. They could wait a little longer.
The Prince of Pirates: Chapter 1
My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time.
I was born in Hittisleigh, a small run down town in Devonshire, England. 1689 was known for its cold beginning, and one January night was colder than the rest. Winds were wild outside as my mother screamed in pain, my father at her side. My two older brothers sat in the other room, waiting to be called upon to meet me. When I was finally delivered, my mother wept as she held me. Her name was Elizabeth, my father called Stephen. A single look at my frail body wrapped in wool and my parents chose the name that would one day be placed on my tombstone. From then on, I was named Samuel Bellamy.
At first it seemed like life would continue in a positive way, but not long after my birth, my mother became ill. Her body could no longer produce milk for me, her arms becoming too weak to carry me. Eventually, her heart gave out and she passed in her sleep. After that, my father turned to whiskey and rum to subdue his emotions. My eldest brother Eric, no older than ten at the time, had to take on a lot more responsibilities than any child should be asked of. My father was in no shape to raise me, so Eric did it instead.
He would milk the neighbor's Jersey cow and pour it into a leather pouch, putting a slit in the bottom and cover it with linen to create a barrier for my tiny lips to wrap around. He dressed me in his old clothes, too large for my infant body but still better than shivering through the nights with nothing. My other brother, Adam, was merely two years older than myself but still helped out as best he could. He would talk to the cow about how big I was getting, how helpful the cow was being after mommy had gone to a better place. He even held me a couple times while I drank, telling me that he would protect me from anything evil. At least, that were the stories told to me.
My first memory was the summer of 1693 after Eric met a pretty girl named Amanda who was 15, a year older than him, a few towns over. He and our father were talking about marriage, and of course our father disapproved. He had a bottle of whiskey in his left hand, his right holding Eric’s shoulder either for support or to keep him from walking away. With a swig of his drink, our father looked straight into Eric’s eyes while the eldest stared right back.
“You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’ll let you marry.” His breath must have smelt like liquor when he spoke, for when he did, Eric’s face convulsed in visible disgust. He brushed his father’s hand off his shoulder before responding, a thing we rarely did while our father was drunk.
After clearing his throat, he once again met his father’s gaze. “It’s my life, you can’t control it.” A flash of movement happened and our father’s hands were gripping Eric’s collar hard, tightening it around his neck in an uncomfortable way. I felt the urge to intervene, but I knew I would merely get hurt in the process. With fear in my body, I just watched the fight take its course.
Through clenched teeth, our father gave his reply; “I helped bring you into this world, don’t make me take you back out.” He watched Eric very closely, expecting a very specific response from his eldest son.
“But-” Another flash and Eric was pinned up against the room wall, his pain shown through his expressions as our father held him there firmly.
The limited control our father had over his drunken anger finally stopped, and his voice became a thunder directed toward Eric’s face a mere inches away from his. “Do I make myself clear boy?”
“Yes sir.” Eric’s mumble was barely audible, but it was enough for our father to restrain himself and back away, releasing Eric from the wall. Eric felt his father’s grasp disappear from the collar of his shirt, and corrected the shirt’s position on his body before walking away. He strode with granite features masking his face, a brisk movement in his steps as he went to his room. From then on, our eldest brother rarely spoke to our father. When he did, it was always a “Yes sir,” or a “Right away, sir.” It was like the flame within Eric had been snuffed out, but in reality the fight had ignited an inferno.
A month after the fight, I had awoken in the middle of the night to the sounds of glass smashing and wood splintering. Wiping my eyes from sleep, I descended the steps of our home to find Adam at the base, staring at our father in disbelief. He had thrown bottles of whiskey around the room, shattering them against the walls and floor. The table that used to sit next to a window was now mere planks of scattered wood throughout the entire house. In the middle of the entire mess sat our father on his knees, a single bottle of rum in his hands, still intact. Beside him laid a perfect piece of parchment, somehow unharmed by the destruction our father had caused. Taking a few steps closer, I noticed it was a letter. A letter addressed to me. Adam must have noticed too, for he crossed towards it through the sea of broken glass lying upon the floor. While wincing in pain, he leaned over and picked up the letter, adamant about not disturbing our father. Once back beside me, he placed the letter in my hands and went to his room, biting back screams of pain with every step he took. For a second I just stared at the letter, wondering what it had said.
Then my legs began to work again, and I walked towards my room in a sluggish manner. Once on my bed, I scanned the parchment for anything I could make out. Eric, like he did with my other brother when Adam was four, was teaching me how to read. Sadly, I had only learned the alphabet and a few basic words. On the page I saw my name, Samuel Bellamy, written at the top. I could also make out a few scattered words like had to go and goodbye. Frustrated with how little I knew, I decided to hide the letter until I could read better. I removed a board in my bedroom floor that was loose from age. Inside, a small space could be reached. I folded the letter with timidness before placing it within the floor, then replaced the board back to its original position. I told myself I would return to the letter when I could, but for now its mysteries were left alone.
I could no longer feel the beckoning of sleep. Instead, I dressed myself and went down to Adam’s room. He was sitting on his bed wrapping his foot in linen, the glass that was once piercing his skin now on the floor speckled with blood. “I can’t sleep,” I told him as he looked up at me, noticing the awareness in my face. He nodded once and got dressed, then we both left our home through his window. We traveled down the street to the river, oil lamp posts flickering as they illuminated the cobble streets. The moon and stars shone above us, a cloudless night filled with a soft mid-summer breeze. The calm warmth lowered my alertness, and soon we were lying next to the river, looking at the moon through the ripples of water made by the fish under the surface.
“I want to see the world Samuel,” Adam said as he turned to me, a look of excitement and the hint of an inferno that was found in Eric. “I want to sail the ocean and be a captain. That’s my dream.”
I looked at him, trying to think of a good response for my older brother. “Will you take me?” I smiled as he laughed at me, his eyes closing and his feet kicking the ground lightly.
“Yeah, you can come along. I’m captain though.” he said with a small grin.
“Promise?” I looked at him, the seriousness and hope in my face clear for him to see. He sat up, looked me in the eyes, and swore an oath to me that our dream would one day come true.
“I promise, Sam.”
To Be Continued...
Title: The Prince of Pirates
Genre: Historical Fiction, Science Fiction
Age range: 16 - 45
Target audience: North America, Central America, Europe
Word count: 1111
Author's name: Jefferson House
Synopsis: "My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time." After losing his mother at birth, Samuel Bellamy is set on a path in his life that no one could predict. Filled with loss, blame, and a beloved to return to, Samuel must face the test of time in order to return home.