The pub had closed, the last bus still hadn’t arrived, the thin drizzle gave way to rain of biblical ferocity. Jimmy stood sheltering in the entrance to the dress shop, like a novelty dummy, while Willie (his tongue loosened by seven pints of IPA) explained about the likely existence of A Deid Agnostics’ Processing Panel.
Continue reading “Late-Night Theological Breakthrough by Michael Bloor”
One could argue that, as a native Batistan (even though I currently reside and work in Bocay), my opinion of the events I am about to recount must necessarily be tainted by local prejudice and distorted by personal involvement. And, in a sense, it would be accurate. But rest assured, I will tell you what happened as best as I and my fellow Batistans remember, local prejudice or not.
Continue reading “The Miracles of San Batista”
The congregation came to him in the merest tendrils of the dawn’s earliest and sickest light, the sky’s face the same faded blue of an overdose.
They came to him like faces in a fever dream, seeking answers as they always did. The preacher didn’t have them. He was looking for answers of his own. He was dope-sick after all, the slow crawl of heroin fidgeting in his collapsing veins as it made its retreat, making the marrow of his bones ache. His body was already begging for more liquid forgiveness, and there was the other issue that he needed to attend to, the issue that made his need all the more desperate, the issue that had marooned the preacher in the sleepless raft of his stiff bed with nothing but his anxious thoughts to sustain him.
Continue reading “Spite by Alex Sinclair”
It wasn’t much good, the thing that was him. No wonder he was screwed up now. No wonder He’d unmade him, rolled him out like dough and balled him up again.
Continue reading “Workshop by Lesley Warren”
Every evening before her bath and bed, Caroline and I cover the half-mile loop of our street lined with towering Loblolly pines and small, neat single-story brick houses. Caroline rides her tiny bike a few yards ahead of me, alternating between steadying taps of her sneakers on the gummy pavement and wobbly pedaling as her sundress flutters over the mosquito bites on her shins and ankles. A few mosquitoes hover around Caroline’s brown curls.
Continue reading “One Hundred Percent Sure by Daniel Shiffman”
Felicia sat down on the boulder at the edge of the mountain. She thought about a thing or two, then thought about God.
Continue reading “Felicia by Paul Crehan”
When hunting season started, my brother Isaac and I brought out the Remington and shot down angels by the creek. We’d descend the hill at dawn and lug back the carcasses in the evening. We bottled the blood for chapels and sold the bones for change to research teams on the black market. Whatever was left, Isaac kept in jars under his bed.
Continue reading “Dissecting Angels by Mason Koa”
(A Novel Excerpt) by James Hanna
Author’s Note
Gertie McDowell, a naïve young girl with a talent for misadventure, has joined a women’s wrestling troop called Christian Ladies of Wrestling. The troop was put together by Wanda Sue, a bank robber with a streak of religion whom Gertie met while serving time because she “trusted the wrong sort of fella.” The mission of the troop is to bring folks closer to Jesus by having women posing as Christians beat the sin out of women posing as transgressors. Gertie’s wrestling persona is Haystacks Holly, a lustful temptress who needs a good punishing. The troop also includes three runaway girls: Cocheta, an Apache girl with sleeves of tattoos, and Sofia and Mia, a pair of sinewy migrant workers.
Continue reading “Christian Ladies of Wrestling”
I’ll tell you, I saw my fair share of weird. It was par for the course when I was a belief policeman. I never passed judgment. I once tested a man whose One True Belief was a body part and a woman who worshipped a raw potato. It takes all kinds, but I moved on as long as my detector beeped twice and the OTB wasn’t harmful. If my OTBD beeped only once, I took the heretic to my district HQ. What happened next was outside my control. I told myself my hands were tied.
Continue reading “Scattered Faith by David Henson”
Rattling feet and active tongues met the clang and squeal of the drums and choir. The language spoken by the congregation was foreign to me, just a boy then: it sounded like some alien dialect from Star Wars. I noticed the power that language held over the horde of rambling adults. The mushed up words spilled out, filling the sanctuary with a sacred tongue from a cavern of the mind I hated to have witnessed.
Continue reading “Ceremony by Caleb Coomer”
