Winners of the 2024
Prime Number Magazine Award for
Poetry & Short Fiction

Our Judges

POETRY

This Whole Big Machine Like a Ghost Ship

Even on a quiet night, the house rattles and shakes,
pipes clang, the porch settles,
this whole big machine moves forward
like a ghost ship and nothing gets done,
no heat gets produced, no dishes get washed.
In a matter of weeks, you lose your job, get another,
take your son to rehab and everything doesn’t
go all to shit but it teeters. When I was young,
it was all about heartache and desire. It still is,
but you have to watch your carbs, walk five miles a day
and lay off the booze. You think you can make bad decisions
when you’re young and still survive. I did.
Maybe it’s my fault, bad karma
coming back after all those years.  

Fault is a ghost ship that goes nowhere,
but everybody climbs aboard for the all-you-can-eat food.
This is not good for you. You have to stay strong.
And maybe this ship could sail off the edge of the earth,
but how would you know?
You lose power in a hurricane, so you buy a generator.
Problem solved. But it’s the wrong problem.
Or maybe you’re not getting enough sleep.
Maybe that’s it.
You love your kids, you love your wife,
but you need more sleep.
So many moving parts in this machine,
the springs, the gears, the phantom limbs.

~ ~ ~

Fleming Meeks is a poet and former journalist. His work has appeared in American Poetry Review, Brevity, Kenyon Review, New Ohio Review and Yale Review. His interviews with actress Hedy Lamarr for a feature story in Forbes, formed the backbone of the 2017 documentary Bombshell: The Hedy Lamarr Story, which was broadcast on PBS in the American Masters series. He lives in Montclair, New Jersey.

Judge’s comment: I chose “This Whole Big Machine Like a Ghost Ship” because it wouldn't get out of my head. The title, the way each line seemed to lilt and lurch, the choice of words felt precise but unlabored. It came back and forth into my head the way water moves, out then in, following some secret moon. The poem left me wanting to re-read, finding new gems each time I revisited. “Fault is a ghost ship that goes nowhere,” its second stanza begins, making me want to go back to the first, where a home is a ghost ship too. Is fault a home? Where are we all going? The last line signals phantom limbs, that which no longer exists can burn with pain. I am still thinking about the ghost ship. I am coming back over and over, wondering about every life in this poem, all the objects, which are real and which are imagined. Bravo!

I Drink Rivers

I hunted small streams 

at first. Backwoods, backwater, shy

creeks hidden beneath lounging wild-

berry bushes, dowsing rods shivering

with hungry anticipation. I’d bend down, bite 

into the blue veins of Earth

and stain my teeth in its freshwater

wound. I’d swallow the captured current 

in guilty gulps, gurgle out 

snapping turtles and muddy minnows 

until my lips kissed puddles

left behind in limestone crevices. It felt god-like

to consume something squirming 

and alive; as if I were born

for drinking. Isn’t man defined by his desire

to devour forbidden things? I plan to starve

the oceans, ignore the begging trees

who plead for me to unclench my jaws

and cast a flood upon the land. I hope

the swamps can forgive me; I had no option to do good

so I chose to do something terrible

instead. The rain won't save you, not 

the waterfalls, the lakes as vulnerable 

as newborn fawns. I’ll dry everything

my tongue can touch, lick the dew

off petals, remind the world that it is as fragile

as a single man’s thirsts.

~ ~ ~

Dante Novario is from Louisville, Kentucky. A Pushcart Prize, Rhysling, and Best-of-the-Net nominee, his poetry has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Notre Dame Review, Nimrod International Journal, The Pinch, Thin Air Magazine, KAIROS, Crow & Cross Keys and others. His work can be heard on the literary podcast Strange Horizons and was featured in a recent edition of Burningword Literary Journal. Find more of his writing on Instagram @dante_novario

~ ~ ~

Ilona Popper is the author of the poetry book Break, and her poems have appeared in various journals, including, The Beloit Poetry Journal, The Antietam Review, and in the art books, Trees of the West and Birds of the West by Molly Hashimoto. She has performed her poetry as theater pieces. A naturalist, Ilona has published articles about wildlife and has written documentary film scripts about Yellowstone’s wolves. She coaches writers and has taught writing for more than forty years. She lives with her husband at the edge of Yellowstone National Park.

SHORT FICTION

Jumping Off

I was adrift in a rowboat with a disconnected landline telephone and a venomous snake when my life took a U-turn. The phone, a useless 1970s yellow rotary relic I had been trying to sell, was the only thing between my bare toes and a potentially fatal pair of fangs.

At nineteen, my main job—one of three—was working at the Daytona Flea & Farmers Market. If you’ve never seen it, “The Flea” is a field of military-style barracks crammed with single-use cell phones, hand-carved leather belts, vinyl record collections, tapestries, Delta-8 gummies, naked baby dolls with permanently reaching arms, mosaic mirrors shaped like sea turtles, miniature cactus plants in thimble-sized pots, seashell wind chimes, burning incense, and more. Driving my old car to work, I sometimes thought about the people headed to the nearby mall. Unless they happened to look down while crossing the bridge, they probably didn’t even know The Flea was there.

They didn’t know I was there.

My job at The Flea happened because of some drunk sex I had with Mack, which was an accident—a bad decision brought on by loneliness after Mom died—only he wouldn’t stop calling afterward. A few weeks later, I got kicked out of Mom’s trailer because I couldn’t pay the rent. Mack’s place seemed like my only option. I’m not saying Mack was a bad guy. Not at all. The piercings and dragon tattoos were for show. His penny-colored eyes got soft every time he handed me a cup of the bitter instant coffee that made me gag. He gave me shelter and a job, and he tried his best to help me at a time when I was a hot mess. Did he think I might throw a leg over him again after he let me crash on his scratchy orange sofa? Yes, he did.

I wasn’t into it. Except for having well-maintained teeth, which I’ve always appreciated, Mack wasn’t much of a looker.

That’s how I wound up at the Amoré Taproom. I didn’t want to go back to Mack’s trailer and face the awkward tension between us. Also, I had nearly fifty bucks in my pocket from selling a ceramic planter to three women who had swanned into The Flea reeking of margaritas. After clearing my table, I ran to my car, roll-started it, and headed to the Amoré on Route 1, overlooking Lost Shoe Bay.

Inside the bar, I kept the yellow landline phone beside me, next to a bowl of peanuts, in case any patrons might want to buy it, save me the trouble of cleaning it. I had snagged the phone at a yard sale, thinking it might be collectible. Growing up with my mom, we never had a landline phone, only pay-ahead drug-dealer phones from the Walmart.

“You can’t be selling shit in here.” The bartender at the Amoré Taproom, J.B., was a partial jerk—meaning, sometimes he would give me a free beer and ask about my day at The Flea. Other times, such as whenever he had a hangover, J.B.’s eyes looked like they were free-floating in the leftovers, unfocused. On that day, he parked his hairy knuckles on the bar in front of me, elbows locked, and stared me down with his swimmy eyes.

I didn’t blink. I was used to J.B. “I guess you’d better bring me a free beer then,” I said.

On a stool three spots down, Tyler Harwood snort laughed. “Good one, Fenix,” he said.

Tyler was maybe thirty years older than me, and a regular at the bar, like the jukebox that hadn’t worked in months or the rickety bar stools with their ripped black vinyl. I had talked to him a few times, from a distance, mainly to be polite. He had never left town after high school, same as me. He was nice enough, but his disintegrating teeth smelled like roadkill.

“You know what I mean,” J.B. said. His sunburnt nose gleamed with sweat. Turning his back, he yanked a tap and poured me a draft beer that was at least half foam.

I moved the rotary phone to the floor near my feet. “See?” I said when he set the glass of foam down. “All gone.”

With one finger, J.B. rubbed his central incisors. Probably his teeth felt like they were encased in cotton, from the booze. “Thanks,” he said, not looking thankful. “We get inspections all the time. We can’t have any solicitations in here.”

By using the word “solicitation,” I was pretty sure J.B. meant I looked like a hooker. I let the insult slide. What did I care if J.B. didn’t approve of my style? On the verge of summer, I wasn’t wearing much: a black leather mini skirt, a halter top, flip flops, and a red purse strung across my chest like a Miss America sash. Dressing flashy was key to luring customers to my table at The Flea. Mack had taught me that.

Tyler Harwood was playing a game on his fancy smart phone, head down. He had a decent job cruising in a van with a “Nerd Herd” sign on it, setting up computers for old people. Why he didn’t get his teeth fixed, I don’t know. Some people are afraid of the dentist.

J.B. stuck his arms into soapy sink water and started washing glasses.

My Walmart phone didn’t offer much in the way of entertainment. I drank more foamy beer and swiveled on my stool. Through the open front door, cars and motorcycles whizzed by. I looked at the rotary phone between my flip flops. What I needed was a better way to make money. My income was all gig work—hawking junk at The Flea, delivering take-out food, and cleaning hotel rooms. Cash for labor, but never enough.

If my mom’s liver hadn’t given up the ghost, I would still be in our trailer, thanks to her disability checks, watching her crochet heart-shaped coasters and slur along to her favorite oldies music. If my former so-called best friend Evaline hadn’t done the deed with my ex-boyfriend, I would still have two friends in the world: Mom and Evaline.

Tyler set his phone down, spread his hands out flat like he was thinking about his next move, and stared at himself in a cracked mirror that was hanging behind the bar. He had a nose shaped like a fishhook and fingernails stained with printer ink. Tyler lived across the street in a ranch house he had pointed out to me once. The house was made of cinder blocks painted white; he wasn’t broke. Maybe he would buy the rotary phone.

I waited for J.B. to drain the sink, wipe his hands, and disappear into the kitchen.

“Yo, Tyler,” I whispered, making my move.

“Hi, there, Girly,” he said, blowing his dead-squirrel perfume my way.

“Hey, I know you like technology.” With my flip flop, I tapped the phone’s receiver. “This baby’s got some real quality craftsmanship. Genuine vintage. Very collectible.”

The fishhook nose must have been stopped up because Tyler was breathing through his mouth. My eyes started to water. I pushed the bowl of peanuts toward him, hopeful. He looked at the phone on the floor, tipped his head to one side, and smiled, revealing two black gaps, several dental nubs, and a few brown teeth. “Pretty cool,” he said. “Does it work?”

I scrambled off the barstool, picked up the phone, and handed it to him. Mack had taught me that customers like to hold items before buying them. “Of course, it works,” I said, although I had no idea. “You would just need a cord and a wall jack.”

“Hmm.” Tyler moved closer, picked up the receiver and pressed it against his ear, as if he might hear a dial tone. “Not today, but thanks.”

He handed the phone back to me in two pieces. The plastic felt cold, despite the heat. Although I wanted to cry, I mashed the receiver against my cheek, hoping it would turn into a seashell with a mermaid sharing secrets through it. She could tell me how to pay off my debts, get my ass into community college like Mom always told me to do, and become a dental hygienist. That was my dream. That, and meeting new people—any people. I was so alone, my stomach felt cored out.

Tyler scooched back to his spot. Instantly, the air smelled sweeter. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Yeah?” I wiped a foam mustache off my lip, mentally cursing Tyler for not buying the phone, and I wiggled my empty mug at J.B., who had reappeared. “What’s that?”

“You know that girl you always hang out with? Dark hair, kind of spooky, never says a word? I forget her name.”

I picked up my new beer and talked into the glass. “Jezebel,” I said.

“Huh,” Tyler said. “I could have sworn it was something else.”

“Some people call her Evaline.”

In high school, Evaline and I were never more than a shoulder-nudge apart. We held hands so often, the mean girls said we were gay. It wasn’t true, but we liked the rumor. Evaline would listen to me talk for hours, letting me unspool whatever was built up inside my head. My brain has this tendency to land on one idea—let’s say, “call Daytona State to ask about classes”—but as soon as I start dialing the number, my brain gets another idea, like for instance, “pry that gross used Band-Aid off the floor,” or “put fairy lights in those blue mason jars.” In a weird way, unleashing my thoughts on Evaline helped me focus.

She didn’t seem to mind. Evaline used me as a human shield, or maybe more like a stand-in for her mom, who had moved away. Talking with Evaline took patience most people don’t have; her stutter was so bad, sometimes it took her a full minute of squeezing her eyes shut and puckering her lips to form a sentence. It made her extra shy. If she wasn’t with me, Evaline stayed inside her father’s hand-built cabin on the riverbank. Before we broke up, I had been on a campaign to get Evaline out of her shell.

Tyler was yammering on, something about friendship. “It’s nice to have somebody like that in your life,” he said. “I remember how you and that gal used to come to my church every now and then. Always laughing and cutting up. I’m guessing she’s your best friend, huh?”

“Her dad must have called you to the house,” I said, ignoring Tyler’s question. I couldn’t imagine Evaline being able to spit out a service request.

“No, my church sent me over to fix her Internet and cable. We do that for shut-ins with disabilities. She ran into the yard as soon as I showed up. Does she usually do that type of thing? Her father passed away a few months ago, but I’m sure you know that.”

“Oh.” I pictured Evaline’s father, with his tidy gray beard and sad-eyed smile, cooking spaghetti with meatballs—my favorite—whenever I slept over. His cabin was warm and bright in winter, with table lamps all over the place, not like my mother’s dark trailer that smelled like moldy plywood with a whiskey chaser. I could have saved her, is what I thought, if she had let me get her to the hospital that night two months earlier, but she was stubborn.

My eyes welled up and spilled over so fast, I didn’t have time to catch the tears. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “He was a nice man.”

“I didn’t mean to make you sad,” he said, handing me a soggy cocktail napkin. “I thought for sure you would know, being best friends and all.”

Tyler was a decent enough guy but looking at him felt like staring into a mirror, at myself in thirty years, if I didn’t figure things out. “I haven’t seen Evaline in more than a year,” I said.

“What?” Tyler’s spidery eyebrows merged. “Why not?”

At the sink, J.B. never lifted his head, but his pointy ears had turned bright pink, probably from eavesdropping so hard.

“We had a falling out,” I said.

“That’s a shame,” Tyler said. “You two were so close. A friend can be such a blessing, especially at your age. It’s hard to get started in life without friends.”

Gently, I swiveled my glass to watch the beer swirl. Tyler could get preachy. I prayed he wouldn’t lecture me about going back to church. “Yeah, well,” I said. “I was thirteen when I met Evaline. People grow apart. Happens all the time.”

I didn’t say I had found Evaline getting it on with Tray McCain, the squared-headed boy who had claimed to love me, our junior year. I had pictured being married to Tray, with a house that was not on wheels. He had given me a friendship bracelet and everything. I didn’t mention Tray because he was ancient history, attending school in another state. Plus, it seemed unwise to trash-talk Tray in front of his uncle, J.B.

The next day, Evaline showed up at my mom’s trailer and tried to apologize. Her face was red and soaking wet, and her eyes were nearly swollen shut from crying so hard. At the time, I thought she was trying to say, “Please, forgive me,” but she had a tough time with the letter P. Her whole face kept locking up. Finally, between hiccups, she yelled, “Sorry!” I screamed at her and slammed the door in her face.

Tyler drained the last of his beer. “You should check on her,” he said. “She’s too scared to leave the house. My church group’s been delivering groceries. She needs a friend. It seems like you do, too. Maybe you gals could help each other.”

Talking about Evaline made me want to drown myself. Why should I feel guilty? It was her fault. I tried changing the subject. I turned to face Tyler head-on, something I had never done before. His eyes were like a Florida sky, blue but full of storm clouds. “Hey, man,” I said, hoping I sounded cheerful. “Stay and have another beer—on me.”

Tyler stood up and pocketed his phone. He was wearing beige slacks, neatly creased, and a blue polo shirt with his company’s “Nerd Herd” logo on the pocket. His rotting smile looked weirdly out of place on his clean-cut face. I imagined myself as a dental hygienist someday, holding Tyler’s wrinkled hand to comfort him while he got his dead teeth pulled. “Thanks, but no,” he said. “My poker group’s coming over tonight. It’s my turn to buy the pizza.”

“Sounds fun.” My voice came out surprisingly shaky.

“Oh, I love those guys,” he said. “Best buddies in the world. Them, and my church group. You know, after my wife passed away, I was lost. Grief was eating me alive. I couldn’t see a future. If it hadn’t been for my friends, I don’t know what I would’ve done. I might not be here.”

I didn’t want to go home to Mack. I also didn’t want to be left alone with J.B. on one of his bad days. “Let’s do a shot instead,” I said. “Quick and easy.”

“No, all things in moderation,” Tyler said. “Two beers and I’m done.”

“Amen,” J.B. said, nodding his hungover head.

“And my dogs need walking,” Tyler said, giving J.B. a jaunty farewell salute.

I started to say, “Oh, come on,” but stopped myself at “oh,” so that it sounded like a groan of desperation. How and why had my life turned to shit? When I tried to flash a smile, my lips froze and trembled.

Tyler chucked me on the shoulder. “Friends make life worth living,” he said. “You remember that, okay? Pastor says friendship is God’s gift.”

Unless that friend bends over for your boyfriend, I thought. “Is that right?” I said, bored and irritated by the unsolicited sermon.

“Friendship is a guiding light,” Tyler said, voice rising, bad breath fuming. He was getting wound up, hitting a rhythm. I had forgotten how strange Tyler could be. For all I knew, he might be a child pornographer or a serial killer, with his ironed slacks and his bullshit advice. “I need my friends gathered around me.”

“That’s the way,” J.B. said, one hand raised like he was seeing the light.

“Friends provide comfort,” Tyler said. “They help row the boat when life gets hard.”

“Got it,” I said, ready for Tyler to shut up and leave. “Thanks for the fatherly advice.”

“I’m not like you.”

That last line, he hurled over his shoulder, like a dart.

My second beer was down to the dregs. Going by Tyler’s Life Lessons, two should be my depressing limit. I looked around the empty room. Amoré’s probably wouldn’t get any more customers until the motorcycle crowd had finished partying on Main Street. J.B. faced the mirror, drying glasses with a rag. His apron strings were tied in a bow behind his back. Dark hair sprouted from his collar. I told him I was going to the bathroom, and I would be right back.

J.B. said he would alert the news media.

I took the yellow rotary phone with me—in case he got any ideas about throwing it away—and I walked out the back door. The toilet was inside a shed that was at least slightly better than an outhouse. After that, I leaned against the back of the building and fished a cigarette from the pocketbook strapped across my chest. The moon was up, nearly full, reflecting off Lost Shoe Bay. Kayaks and rowboats tapped against a dock behind the bar. For five bucks, anybody could take a boat for an hour, or half an hour in summer. Evaline and I used to paddle around, count the alligators, and laugh at tourists from Wisconsin, Michigan, or Canada who jumped off the dock for a swim in the black water.

The cigarette crackled and glowed. A delicious menthol cloud swallowed my head. Tyler’s mention of pizza had made me hungry. I pulled out my phone and ordered one. I had a plan: I would eat pizza, drive to a park down the street, and sleep in my car instead of going back to Mack’s place. It was a warm night, not quite summer. Maybe it was the nicotine, but a feeling of peace washed over me.

That’s when I heard Mack’s voice, booming through the front door.

“J.B., my man,” he said. “You seen my girl Fenix? Her car’s here.”

Instantly, adrenaline rocketed through me. It wasn’t like Mack would ever hit me—no way—but I had a good buzz going and his sad puppy face, so full of longing, always felt worse than a gut punch. At work earlier, Mack had grabbed my elbows, looked into my eyes, and said we needed to have a serious talk. I was afraid he might propose. Either that, or he wanted to kick me out. Neither conversation would end well.

“She’s out back,” J.B. said. “Taking a piss.”

Mack followed up with some questions about drink specials.

Without thinking, I tossed my lit cigarette, grabbed the rotary phone, and scrambled into a small aluminum boat. My hands were shaking, but I managed to untie the rope. As hard as I could, I pushed the boat off the dock so that it sliced through the water backward. In another minute, Mack stepped through the exit door, tall and skinny with huge discs in both earlobes. The skiff zoomed through the moonlit water, into the shadowy mangroves, out of sight.

Behind the bar, Mack picked up my glowing cigarette, looked around, knocked on the bathroom door, and went back inside looking worried. Mack might have been a good match, if the chemistry had been right; he tried hard to watch after me.

My cheap phone was on the seat beside me. The landline phone wound up by my feet. On my lap, I was holding a single paddle I didn’t remember grabbing. As quietly as possible, I untangled my hair and the boat from the mangroves and started paddling downriver, toward the park where Evaline and I used to take turns jumping off the swings. I could walk back to the bar from there, to get my car and the pizza I had ordered, once the coast was clear.

The tide was rushing seaward. The moon had ducked behind a cloud. In the dark, I overshot the park. Cussing a blue streak, I turned the boat around, thinking I could back-paddle upriver, but the current was too strong, especially with one paddle. My arms started to burn. I exhaled hard and stopped trying. Instead of the park, I decided to aim for a little island up ahead. Once the tide turned, paddling would be easier.

Inhaling hard, I let my head drop back, exhausted. The clouds parted. The moon winked into view, and I exhaled. I pictured Mom on the moon, watching me, wanting to say I would be okay and giving me a hug, the way she liked to do. When I leaned down to make sure the yellow phone wasn’t getting wet, a sudden hiss and snap sent me scrambling so fast, the boat rocked and nearly tipped over. My phone and the paddle splashed into the water. A remarkable stream of profanity flew from my mouth. I wound up hunkered over my ankles atop the metal seat, panting.

It took me a second to understand what had happened.

Growing up in Florida, I had seen plenty of snakes, especially in the water. I wasn’t particularly scared of them, but I knew some were venomous. This one was on the smallish side but thick, coiled in a corner of the boat, head poised to strike, swaying, riled up. In the moonlight, I could make out its reddish-brown body with darker bands and black speckles, the yellow tip of its tail, and worst of all, the ominous Zoro mask over its eyes. A cottonmouth—a young one, but still full of venom. Not a harmless brown water snake or a goofy-looking black racer. No, I was floating toward the open ocean in a boat with a pissed-off adolescent cottonmouth, without a paddle, on a river chock full of alligators. At night. My phone was gone, and I couldn’t reach the old landline phone, much less make a call with it. I didn’t have anybody to call, anyway.

The little island came and went. Without a paddle, I had no way to steer the boat toward the island, and nothing to ward off the snake. I knew how to swim, but I also knew better than to swim with gators. Again, the clouds converged. A few raindrops pinged the boat, here and there, until the sky cracked open, unleashing a torrent. On the bottom of the boat, the snake uncurled itself and started swimming, which cottonmouth water moccasins love to do. Finally, it shimmied onto the boat’s middle seat and gave me some serious side-eye. I moved back, lifting the bow, hoping the snake would jump into the water, but it didn’t. Below my seat, the vintage phone was a goner; the boat took on an inch of water before the rain stopped as abruptly as it had started.

Welcome to Florida.

Around another bend I glided in the possibly sinking boat with the snake, the useless rotary phone, and no paddle. Closer to the ocean, the retreating tide was speeding up. Water dripped from my eyelashes. I tried to smoke a cigarette, but the snake disapproved; it reared up again. The lit cigarette sizzled, hitting the water.

No matter what, I decided, I wasn’t going to feel sorry for myself, and I wasn’t going to panic. If I got lost at sea, the Coast Guard or some fishermen would find me eventually.

Evaline’s dad had loved fishing. He took us in his jon boat with its forty-horsepower outboard motor so we could catch spotted seatrout, big red drums, and snook. He taught us how to clean, flour, and cook the fish in oil until they were crisp and salty. I hated to think of Evaline without her dad. Losing Mom was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. A few times, mainly after a beer or two, I had thought about calling Evaline to accept her apology, but then I pictured her with Tray McCain, still in her blouse with her skinny butt hanging off the side of the bed.

She sure did come out of her shell that night.

Her dad had asked me to take care of Evaline, one weekend when he had to go out of town on insurance company business. “I wish she was more outgoing like you,” he said. “Introduce her to people, okay? You girls have fun and be safe.” He made me pinky swear.

With him gone, I slapped several layers of makeup on Evaline. She frowned at her reflection and tried to wipe off the lipstick, but I stopped her. I curled her paper-flat hair and sprayed it into a puffy shape. When she tried to flatten it, I grabbed the hairbrush and told her she was going to come out of her shell whether she liked it or not. I even made her wear a blouse that showed off her cleavage. Evaline covered herself with a lumpy sweater, but it came off later.

On the boat’s middle seat, the snake recoiled itself. From the riverbank—a splash. Probably a gator slipping into the water. My legs were cramped from being folded in half.

I had bought a case of beer and a bottle of Schnapps that night, to get the party started. Other kids brought bourbon, vodka, and a few joints. Evaline’s cabin turned out to be the perfect party pad. In the woods along the riverbank there were no neighbors to complain about the noise. I had cranked up the stereo so loud, the windows rattled. I slow-danced with Tray, bee-bopped with some other guy whose name I don’t remember, and square-danced with Evaline.

Around midnight, I gave Evaline a fourth glass of Schnapps. Her face turned an alarming shade of crimson. She started saying it was “t-t-t-too h-h-hot,” and she peeled off the lumpy sweater along with her slacks. I laughed my head off, watching her stumble in nothing but her blouse and underpants. “Go, Evaline,” I yelled. “Way to get out of your shell!”

By two in the morning, the party was down to a dozen kids crashing into furniture or passed out on the floor. I was in the kitchen, talking to a football player who kept trying to read my palms when the room started spinning and I announced it was time for bed. The football player misunderstood, but I pushed him off and headed for Evaline’s room, thinking she must be asleep already. I needed to lie down beside her and close my eyes.

Opening her bedroom door sobered me up in an instant. Tray stood up straight with his mouth open and his pants down. The party ended hard, after that. I threw things. I screamed. Finally, I stormed out. I had no business driving home, as drunk as I was, but I’m ashamed to say that’s what I did. Evaline’s face, when she came over the next day, looked weighted down by grief and shame. Tray never spoke to me again. Evaline and I were both quickly replaced by another girl who also got dumped when he left for college.

Near the skiff, the armored back of a gator broke the water’s surface and submerged again. In the daylight, Evaline and I had watched dozens of them on our various paddling adventures. Sometimes, I would bring a beer on the boat, but she never drank. Probably her system wasn’t prepared for the Schnapps. If I hadn’t given her that fourth glass, maybe she wouldn’t have pulled off her clothes.

A stabbing pain hit my spine. When I had barged into her room, Evaline’s face was turned toward the wall. At the time, I thought she was paralyzed by fear, not moving a muscle, but what if she wasn’t even awake when Tray bent her over the bed? Did she wake up at some point later and realize what had happened? My back throbbed in time with that terrible thought.

The current was carrying the boat closer to rocks along the western shore. With a start, I realized I was approaching the cabin built by Evaline’s father. Sure enough, beyond another clump of mangroves, there it was. The porch was dark, but a yellow lamp illuminated the living room. I tried to paddle with my hands, without success. The current was in charge.

Again, the snake lifted its head and reared back. I glared at it and held my ground, suddenly furious and no longer afraid. “I hope you get pulled apart by a hawk,” I said. “I’m done with you.”

Across the river, the light from Evaline’s house grew brighter and—alligators be damned—I knew what I needed to do.

~ ~ ~

Ginger Pinholster’s second novel, Snakes of St. Augustine—a love story about neurodiversity, stigma, and community—was released by Regal House Publishing in 2023. Regal House plans to release Ginger’s next novel, The Train to Santa Fe, in summer 2026. Her first novel, City in a Forest, earned a gold medal from the Florida Writers Association in 2020. Her short fiction has appeared in Pangyrus, Eckerd Review, Northern Virginia Review, Atticus Review, and elsewhere. She holds a Master of Fine Arts degree from Queens University of Charlotte and a B.A. from Eckerd College. She lives in Ponce Inlet, Florida, where she writes for Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University and volunteers with the Volusia Sea Turtle Patrol.

Judge’s comment: Fenix, the young narrator of “Jumping Off,” is up the proverbial creek without a paddle, adrift in a rowboat with nothing between her and a venomous snake but a disconnected landline telephone. No spoiler alert; it's in the first paragraph. How she got there, however, and what she's going to do about it, is a hell of a ride that will leave you laughing like crazy, maybe tearing up a bit, and rooting for her more than a bit. “Jumping Off” is wonderfully written, a wacky, unforgettable gem of a story.

Ranger Danger

Moxie the Malinois laps the backyard in great ecstatic bounds. Oh, it feels so good to be free! One, two, three laps. Stuck in her crate all day, she now pulses with the energy of an electron in a particle accelerator. She’s thinking she could leap that fence, threaten school children, and devour random house cats. Could, oh yeah! But Sarge wouldn’t like that.

And Moxie loves Sarge, loves him, loves him, loves him. Twenty-two years old, not that old for a human, and already a decorated combat veteran. An elite Army Ranger with the Third Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment. Oh, so elite. Keeps a Glock 17 under his pillow, a K-Bar knife on his nightstand, and an AR-15 in his closet. Sarge is Dangerous! Oh, so dangerous. Tells her that all the time.

But Moxie’s dangerous, too. Yessiree! Will eat your face or tear out your throat, if Sarge gives The Command, The Command, The Command. When Sarge can afford, he’s promised to replace her natural canines with Titanium. Then even more dangerous. Yep, yep!

She’s been bred to herd cattle and attack bad guys, feels it in her bones. See that truck tire hanging by a rope from the big old Hickory? Is really a bad guy named Terrorist #1, so hit him like a blitzing linebacker hitting a quarterback. Then shake living hell out of him. Take that and that and that, Terrorist #1. Yep, yep!

From the back door, Sarge is like, Come, Moxie, come.

Of course, she obeys, well, after taking one more lap. So much juice! Then pounces that big orange ball by the shed. Another bad guy in disguise. Could pierce and deflate. Could do that, no probs. Yep, yep!

Moxie, get the fuck in here. Now!

Sarge says “fuck” a lot. But he’s certified to call in Hell Fire from Blackhawks, Little Birds, and F-35s. She hears him bragging about it all the time. And previous deployment, he manned the fifty-cal atop an armored troop carrier, Army’s Most Dangerous Job, laying down cover fire for battle buddies while exposed to pot shots from bad guy. So Sarge can say “fuck” all he wants. Yep, yep!

Leave it, Moxie! Leave it!

Roommate Red is also here, at Sarge’s off-base pad, standing in the doorway next to Sarge, eating a bologna and cheese sandwich (so, yum!). Red is Sarge’s only non-military friend. Holds dead-end, no-skills job at Costco but for a discount on rent is teaching Sarge to free-solo sheer rock faces. That’s free-solo, motherfucker! Means no rope, no protective gear. Not for the faint of heart. Yep. yep!

Once, Red kicked Moxie in the ribs. Well, she ate his Double Crafty Cheeseburger, snarfed it in one bite when Red went for a piss, so maybe had it coming. Anyway, kick was a glancing blow, but Sarge was like, I see you kick my dog again, I’ll kick your ass. And Red was like, Chill, dude, your PTSD is showing.

PTSD, as in anger and depression, Sarge has explained to her. Probably due to mental-emo trauma suffered during previous deployment in the desert or his near-death experience on a recent night jump when primary ’chute failed to open. Failed to open over a Louisiana swamp filled with alligators whose only regret is not getting enough to eat. Sarge has admitted to her he should probably be on meds, but he’s like fuck that, Army Rangers don’t take meds. Yep, yep!

It’s time for their run, ten miles every day. Ten miles more than ISIS runs, ten miles more than the fucking Chinese run! After running, he’ll lift weights to build muscle on muscle, then post lifting pics on Instagram inviting hook-ups from Hot Babes.

Oh, yeah, Hot Babes. Moxie loves those babes almost as much as Sarge. Their panties left lying on the floor, tastiest treat ever. Yep, yep!

Post work-out, Sarge gives himself a moment to cool down. He carb loads and hydrates with whey smoothies. He feeds his badass Malinois a piece of raw meat, waters her, then supplements himself with creatine and glutamine. Hormones roaring like flood waters down a mountain, he wishes ten terrorists would walk down his street, right now, so he could send them to their just rewards.

To mute the roar, he feints, leaps, and whirls, kicking a hole in the carport wallboard.

Moxie looks up, still panting from her run. Gives him her look like, What the fuck? Who’s paying for that?

And Sarge is like, Not you, for sure. You’re a dog, no responsibilities or worries.

And Moxie is like, Whatever, dude.

He feels edgier than usual, probably due to being on Standby for Deployment. Can’t say where, can’t say what, can’t say how long. OPSEC (Army speak for Operational Security), right? Only thing for sure, he’ll be killing bad guys. Or they’ll be killing him.

But Sarge doesn’t mind killing, because those fuckers have it coming. He also doesn’t mind dying for his country. Dying’s easy. Getting shot up and losing your balls, an arm, or a leg is not easy. Might as well take yourself out if that happens. Just ask Shipley, good old Shipley.

Sarge cruises inside, Moxie trotting behind, and interrupts Red playing video games. He’s like, So you’re watching my dog while I’m deployed, right?

And Red is like, Fuck, no. I can’t handle that dog.

I’d watch your dog.

I don’t have a fucking dog.

According to the therapist Sarge was made to visit following his previous deployment, caring for a dog should have a calming effect, should ameliorate risky and violent behaviors, as in starting bar fights, cliff-climbing without ropes, and wreaking mayhem on US Army property such as cots, desks, and chairs. But even following acquisition of his dog, and what a terrific war dog Moxie is, Sarge continues to suffer from rapid-onset-blind-rage. Blind, as in unseeing except for a curtain of white. Rage, as in an IED exploding his brain and shorting circuits.

So, in response to Red’s retort, blind-rage Sarge picks up an empty and wings it into the kitchen, causing glass to shatter onto counter and floor. It gives him momentary relief, until it doesn’t.

Red shakes his head, goes back to his video game. Nice, real nice. So adult, man.

Yeah, well, adult enough to take down an ISIS bombmaker in his own hovel. Adult enough to survive twelve rocket attacks. Adult enough to pick up body parts of five little girls killed by a Syrian drone. Legs, heads, hands, and feet. A little girl is more than the sum of her body parts.

Then someone’s here, causing Moxie to lose it.

Moxie, chill! Quit it!

Dog’s on her hind legs, bouncing off the front door, barking, barking, barking. Barking at Cherry, Sarge’s new girl, an on-base admin for a Big Army Captain. Great ass, nice tits, and a warm and fuzzy personality. Was previously married, but marriage didn’t last, so maybe her warm and fuzzy has limits. She admits to her own mental-emo issues, as in no longer speaks to redneck, trailer-trash mom or dad imprisoned for armed robbery.

Cherry’s like, Hi, Moxie. Down, down, girl. Who’s a good dog? Who’s a good dog?

Sarge, no longer white-rage blind, grabs Moxie by her choke collar and yanks her to the floor. I said lay down, goddammit.

Cherry’s like, Oh, don’t hurt her. She’s just excited.

Cherry’s right, of course, but Sarge defends himself because he doesn’t like to be called out, because he doesn’t like to be wrong, because he can’t afford to be wrong. One degree off and it’s his battle buddies eating Hell Fire, not the bad guys.

He’s like, She needs to listen.

You don’t have to hurt her. Anyway, what’s a girl have to do to get a beer around here?

Have a seat. I’ll get it.

But Cherry’s like, I’ve got it, already. Jesus Christ, what’s with the broken glass?

Red’s like, Ask Sarge.

Jesus Christ, Sarge.

I’ll take care of it.

But she’s between him and the beer-bottle breakage. Why don’t you take a shower? I’ve got this.

She kisses him, no tongue, but still.

He’s like, I’m sorry. I fucked up. Again.

She’s like, No worries. I’ve got this.

See, warm and fuzzy, warm and fuzzy.

***

When his phone goes off, Dad flashes the number to his sofa mate and is like, I better take this.

His second wife, not Sarge’s mom, clocks the number and is like, Yeah, you better. She picks up her wine glass and heads to the screen porch. Takes along her lap dog, Mimi.

Dad appreciates her respecting his privacy, but wouldn’t mind her support, not that he couldn’t be more supportive of her relationship with her daughters. Thing is, Sarge is as unstable as nitroglycerine in a bottle while those girls are merely whiny. Their professors suck. Their sorority sisters suck. The boys who hit on them suck. Even Second agrees the little bitches are spoiled with their private college and summers abroad in Paris and Rome. At least, Second’s ex pays for that.

Hey, son, what’s up?

You know, training, climbing. Anyway, You remember my dog?

The dog Dad cautioned against adopting? The dog two previous owners returned to the shelter for being too rambunctious and/or aggressive for your average American family? The dog Sarge rescued an hour before they planned to put her down? That dog?

I was hoping you could maybe help out while I’m deployed.

Deployed again? When? Where?

Could be any minute, could be next month. Can’t say. OPSEC, right? Anyway, my dog.

Dad’s on the brink of, I warned you about this when you got the dog. But instead, he’s like, You mean feed her? Walk her? Pick up her poop?

Well, yeah.

Dad’s a corporate lawyer. Expected similar from only son, maybe even Supreme Court Justice from only son, only to have only son show no interest in academics. Only to have only son show zero interest in normal sports like soccer, baseball, and football but, instead, excel at weird sports like extreme running, weightlifting, and rock climbing. Only to have only son choose guns and jujitsu over money and power.

Son, it’s a six-hour drive for me to collect her.

Yeah, but you liked her.

Sure, he liked her, liked her like folks like their grandchildren. Watch over them a couple of hours while frazzled parents grab a bite and catch a flick, but then return the little demons before they cry or spit up. Definitely before they require a diaper change.

Dad is like silent.

Sarge is like, Besides, I’ve got no one else to ask.

Probably true. The kid goes through girlfriends faster than water through a spigot. Lacks lasting friendships with other guys. Probably fits the profile of the perfect elite warrior. Low affect, little or no empathy. It’s also why he needs a dog, unconditional love and all that.

How about your mother?

You don’t know? She’s left the country.

Well, she always was a free spirit, an artiste. Probably hanging in cafes and tapas bars and painting. Probably living with a younger, more considerate man. One of those European God Men with long, flowing hair, washboard abs, and compassion leaking from every pore.

Son, your dog will eat our dog. Your dog can’t stay here.

You still have that fucking rat dog?

Shih Tzu.

What about the farm? Couldn’t you put her up at the farm?

That farm lies thirty miles north. The house needs work, and the fields need planting.  Bought cheap and on a flyer years earlier from a client going under. Maybe fix-er-up. Maybe retire there and find solace among adjacent fields and streams. Or alternatively, sell to a developer for a big-ass profit.

The farm’s a stretch, Son.

You said you wanted to spend more time there.

Dad suggests returning the dog to the shelter or exploring long-term boarding options.

I can’t afford boarding, and if I return the dog, it’s a death sentence. You’re sentencing my dog to death.

Me? I’m the villain? It’s a familiar pattern: Son refuses advice, then when things go haywire, it’s Dad’s fault. Look, if it helps, I’ll pay to have her boarded.

That amounts to four owners in under two years. At least, she knows you.

Dad is silent. True, he’s met the dog, but only briefly. Just long enough to see she lacks training and is barely housebroken.

Sarge is like, Okay, then. I’ll do it myself. I’ll put her down. Take her out back and shoot her.

Shoot your dog? You’d rather shoot your dog than board her?

My dog, my responsibility.

Jesus.

Dad’s like, Think this through, Son, as the kid signs off with a harsh click, as the kid retreats into that angry, dark place he often inhabits. Hopefully not, but could be, the same black hole Staff Sergeant Shipley went down.

An even blacker hole since Mom and Dad divorced, an even blacker hole following Sarge’s first deployment. Dad wishes he could penetrate the darkness, shine a little light into that hole. Mom blames his side of the family. Said her side was cool beans. Said his side was all drama and piss and vinegar.

And now, look what that’s bought.

***

Out of her crate, out of her crate. Oh, boy, oh boy, oh boy!  So, tear up the backyard. One, two, three laps. Squat to pee. Oooh, baby, that’s good. Now, hit that tire, pounce that ball. Dig, dig, dig. Yep, yep!

Sarge stands in the doorway. Doesn’t call her. Instead, sips beer and talks to Cherry. Delish Cherry. Juicy Cherry. Yep, yep!

Three more laps. Fast, faster, faster. Fuck, yes!

Now, trot over to Sarge, wait for him to administer well-deserved petting. But Sarge pays her no attention, chats up sweet cheeks Cherry, instead.

He’s like, I’ve got no choice.

She’s like, Board her. Take your dad up on his offer.

He’s like, Ain’t boarding my dog with strangers.

I’d take her, but…

I know. I get it.

Moxie’s like, Who cares about that? Pet me, pet me, pet me. Scratch my ears, fuckers. Rub my tummy,

She stands hind legs, paws Cherry’s boobies, boobies, boobies. Yep, yep!

Sarge is like, Down. I said, down.

He pulls her away, wrestles her to the ground, then nuzzles his face into hers. Nuzzle, nuzzle, nuzzle. Moxie loves that. He’s sweat and cordite, hormones and angst.

But he’s crying, which tough-guys Army Rangers never do. Never! So, Moxie’s like, Dude, are you crying? Don’t cry, man.

Cherry kneels, drapes an arm across Sarge’s shoulders. Broad shoulders, muscled shoulders. She’s like, C’mon, Sarge. C’mon, group hug. She’s like, Come to Momma, Moxie.

Licks her face, licks her tasty lips and chin. Oh, Momma. Sweet Momma. Hot Momma, Yep, Yep!

***

Second’s like, You could board her at the farm. Look after her, every other day. You could make it work.

She’s prepping veggies for dinner, looks like (yuck!) Brussels sprouts.

Dad’s like, How? How would we make that work?

Cut back at the office. Fix-er-up like you said. Stock the pond.

I don’t even like to fish.

Fished once or twice with his old man but only because Ma insisted, as in y’all could use a little father-son time. Actually, the old man preferred to fish alone. Days, worked in a mill, turning a lathe. Evenings, drank CC and Seven and followed Braves baseball. Played poker once a month. Hunted spring and fall. Also given to occasional bouts of white blindness. Once beat to death with a baseball bat a chainsaw that refused to start when asked. Not warm and fuzzy. Never. Not once.

Dad’s grateful the blind rage skipped his generation, even if the cold and not-fuzzy didn’t. Probably what First meant when she accused him of having the sensitivity of a moon rock.

Dad’s like, Leave you here alone?

A few days a week. Besides, it’s only for a while. Plus, you can afford it, and you’ve talked about cutting back forever. Your partners will understand.

Can afford if stock market continues upward trend. Partners probably won’t understand, but hasn’t he given them the Best Years of His Life? Could’ve spent more time with Sarge. Maybe steered Sarge to safer life choices. Maybe tried harder to keep marriage to First intact.

Second is like, Anyway, it’s your decision.

It’s like you’re asking me to put a fucking dog ahead of us. Ahead of my retirement. Ahead of my partners, even if they are assholes. I told that kid not to adopt a dog.

This isn’t about the dog.

Totally about the dog.

Your son’s going to shoot his dog. Do you want him deployed into combat with that on his conscience?

He always does this. Backs me into a corner. Remember when he wrecked my car? Besides, what if something happens on deployment? Then we’re stuck with the dog.

And there’s no denying something could happen. The kid could eat bullets for breakfast or shrapnel for supper. Could hug a bomb or have an Osprey shot down beneath him.

Second is like, We’ll cross…

Would you do this for your girls?

My girls are divas. Your son’s fighting for his country.

Yeah, well, we’re all fighting for something.

Second stares him down. Really, that’s how you want to leave this?

No, Dad doesn’t want to leave it like that, but neither does he want responsibility for the dog. Moxie, whatever. And he doesn’t want Sarge in the military, doesn’t want him in a combat role, doesn’t want him to suffer PTSD. But what goes around, comes around. Is that what that means?

Dad slams his fist on the counter. Fuck me.

Second is like, You can say that again.

Fuck me.

***

From the screen door across the backyard, Cherry’s like, Sarge, please don’t, please. C’mon, man.

Down on a knee, he holds the Glock in one hand, scratches behind Moxie’s ears with the other. Sarge is thinking stupid dog doesn’t have a clue.

He’s thinking he should never have adopted her, even if a dog is more reliable than a girlfriend, a mom, or a roommate. It’s like Dad said, but Dad, that smug motherfucker, is always right, isn’t he? Always knows best, doesn’t he? Big shot said a dog is expensive and requires a lot of care. Especially, a torqued-up dog like this. Before Sarge adopted her, Dad asked, what happens when you’re deployed.

Well, this is what happens.

Cherry’s like sobbing and pleading now. Please, Sarge, please don’t hurt her. Please.

He’s like, I have to take care of this. My dog, my problem. Go inside if you don’t want to watch.

He’s blind with tears, not anger. But not too blind to shoot point blank.

Then, that quick, Cherry’s like pissed. Goddammit, Sarge. You dick, you fucking asshole dick, I hate you.

Door slams, probably another girlfriend lost to a slamming door. But girlfriends require work, so much work. Emotional work. Relationship work. What does that even mean? A dog is easier. Food, water, and exercise, all it takes. Look at this dog, her big, wet nose, her thick, lapping tongue, her black killer eyes. Who’s a good dog? Who’s a good dog?

It’s so fucking unfair, and Sarge is like, Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Maybe easier to pull a Shipley, let someone else deal with the dog. Remember, good old Shipley? That dude was tight, at least until he wasn’t.

Or, no.

How about shoot the dog first, then pull a Shipley. Probably die on deployment, anyway. So many ways to die on deployment. So, why not pull a fucking Shipley and save Syria the trouble?

Then from the screen door, Cherry is like shouting, No, no. Wait, wait. Sarge, look who’s here.

He’s too blind to see but is aware of Moxie tearing away from him. She reaches the door in two bounds. Leaps up, barking like crazy. Barking, barking, barking. Jumping, jumping, jumping. What she does.

Through a blur, Sarge makes out Dad, good old Dad, kneeling and petting the dog, scratching behind her ears. Didn’t expect that in like a million years. What’s that douche bag doing here? Maybe here to rub it in—told you not to get a dog?

And then Cherry and Roommate Red are beside him. Cherry’s cheek to cheek, soft, warm lips, soft, warm hands. Red eases the Glock from his hand, carefully, very carefully. Red’s like, There you go, partner, there you go.

Sarge feels Cherry embrace him, kiss him, wipe away his tears, and she’s like, Baby, baby, baby.

Then Dad, good old Dad, stands over him, offers a hand, and is like, C’mon, Son. I’ve got your dog. Easy, now.

Seriously?

Absolutely, Got her at the farm. We’ll make it work. Somehow. I don’t know.

Really?

Yeah, for sure. We’ll figure it out.

Sarge feels a wave of relief wash over him. Didn’t really want to put his dog down, even it was the right thing to do under the circumstances. Didn’t really want to put himself down. Well, maybe he did, but also maybe not. In his mind, he recites the last line of the Ranger Creed; “Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission, though I be the lone survivor.”

The lone fucking survivor.

Then Dad’s hugging him—when’s he ever done that—kind of awkward, but still.

And Sarge is like hugging him back. Well, kind of, because when’s he ever done that?

~ ~ ~

Gary V. Powell lives with his wife near the shores of Lake Norman, North Carolina. A nominee for the Pushcart Prize, O. Henry Award, and a 2023 deGroot Foundation Writer of Note, he is the winner of the 2022 Prime Number Magazine Award for Short Fiction, and a finalist or honorable mention for numerous other fiction awards. His work appears in many literary reviews and magazines including Bull Men’s Magazine, Carvezine, The Thomas Wolfe Review, The North Carolina Literary Review, Ocotillo Review, Atticus Review, Smokelong Quarterly, Best New Writing 2015, and Sleep is a Beautiful Color: the 2017 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology.

The Thin Line

Enough was enough. Detective Jack Murphy spit out his Nicorette chewing gum and lit up an unfiltered cigarette. He titled his fedora brim and looked up toward the blanket of black clouds rolling in over the silty city skyline. Jack took a therapeutic drag of his cig, listened intently to the pitter-pat of the icy rain hitting his overcoat, and embraced the rumbling thunder breaking in from the east.

Jack walked casually toward the framed scaffolding that encased St. Jerome’s Catholic Church. He took shelter under a mason’s platform and enjoyed his cigarette while observing the scope of the massive construction project already underway. Somewhere along the way the church’s stonework had cracked at the foundation. After years of pushing the project off, the parish Grounds Committee was finally forced to empty their vast coffers to cover the considerable construction costs.

The large arched oak doors of St. Jerome’s reminded Jack of one of those medieval castles he’d read about as a kid. After three hundred years, those wooden gates were still strong enough to keep out weak-minded men with bad intentions. That morning, they kept Jack Murphy out of Sunday Mass while he finished his smoke. Not that Jack minded. Sure, he’d pop into mass from time to time, but he was no longer the good Catholic boy his mother had hoped he’d be. Detective Jack Murphy had taken far too many punches to trust in God.

Jack crushed out his smoke on the steps, unbuttoned his trench coat, and blew warm air into his cold hands. He rubbed them together as if attempting to scrub the sin off the surface of his skin. Then he entered the church in the same way he entered every room, with a forensic intensity that put people on edge. His eyes bounced back and forth, assessing possible threats and nearby exits. His right hand dangled limply beside the revolver hidden on his hip. It was a full house, so he had to sneak into the back pew.

Father Attaway was going on about miracles and eternal life. He was telling a story from the scripture about love, or forgiveness, or shame, or revenge, Jack wasn’t sure. But he was sure that Father Attaway was a good storyteller. You know one when you see one. The Father had the entire congregation leaning forward in their pews. Each word moved them in a way they couldn’t articulate. Each analogy transported them to a place where their earthly troubles were no more.

The faces of the parishioners looked familiar, but Jack was terrible with names. He thought it was probably this shortcoming that hindered his advancement on the force even after twenty years of detective work. But that wasn’t it. He didn’t realize the political skill required to play the game. He was unversed in the complex language of ass-kissing and, therefore, didn’t network, lobby, or self-promote and griped incessantly to anyone who’d listen every time one of his less-qualified counterparts moved up the ladder.

With his collar unbuttoned and his tie loose, Jack half-listened to Father Attaway’s sermon before getting distracted by a grotesque image of a bloodied Christ, mid-crucifixion, frozen forever in time within the red and orange stained glass like the calcified remains of the melted bodies in Pompeii.

When Jack reset, he surveyed a scene that one would expect to find on a Sunday morning in any church in the city. The men in their double-breasted suits, fedoras on a knee, hair combed and parted precisely. Their wives in Sunday dresses, pastels mostly, with white gloves and new nylons, their pigtailed daughters and cowlicked sons squirming beside them. It was all so ordinary. But Jack wasn’t trained to notice the ordinary. He was trained to spot that which seemed out of place. And there he was, that which was out of place, sitting alone in the otherwise empty first pew. A large man in a white suit and a black football helmet. On the streets, people had started calling them the Helmets. They all wore this same uniform and seemed to carry the foreboding smiles and expressionless stares of non-believers.

Father Attaway wasn’t like them. He was a believer to a fault. He believed in all things. Even if you’d told him that campers saw Bigfoot out by Angler’s Peak, he’d probably say something like, “Sure could be” or “You never know.” He locked eyes with the stranger in the front row and concluded his sermon as if he were addressing the Helmet directly.

“It’s easy to lose faith in what we cannot see and hear and touch,” he said, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with an embroidered hankie gifted to him by Barbara O’Brien. “When the seas of our lives get choppy, it’s easy to wish for calmer waters. But we must remember, God is no Genie. He doesn’t answer wishes. Nor does he reward that which is easy. God rewards those with faith in what they cannot see. And faith, my friends, is the greatest of challenges,” Father Attaway preached, his confident voice echoing off the stone of the chapel ceiling.

Jack fidgeted in the pew. He had wrestled with faith for most of his life. But his line of work required facts and evidence, both of which were in warring opposition to the faith that Father Attaway spoke of. There was a time though, when Jack was little, before his father took up the bottle, when his faith was unwavering. Back then, he’d wander the miraculous landscape of the mysterious world with a carefree abandon, certain that God would keep him safe.

Father Attaway kept at it. “In Isiah, we are told, Ye are my witnesses, saith the LORD, and my servant whom I have chosen: that ye may know and believe me, and understand that I am he: before me was no God formed, neither shall there be after me. I am the LORD, and beside me, there is no savior. Remember these words today as you set out into the world, my children. And when you encounter those who claim to hold the key to calmer waters, remember that only the one true Savior can offer you salvation.”

Father Attaway wrapped up his sermon. Then the choir closed things out with “Let There Be Peace on Earth.” The congregation lingered about for a bit, shaking hands and offering hollow affirmations to their neighbors while secretly considering whether the Athenian Diner was closer to church than the Poseidon on Fourteenth Street.

Jack waited for the crowd to thin before approaching Father Attaway. The old man’s healthy red cheeks shifted into a third-gear smile when he saw Jack lumbering over.

“Nice sermon, Father,” Jack said, holding out his hand.

“You think? I left out a killer line. To have faith is to see the face of God,” he said, shaking Jack’s hand. Attaway looked down and flipped Jack’s palm, inspecting his scabbed knuckles. Then he looked up, pointed at a fresh bruise on Jack’s jaw, and asked, “Still practicing Baptism by fire?”

“More like gunfire.”

“It’s that bad out there?”

“You have no idea.”

Years of police work had taught Jack Murphy two things. First, he learned how to take a punch. Second, he learned the truth about the nature of this life, and it’s a truth that men like Father Attaway could never understand because he’d never seen a decapitated cocktail waitress. He’d never seen an elevator operator impaled by a piece of falling construction rebar. He’d never seen the flap-jacked corpse of a banker who had thrown himself off a sixty-story building. Jack’s seen them all, lying there with that grave look in their open eyes, gazing up toward the heavens for a God that Jack knew didn’t exist. The job taught Jack that all we are is meat and bone.

“Well, it’s always nice seeing you, Jack,” Father Attaway said, removing the crimson stole from around his neck and placing his rosary in his pocket. “Stay safe out there.”

“I’m actually here on business, Father.”

“I see. How can I help?”

“Tell me about him,” Jack said, nodding at the Helmet sitting as still as a stone in the first row. The rest of the congregation had filed out, but the Helmet remained, staring blankly up at the altar like a lobotomized right tackle.

“I’ve never seen that man before in my life.”

“You seen others like him around?”

“Haven’t we all? They’ve been coming in and out of here for months. More of them lately.”

“We’ve gotten complaints. Concerned citizens are creeped out by these guys.”

“I’ll be honest with you,” Father Attaway said. He leaned in and whispered, “They creep me out, too.”

“Mind if I ask him a couple of questions?”

“I wish I could help you, Jack, but the church is no place for...”

“Say no more. Just thought I’d ask. It’s good to see you, Father.”

“Peace be with you.”

As soon as Jack left the church, the grit and filth of the city returned. He could smell it underneath the pungent aroma of dirty water hot dog carts and the acrid stink of the geyserlike steam that spewed from the manhole covers on Sixth Avenue. He watched a young woman parade by. She smiled contently while pushing her baby stroller. She couldn’t smell the stink. She was still swaddled in that veil of new baby bliss that shielded her from the grime of the city.

Jack rubbed his tired eyes, eyes which held more secrets than he could forget, then he lit a smoke and started to huff it back to the station. His car had been in the shop for almost a month now and his mechanic, God bless him, like Dr. Frankenstein, was still attempting to bring Jack’s bucket of bolts back from the dead. For blocks on end, he saw Helmet after Helmet. They were licking the sap off the trunks of the poplar trees in Promenade Park. They were idling by the bus stop and ogling the octogenarians waiting for the uptown A1 while rubbing week-old newspapers between their inky fingers. They were standing stock still in the middle of Sixth Avenue with their eyes closed as if in some kind of meditative trance while yellow cabs heading downtown honked and swerved around them.

By the time Jack got back to the station his fingers and toes were numb. Thankfully, Mary Gillespie, the station receptionist, was waiting for him with a cup of hot Joe as she did every morning. Mary had lipstick on her teeth, and smeared eyeliner. Jack didn’t think Mary needed to bother with any of that hastily applied makeup as he’d been sweet on her for the better part of a decade.

“Morning, Mary. Sure is a cold out there today,” he said.

Mary brushed her long crimson hair behind her ears and handed him the cup. The action lifted the sleeve of her blouse enough for Jack to discover a fresh bruise on her forearm.

“Need to bundle up my little guy,” she said, rubbing her baby bump. In the ten years Jack had known her, there didn’t seem to be two consecutive months where that woman wasn’t pregnant.

He held the door open for her, and they walked together toward the station bullpen like they were on a date strolling through Promenade Park.

“You’re a good man, Jack Murphy. That’s what I keep tellin’ ’em.”

“Telling who?”

“You know, the other fellas.” Then she whispered, “They call you a loose cannon.”

“The other fellas?”

“Sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean…”

“It’s alright, Mary. Say hello to Bill for me, would ya?”

Jack hated Bill. He’d see him all over town at the places you wouldn’t want to see your fella. Places like the parlor lounge at the Kitty-Kat Club or the Off-Track Sportsbook down on Third. One morning, a couple of years back, Mary greeted Jack at the station door with a black eye and a fat lip. She said she’d fallen down the stairs trying on a new pair of heels. Well that afternoon, Jack caught up with Bill at a back-alley dice game outside of Grinders Gentleman’s Cabaret and beat the son of bitch unconscious.

When Jack stepped into the bullpen, he wasn’t greeted with a smile and a hot cup of coffee. He was met by Captain Ramirez shouting out from his office, “Murph! My office! You’re late!”

Having been conditioned to their captain’s gruff demeanor, the other officers barely noticed the screams. They kept talking on the phone, filling out reports, and bullshitting with one another about last night’s ball game. Jack didn’t have time for such idle chit-chat. He did as he was told.

“Your office is a mess, Captain,” Jack said, moving a box of files off a folding chair in the corner.

“Where you have been, Murph?” the Captain asked, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down and loosening his tie.
 “You asked me to look into the Helmets. I went to St. Jerome’s to check in with Father Attaway. See if he knows anything about these clowns.”

“Well, here’s what I know about these clowns, Lieutenant,” Captain Ramirez said, rifling through some papers. He opened up a manilla folder and sat atop his cluttered desk. “They’re following this French neurologist named Espoir. He came to the States about seven years back on a work visa to study the brain activity of dead livestock. Did Attaway give you anything?” he asked while lodging a wad of chewing tobacco into his cavernous cheeks.

“Not much. He said they come into the church now and then but don’t say anything. They sit there staring at the altar and freaking people out.”

“That tracks with the reports we’ve been getting.”

“Cap, when I was walking back to the station I saw at least twenty of them.”

“Helmets? You need to watch your back with that lot, Murph. I’m not kidding. These kooks all fit the same profile. Angry young men with violent priors. These are the type of guys who walk out the door each morning looking for a fight.”

Jack knew that type of guy because Jack was that type of guy.

“Listen, I want you to drive out to…” Captain Ramirez began.

“My car’s in the shop.”

“Then take a black and white for Christ’s sake. I want you to drive over to their church.”

“Their church? You mean that dump over by the Milford Industrial Park off Route Ten?” Jack asked. “I’ll go, you know I will, but what the fuck are we doing here? They’re not actually breaking the law.”

“They’re disturbing the peace.”

“Come on, Cap.”

“Disorderly conduct?”

“Their conduct is overly orderly.”

“It’s a fucking cult!” Captain Ramirez screamed. “Now you tell me one time when a story with a cult has a happy ending.”

“I don’t know, Cap. There’s a pretty thin line between a cult and a church.”

“Go and talk to this guy, would you? This,” the captain looked down at the file, “Father Espoir.”

“Talk to him about what?” Jack asked, taking out a silver cigarette case from his coat pocket. The case was perhaps Jack’s most prized possession as it bore the monogram of his great-great-grandfather who made his way to the new world during the famine of 1874. He opened it up and pulled out a smoke.

The captain tossed him a light and said, “Murph, we’ve known each other a long time. You’re a good cop. Sure, you skirt around the rules from time to time, but sometimes that’s what you gotta do to keep people in this city safe. I respect that. I do. Just make sure that when you’re done over there, Monsieur Frenchie gets the picture. Any means necessary, Jack.”

On the way out of the station, Mary stopped Jack at the door to straighten out the collar of his coat.

“Thanks, Mary,” he said. “Hey, how about a coffee and a jelly donut after your shift? We could walk over to that little kiosk in Promenade Park. My treat.”

“I wish I could, Hun. Sunday dinner with the in-laws,” she said, sticking out her tongue and rolling her eyes, hamming it up like she was in an old Vaudeville act.

She took a bulky bite out of a blueberry Danish, rubbed her belly, and reached into the pocket of her floral maternity dress for a pack of Camels.

“Need a light?” Jack asked, handing over his lighter.

“Aren’t you a dear,” she said, leaning in and eying him through the glimmer of the lit flame. She took a heavy whiff of Jack’s cologne and said, “Be careful out there. I mean it.”

“I will, Mary.”

***

The Church of Good Hope wasn’t so much a church as a nondescript office building that sat in a shady industrial park on the outskirts of town. When Jack opened the plywood door of the church, the damn thing nearly fell off the hinges. He eased into a musty foyer that looked like the waiting room of a dodgy dentist’s office. It was a small room with walls covered in mildew spots and rust stains. A dozen or more poorly framed photographs and artistic renderings of Father Espoir hung on those grimy walls. One rendering of the man was so abstract that, at first glance, Jack thought someone had placed a sidewalk turd behind a glass frame. Next to it was a pastel portrait of Jesus Christ. But it didn’t look like the Jesus Jack had grown up with. There were no stakes through his hands or feet. There was no crown of thorns or spears digging into his exposed ribs. There was no blood or guts of any kind. This Jesus was clean-shaven, with upturned lips locked in an almost smile. And the face of this Jesus was safely stowed behind a black football helmet with a standard two-bar facemask.

Jack could smell a sudden wafting fragrance of lilac and lavender. He breathed in and let that lovely aroma inhabit him for a bit. Then he got lost in the piercing blue eyes of the fresh-faced Jesus Christ. Jesus looked at him and silently asked him where it all went wrong. But Jack didn’t know. He couldn’t even remember when the storm rolled in, it had been there for so long. But somewhere along the way, he had become trapped in this slavery of selfhood. Sure, every now and then, he would help an old lady find her cat, or he’d put on his uniform and speak to a kindergarten class, or Mary’s hand would accidentally brush his when she handed him a coffee, and it felt like those dark clouds might part. But they never did.

A commotion arose from the neighboring room. Jack eased forward, retracted a pocket door, and peeked an eye into the chapel. He could see two seated columns of at least twenty Helmets each. The small army of worshipers were on cheap folding chairs, rocking back and forth in unison like the choppy waters of a restless sea. They were mumbling nonsense, chanting in a language Jack couldn’t understand. Then Father Espoir, outfitted in a white lab coat and a red helmet, appeared on the altar.

“Good day,” he said, raising his arms in the air.

“Good day,” the Helmets replied.

“To our newer members. I’m quite glad to see you here amongst our flock. And don’t fret. I know why you’re here even if you do not. I know why you’re scared. You’re scared because all your life, they’ve told you to be scared. Be scared of poor marks on your math test they said. Be scared you won’t get into college. Be scared of unemployment. Be scared of war. Be scared of cancer. Be scared of sin. Be scared of Hell. But there’s no need to be scared, my children. There’s no need to fear any of it, for the world of the everlasting is already upon you. So step out into that world and touch it with your fingertips. Taste it with your tongue. Breathe it into your lungs and let it inhabit every cell of your body. But do not be scared of it,” Father Espoir said.

Each word moved the congregants in a way they couldn’t articulate. Each analogy transported them to a place where their earthly troubles were no more. Then Espoir twisted his body around and pointed up at a stone carving of a euphoric Jesus hanging onto the side of the cross like a child about to swing from the monkey bars. He said, “For ninety seconds, we pray,” and then the entire congregation stood as one. They locked arms with one another and began their prayer.

There is no life, only Heaven.
There is no death, only Heaven.
There is only Heaven.
Circle, Circle.
Round and Round.
Amen.

As Jack leaned forward to get a closer listen, the pocket doors slid open. Hearing the noise from behind them, the entire assembly turned. He took a single step into the crowded chapel, but as soon as his foot crossed that threshold, the Helmets scattered into the shadows like the roaches in Jack’s apartment. Father Espoir didn’t scatter though. He fastened the chin strap on his red helmet and stood his ground at the makeshift altar.

“Detective Murphy, I presume,” he said, walking down from his pulpit with measured steps, almost as if he’d choreographed the moment.

“You knew I was coming?”

“I know lots of things, detective,” Father Espoir admitted while collecting loose prayer books and straightening the rows of folding chairs. He had a greasy black perm that flopped out the back of his red helmet. His face was skeletal. His sunken cheeks made him look like he’d been deflated. Unlike the rest of those in his parish, Espoir had no facemask on his helmet.

“Listen,” Jack began.

“You caught some of my sermon? What did you think, detective?” Espoir halted his labors and looked up at Jack with a grin.

“I don’t have time for this shit. I’m here to warn you. Your first and last. Your freaks better stop intimidating the good people of my city,” he said, approaching the altar.

“Freaks?”

Father Espoir put down the prayer books and took a step toward Jack. As he did, the Helmets who had scattered, crept back into the room with hushed voices, silently lining the walls like a horde of possessed librarians. Jack took note and kept his head on a swivel.

“Your cult,” Jack explained, pulling out his silver cigarette case.

“My cult, huh? Well, detective, you certainly are a Jack of all trades.”

“Good one.”

“A gumshoe and a theologist. We’re no cult, despite what you might have heard on the news. We’re a legitimate religion.”

“Metro police doesn’t see it that way.”

“They will one day. Won’t they children?” He turned to his followers. The men, and they were all men, didn’t verbally respond. Instead, they gently tapped one another’s helmets. “It’s okay. The detective doesn’t even know why he’s here. He’s only come because he’s been told to. Just as in your past lives. You went to school and church because you were told to. Rest easy. Detective Murphy is no threat to us because he’s no different than us. He’s a scared little boy. And like you, he’s looking for something more. Like you, he longs for answers to those questions that have no answers.” Father Espoir extended his arms toward the walls as if preparing for his own crucifixion.

“I promise you, there’s nothing to fear,” Espoir continued, taking another step toward Jack. His followers along the wall followed suit, stepping toward the altar. “I’ve seen Heaven.”

“Have you now?” Jack asked. He sensed a rising threat as the Helmets crept closer. He quietly unfastened the snap of his holster along his beltline under his coat.

“I have. And so have they,” Espoir said, flourishing his hands like a spiritual used car salesman trying to sell a sucker on a good-looking lemon. “I’m going to tell you…”

“No need. You have three days. In three days, this place better be empty, and you all better be out of here. For good.”

“We pay our rent on time. We’re good neighbors. We clean the facility grounds daily. What exactly would be the charge for our eviction?”

“Disturbing the peace. Disorderly conduct.”

Father Espoir laughed, put his hands in his pockets, and took another step forward. The Helmets followed suit taking another step forward. Jack flipped his coat open and unholstered his hand cannon.

“Easy detective. I mean you no harm.” Espoir removed a rosary with a football helmet on it. “You have no idea how close you are to Heaven, my son.”

“That’s the last time you call me son, Padre. Try it again, and I’ll blow that helmet clean off your skull.”

“In my studies, all those years ago, I learned that the ninety seconds after death, after the heart stops, is the most active ninety seconds our brain will ever experience. In that miraculous minute and a half, the body releases a hormone that slows down the conscious mind. Have you ever heard someone say that they saw their lives flash before their eyes right before the end?” he asked. “Of course, you have. It’s a common aphorism. It’s common because it’s true. Once you expire, your brain shifts into power-down mode. In those ninety seconds, every memory you’ve ever had will be replayed exactly as it happened before, and that ninety seconds will feel like another full life.”

Father Espoir took another small step toward Jack. His followers followed.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“Here’s the kicker, detective. When you reach the end of that second life, after the ninety seconds have expired, the brain gets fooled. You see, the brain thinks that you’re dying again, even though you already technically have, so it feels as if the process starts all over again. Again and again and again and again forever, you will relive this life in your mind. That final ninety seconds like an eternity. Who knows, detective, this conversation might all be happening long after you’ve already died.”

“And that’s Heaven?”

“Is it any different than your Heaven? You’ll see your dead mother again. You’ll get to feel the powerful explosion of hope that only a child can know. You’ll relive all those sunny days of youthful bliss before the blight of your father’s brutality.”

Jack stepped back. How could Espoir possibly know about his father?

“But be warned, Jack. It can also be our Hell. Heaven or Hell all depends on the nature of the life lived. Say, for example, you’re a detective with a reputation for violent policing. Let us, hypothetically, of course, say you’ve lived most of your life tortured by the sins of inflicting harm on innocent men. Well, then you’re setting yourself up for an eternity of despair. That is unless you join us. That is unless you change your wicked ways.”

“I don’t believe it. How can you believe this nonsense?” Jack shouted out to the mob of Helmets that had now surrounded him and Espoir. They were close enough that he could reach out and touch them. He slapped one atop the helmet and yelled, “Hey you! Buddy? You in there? What’s with the helmets?”

The Father took another step toward Jack while his Helmets stood their ground.

“We aren’t just meat and bone, Jack. The brain is a complex neural metropolis. If you study it, really study it, the billions of neural connections in each one of us rival entire galaxies of stars. These helmets protect our most valuable asset. For if we should die due to some unforsaken blunt force trauma to the head, our afterlife, those thousands of lives relived, would be taken from us. Life goes on. And if you’re careful with your brain, it will go on and on and on and on and on forever.”

“Football helmets, really?”

“That’s right,” Espoir said. Then he pointed to Jack’s face, “Nice bruise. Taken many blows to the head?”

Jack flashed back to all the punches he’d taken and given over the years. The playground punches brokered out by backyard bullies. The punches landed by perps who turned to fight after tiring of dodging junkies while running down cluttered alleys. And the most potent punches of them all. Those delivered by his father, who broke more than skin with each wallop.

“I think now, Jack, you’re starting to see it,” Espoir said.

“The helmet can protect me.”

“It’s not too late,” Espoir said, reaching over and placing his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

Jack reholstered his weapon, took a deep breath, and asked, “Can I see it, Father? Can I see your helmet?”

When Father Espoir removed his helmet, his disciples, who had surrounded them, lunged forward until eased by their pastor’s open palm. “It’s OK, do not fear this man.” Then Espoir delicately passed the red helmet over to Jack. When he took hold of it, he nearly dropped the thing. The helmet had heft. Jack guessed it must have been shaped from some kind of smelted-down steel.

“It’s heavy,” he said while carefully holding it in his rough palms as if he were handling a Faberge Egg. There wasn’t much to it, really. No buttons or bells or hidden weapons. It was just a football helmet, like the one Jack had worn when he played linebacker for the St. Jerome High Knights, all those years ago. For some reason, though, he couldn’t help but look at the thing with a new sense of reverence. Maybe a football helmet wasn’t just a football helmet anymore. Jack looked up into Father Espoir’s emerald green eyes and Father Espoir looked back into Jack’s.

“Heavier is the head that wears the crown, Detective,” Espoir said. “You must understand that my children would be lost without me.”

Jack nodded. The Father could see the wheels spinning in Jack’s stormy gray eyes. He knew the questions that had rooted themselves in the garden of Jack’s mind. What if I’ve been wrong all along? What if this man is right? What if each life goes on forever and ever in a Heaven of our design? What if every moment, even the most benign, would be replayed after death over and over again for all time?

Jack nodded at Father Espoir, and Father Espoir nodded back. In that moment of mutual understanding and fraternity, the Father thought he could see a tidal wave of love and peace washing over the grizzled old detective. He thought he could see that Jack was so overcome with emotion that his knees were going weak. He thought he could almost make out the beginnings of a fresh tear forming in the corner of Jack’s eyes.

He wasn’t wrong. For the first time in years, Jack felt a renewed faith that had been absent for so long. He suddenly felt closer to the kind of spiritual calm that accompanies the understanding of who one truly is. He suddenly felt closer to God. And it was in the depth of that closeness that Jack took the steel helmet in his strong right hand and smashed it over Father Espoir’s head. The first blow knocked him to the ground. The second and third caused his head to explode, and by the time Jack dropped the bloody helmet, there were tiny pieces of pink brain scattered all over the cheap chapel carpet.

The Helmets rushed in toward Jack and he quickly drew his revolver. But it was pretty clear the Helmets posed no threat. They flopped to the floor, circling their fallen messiah, the lot of them attempting to put his pulpy brains back into his head. It was in that melee of ensuing confusion that Jack holstered his weapon, slipped out the back of the church, and headed over to the coffee kiosk in Promenade Park for a cup of coffee and a donut.

~ ~ ~

Jeremy Stelzner’s stories have appeared in Coolest American Stories 2024, Across the Margin, Half and One, Jewish Literary Journal, Stories that Need to be Told 2023, and the After Happy Hour Journal of Literature and Art. He is a graduate of the Creative Writing program at the Harvard Extension School and teaches literature and journalism in Maryland. You can reach him by email at jeremystelzner71@gmail.com