The Beast

"You have been dreaming again." It wasn't a question. Claire nodded miserably. Her psychiatrist gave her his professionally sympathetic smile. "Can you describe it to me?"
"It was the same again. I saw myself, but it didn't look like me."
"And what did it look like?"
"Distorted. Hideous. Evil. It's hard to describe, but I was a monster."
"No, you weren't. Remember, Claire, the person in your dreams is not you. It may be like you, but you are not that, so that is not you."
"But it is me. I know myself--even as each dream shows a darker version, I know they are me. It's like I am seeing my true self for the first time."
"You need to stop looking at yourself that way. Look around--you are a sweet, kind, friendly young woman. Ask anyone--everyone who knows you loves you."
"They love me because they don't know me. They don't know the real Claire--the Claire I have met in my dreams."

Back and forth, they went. Claire insisted, Dr. Seger denied.So the session went, only this time, she would not be convinced.
"I have to leave. We've been here for hours." She did not wait for him to protest, but snatched up her purse and coat. The door snapped shut behind her with a deafening force. Looking out the window, he saw her jump into her little car and rip out of the parking space with a violence. There was only one thing to be done.
He had the number on speed dial.
"We're losing Claire. She may never come back." He cringed as he waited for the burst of anger from the other end. He knew he deserved it. He had been careless--again. But it did not come.
"Does he have her?" The icy voice on the line demanded.
"No--not yet, at least. But it's only a matter of time. We've seen this before."
"We can still stop her. We stopped Evan, and he was further gone than her."
"Evan is dead. What's the use in that?"
"He does not have Evan. It is the only way. Claire must be eliminated."
"Yes, my lord."

The door was locked. Claire cursed her luck as she fished around in her purse for the keys she knew she did not have. Perhaps one day, Jesse would remember that two lived in this house. The lights were off and his truck was gone. All her phone calls went straight to voice mail. Another night in her car. She rapidly texted Jesse her explicit opinion of him. Just as she hit 'send', the image surged back into her mind. Claire the Monster. She staggered back against the porch railing. The monster from her dreams--it was leaking through into the real world. The text suddenly was a dark, hideous thing--already sent, an irreversible evil.
I have to call Dr. Seger! Her thumb hovered a moment over the phone. What help has he ever provided? He'll just say it was a dream. She returned to her car and rested her head against wheel. Who else was there to turn to? Jesse would think she was nuts. Her parents--she laughed out loud at the thought. They would never understand--as usual.
No one. Alone in the world. Claire wished that Dr. Seger was right. If only this was just a mixture of childhood trauma and deep-seated fears. If only it could be fixed by a little self-esteem boost. Night slowly gathered around her blue Sunfire as she tried in vain to answer the many questions tormenting her. Finally, she sank back into the seat and let the warmth of summer night, mixed with the stress of the day draw her to sleep.

She was choking on blood. Hideous gasps and snarls filled the air as she thrashed about, tearing the turf and corpses strewn about her. She had killed them all--Jesse, her parents, Dr. Seger, her neighbors--everyone. Now, not her blood, but theirs was stifling her life. She struggle to rise from the mound of bodies, but her claws were tangled in the gore, binding her to her victims.
"Claire." She twisted her neck, trying to find the source of the voice. An unfamiliar face looked down on her. The stranger approached slowly and deftly set to loosing her from the gristly bonds. Finally, she tore free, and sprang to feet, spitting out the mass of blood. But seeing herself free, she turned on the stranger with a mad fury and--

Claire awoke with a scream. She clutched her throat, still gagging from the dream. She felt her nails catch in the fabric of her seat. She held the hand up against the dim glow of the street light. The gnarled, hairy fingers, the four-inch claws--in terror, she turned to the mirror. The fangs glowed faintly with their own light. Her eyes were swallowed up in massive holes of blackness. She had become the beast of her nightmares. No! It's impossible--I'm still dreaming. The grotesque hands trembled as she lied to reassure herself. But it was real. She could feel her hair rising in sharp bristles along her neck and her leathery skin scraped against her sleeves. Everything in her wanted to scream, but she did not dare to think what monstrous roars would come if she opened her mouth.
She fumbled with the ignition until the engine came to life. Now Dr. Seger would have to believe her.
The sun was rising as she pulled up in fron of his office. A few teens loitering in front glanced up before she could hide her face. Strangely, they didn't react but just returned to their business. She checked the mirror again. Was she the only one who could see it? Perhaps it was just the window tint hiding her from them. She pulled her hood up and hid her claws in her pockets and quickly stepped out of her car. She ran to the door, keeping her head low. Then she saw him.
A dark-haired man, waiting patiently for the light to turn at the crosswalk. The stranger from her dream. Forget Dr. Seger--if anyone could help her, it was that man. She turned back to her car, opened the door and--
Crrash!!!
The door was ripped from her hands as the car flew forward and up on on the sidewalk. Pedestrians scattered as a massive tanker truck followed the car. Claire jumped back just in time. The side of the tanker tore against her, spinning her around and sending her backwards onto the sidewalk.
She had no time to register what had just happened before a strong hand seized her claw and hauled her to her feet. She found herself face to face with the stranger from her dreams. She could see herself reflected in his eyes. He could see the beast.
"Claire!" She started at Dr. Seger's voice. He was standing in the doorway of the office building, eyes wide with horror at the scene that had just played out on the street. He was beside her in an instant. "I saw it all. Are you hurt? Come in--can you walk?" He took her arm. "Lean on me--it's--"
"I'll take her." The stranger said firmly. Dr. Seger looked at him in disbelief for a moment, then turned to Claire.
"Come, Claire. You know me. This man could be almost anyone. I will take you to the hospital." He doesn't see it. Claire realized.
"N-No. I'll go with him. He's a friend." She silently hoped that that was true.
Dr. Seger's grip on her arm tightened.  "It would be much safer if--"
"Release her, Seger." The stranger's voice was calm but firm. "You and your lord have lost this one. My Master calls for her." For a moment,  the doctor looked like her would throw himself at the man's throat, but instead he let go of Claire's arm and fell back a step. The man let Claire lean on him as they began to make their way down the chaotic street. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Dr. Seger stare at her for a moment, then bolt back into the office building.
"Watch your step." Claire stumbled over the sudden dip in the pavement.
"Where are you taking me?"
"To a friend. You do not know him, but he has been watching you for a long time. Now that you see what he has known all along, He is able to help you."

The street gave way to a small city park. They turned off and and followed a walking path to an ancient stone building, worn with ages of neglect. The door stood wide open, but the park was empty. Claire hesitated on the threshold.
"How will he help me? Can he make me like I was before the dreams?"
"No. You cannot go back, Claire. You have always been as you are now, but you never before saw it. For you to be free, the beast must die."
"But that will kill me! The beast is  me."
"It is. But it does not have to be. Come. My Master will show you how."
Claire hesitated only a moment. She could not live like this. Even if it killed her, it could not make things any worse.
The light inside startled her--it had looked so dark from without. She searched the hall. "Where is your master?"
The man turned to Claire. "Do you not know?" She shook her head, and he beckoned to a door on the side. Claire could smell the blood before she saw it. It spattered the walls and streaked the floor of a room riddled with carnage. Even the stone walls were chipped and cracked, while all that was left of furniture was splinters. Her guide held the door. "This is where your kind attacked him."
My kind... "You mean the beast?"
"I mean your kind. My Master came to destroy the beasts."
"But they killed him?"
"He did what he came to do. He opened the portal." He pointed to yet another door--a door she could have sworn was not there ten seconds earlier. The door was pure red, as though made of blood. Claire took half a step forward and the door flew open of its own accord, revealing nothing but blackness.
She hesitated.
"Go in, Claire. If you would be free, go and do not stop!"
The darkness gave way to blinding light as she stepped through. She took a few steps, blinking, trying to make out her surroundings. Then she caught a glimpse of her hand. It was a hand. The claws were gone, then skin was smoothed. How could it be that easy? She looked up again. She was in a field, the source of light somewhere beyond her, on level with the land. But who cared? She was free--
A snarl behind her made her start. Turning, she saw it--the fangs, the bloody claws, the hollow, black eyes--the beast. Go and do not stop. Go where? The light blazed brighter than before and she turned to run to it. She had never run so fast in her life. Heart pounding, lungs aching, she did not dare to stop. The beast was only a few paces behind her, running on all fours like a grotesque, malformed wolf. She could feel the heat of the light as she drew closer. She could not look at it, so she ran with her eyes closed until she collapsed.
She lay still, waiting for the beast to kill her. There was no escape. The stranger had lied to her. But the attack never came. She turned to see a brilliant figure--he had to be the source of the light--standing between her and the beast. The beast snarled and gnashed it's fangs, but it hung back. The shining figure drew a sword and struck the beast in the head. Claire fell back with a shock of pain, but it faded as quickly as it came. The beast turned and fled, leaving a trail of blood.
"Claire."
Claire did not dare to look this man in the eye. "Are you the Master who opened the portal?" She asked the ground at his feet.
"I am. And I am he who called you here. I sent my messenger to bring you and you have come."
"Is the beast dead? Or will it return?"
"It is dying. I have dealt it a mortal blow. But it is not far away."
"I cannot fight it. If it comes back, it could kill me."
"Stay close to me and it will not." He reached out his glowing hand and she took it. The light shone through her flesh like glass. The two walked together through the grass. So this was what freedom felt like. Claire smiled. She was safe at last.

"You are telling me you let him take her?!"
"I had no choice--I tried--" Dr. Seger protested
"Tried! You failed, Seger--Failed again! Incompetent fool! You were supposed to kill her. Now she's lost to us forever!"
"My lord, he called for her. What did you expect me to do? I cannot stop him. He--" The line went dead.

The Slaves

Backs bending beneath the crushing load. Sweat. Groans. On and on they toil, weary beyond rest and beyond hope. The master's whip cracks. The pace accelerates. More, more, MORE! The feverish chant fills the air.
Slaves. By the thousands, by the millions, they throng the barren waste. The rattling grate of chains on stone echoes from the desolate heights.
Free them! Come and save the captives! But wait--see here a strange sight. The slave holds the chains--they are not locked. Yet still he toils on in servitude to the cruel master.
"Come--drop your chains and you are free! Rise up and breathe in liberty!" The cry rings out across the lands. But none will rise and none will look. On they toil, as their master laughs in evil pleasure. They are his as sure as if he paid for them. For he knows why they will not flee:
These chains are but a shadow of the chains within. Each one has willingly bound his heart to serve him. They are sold out--committed and secure, for him to use as he shall please. Each one believes the same lie. As they drag their great burdens, they think they do it for themselves. They see their labor as liberty, and the offer of freedom seems a trick to draw them under bondage. What can break these deathly chains? How can one escape who refuses to be free?
They love their work, though it is killing them. They cling to their chains for safety and comfort.

The Pits. That is what we call those lands. We, who live in peace in the free lands. But we have always been free, for we had no part in the rebellion. We have never touched those chains they so willingly bear. Our king is not of their kind, nor yet of ours. But he is raising his troops to free them. He sends his spies to live among them, to offer them freedom, but they reject them. They turn on them and kill them when they find them. So, at last he descends with his troops and takes the captives captive. In a great, bloody war, he overthrows their master and takes them from the Pits by force.
They fight back and resist the rescue. Their grasp on the chains must be broken and their burdens torn from their backs.
Only then, at last, as they are herded out into the light, do they see the lies they believed. Blinking in the sun, stretching backs long bent, they realize that they are free. Then they turn at last to the king, trembling, bloody hands outstretched. They have slain his servants. They have rebelled against him. The guilt of their rebellion is spread out before them in all its darkness.
The king turns to them. Then they see the truth. The wounds they thought they dealt his servants mark his face and body. The blood on their hands is his, for it was he who came among them in disguise.
They fall down at his feet, the fear too great to think of mercy.
"You are free. Arise, for I have slain your master." The king takes their hands and raises them to their feet. But they cannot stand, but kneel again to swear their service to this king. For, in freedom, without him, they know they would but take up their chains again and find new masters, crueller than before.
The king accepts their fealty and they rise, free to serve their liberator.

"Do you not know that to whom you present yourselves slaves to obey, you are that one's slaves whom you obey, whether of sin leading to death, or of obedience, leading to righteousness."

Romans 6:16

The Experiment

"I will destroy you, Martin Fanter, if it is the last thing I do." Kay whispered over their handshake. She meant it. The crowd was with her--scientists, sponsors, and religious leaders--all of them had been there that the day the experiment was proposed. They all wanted nothing more than to see their time and money bring results, and this man was the only thing in the way.
The betrayal still smarted. He had been by her side every step of the way--he had donated funds and promised more, he had helped find the children--he had even been a teacher. And now...
"Kayla Everett, you may begin."
Kay took the mic from the podium and turned to face her opponent.
"Martin, we are not here to waste these people's precious time, so I will cut it short. We are all wanting to ask the same question: Why would you denounce an experiment that could save humanity? Our world is on the brink of collapse--socially, economically, and religiously. We have little hope for this generation, but we can give hope to the next. Transcendence could save them all. These children will grow up free of all social constructs, free thinkers with original ideas and no knowledge of evil--you, as one who reads the Bible, can look on it as taking the tree of the knowledge of good and evil out of the picture. We are raising a new Eden." She lowered her mic and looked expectantly at the grey-haired man across from her.
"I am withdrawing my support because the experiment is going to fail. It has a fundamental flaw: It is based on the assumption that people are naturally good. But we have already seen the early evidence of selfishness and anger in these children, and, unchecked, it will only get worse. Leave them to themselves and these children will kill each other. It's child abuse and unethical to experiment on humans."
"Ah." Kay's sarcastic tone elicited a chuckle from the audience. "So you would site your antiquated worldview as proof of a problem. Have you considered that, maybe, you might be wrong? As for the children, this experiment is completely legal. They are not being experimented on like lab rats, but rather snatched from the streets of third world countries and troubled homes to be raised in paradise. There is nothing they need or want that is denied them. The ethics committee have cleared everything ten times over. And as for their behavior, they are toddlers. They are spirited and curious as any other children. And, as in other children, this will pass with time. Little Lord Fauntleroy doesn't exist."
"But what is I am right, Kayla? What if the evil of society comes from within individuals rather than a collective ideology? We began this experiment to create perfection. What if the end result is a monster?"
"Have you been reading Frankenstein again? I warned you that it would give you nightmares." Kay relished the burst of laughter from the crowd. "At worst, we may end up with influences breaking through and rendering this experiment ineffective. Martin Fanter, you called us here. If you have nothing better to say, we have full right to ask you to pay us for wasted time."
"I do have more to say--and I am paying for this event." Martin turned to the audience. "You all need to know what changed my mind on all this. Last summer, my daughter, after all these years, finally contacted me again. The mess she made of her life was what first got me involved in this experiment. She told me she had found a cure for society that she swore would work. I was skeptical, but I am no longer.
"Jesus Christ is the only answer." A scoffing murmur ran through the crowd. "Please hear me out--I know it sounds cliche, but He turned my drug addict daughter around completely. Then He changed me. Two thousand years ago, the God who created heaven and earth sent Jesus Christ, God in human--" The murmur rose to a roar as people stood to their feet. "Friends--colleagues--listen for a moment. Jesus said that murders and hate and lies come from within the heart, not social pressures--that we are born with a nature bent on evil. That is why the experiment will fail. All good comes only from God--and this God sent His Son," Martin was speaking faster and faster as people began to walk out. "Christ Jesus was the only man who ever lived without that sinful nature, but He died our death for us so that all who turn to Him can be freed from that sin nature and given a new nature. This is our world's only hope. Please, I am begging you to listen."
Kay smiled patronizingly. "If that is the best you can do, Fanter, you are no great loss to our experiment." She paused for a second, then raised her mic again. "The experiment goes on. Goodbye, Martin." She dropped her mic to the ground with a boom, then left the stage and followed the scattering crowd out of the hall. She hadn't even needed to say anything. Martin had ruined his credibility on his own.

Eleven years later, 1,000 miles from Hawaii, on Transcendence Island, formerly known as Palmyra Atoll, a young teen strolled the beach. His name was Tyson Vrede. And this was his kingdom. He smiled at the setting sun. The day had been well spent. The tide gently rose and fell, distant shapes still visible, floating away to be lost forever. They had taught him well. He knew he was accountable to none but himself. This was freedom. This was his purpose. They had the ship. They had the world before them. Tomorrow, they would see if any could stand against them. The professors couldn't. Ms. Everett lay  on the sand, where she had finally fled. She had almost reached the ship. It was a close call. They could have been left stranded. Tyson knelt down and picked up a handful of blood-caked sand. He liked the smell. He turned to the pristine complex they had been imprisoned in. The other teens stood on the walls, splattered with red from the night's play. It was time to change the world. They had tasted what they were capable of. And now they wanted more.

Biblical Fiction Inspired by The Nail Man by Steve Turner

My work. How can I describe it? I suppose I'd have to start at the beginning for you to understand. I was born in Lebanon--yes, Lebanon of the great forests--but I am a Roman citizen. My father worked all his life to buy that citizenship, and I  inherited just like I did his trade. I was a carpenter--skilled with wood and nails. I suppose that's why they chose me. I took pride in my citizenship. I left my home and my work to enlist in the army, to taste the power of a Roman soldier, to see the world, to learn the sword. And I did. I served four years before we came here. All they asked for was a man who could drive nails. I volunteered. The first time, I hated it. I had killed with the sword and spear, but this was different. I was a soldier, not a torturer. But they had me do more and more until I no longer cared. It was my job. My ears grew deaf to the screams. I no longer looked at the faces. They were criminals, not men. They deserved it.
I suppose you are disgusted. You think I must be a beast to drive a nail through human flesh without shuddering. But I was no different from any other man. I laughed and drank with my friends. I even had a Samaritan mistress, Hadassa. I had simply learned to disconnect from myself--to let my hands do what they are trained to do without involving my mind or emotions. Years passed and it became routine.
Life went on. Hadassa left me because of the teachings of some man from Nazareth who was supposed to their Messiah. You've probably heard that term before. The first time I heard it, I thought it meant trouble and reported it, but now I know it's common. Messiahs come and go. Maybe someday a real one would come, but none of us Romans believed it, and the Jews were far too eager to believe it every time an agitator arose. I didn't really miss Hadassa. There's no shortage of beautiful women in my current post, Jerusalem.
The army was exciting. Being an executioner was simply monotony. Until they killed Him. Until I killed Him.
It seemed an ordinary Passover. I'd learned the names of their holy days and what to expect. Passover meant unrest. It celebrated being freed from past oppressors. Hardly a celebration Rome approved of, but if it were outlawed, every Jew from Cyrene to Macedonia would rebel. So the festival went on. Crowds teemed the street, people from all over Judea and all over the empire swarmed Jerusalem. For what? To eat lamb, unleavened bread, and bitter herbs? Jews did not define "feast" the way we Romans do. But the larger the crowds, the more troublemakers. We had already arrested several, including one of their ring leaders, Barabbas.
I was at the Judgement Hall when they brought Him in. He'd been taken in by the Sanhedrin for violating their religion or some such thing. Perhaps it was because of the Passover that they didn't kill Him themselves. They weren't supposed to take the law into their own hands, but mobs stoning people was such a common sight that the soldiers rarely bothered to intervene. Pilate sent Him to us to flog. If you think me cruel, what would you think of the men who wield the scourge? The first time I saw it, as a new soldier, I was sick. They are masters of their art. They bruise at first, then shred the skin; soon chunks of flesh fly with the whips. They seldom stop before they can see white bone through the gore.
When they stripped Him, I saw this was not His first beating. Bruises and swelling were already visible on his back and chest, and He showed no sign of fight. I am not proud to say I put in a bet that He would not survive the lash. I lost anyways. I knew I had misjudged Him the moment the first blow fell. He made no sound, though his hands clenched with pain. He was strong, and His torturers saw it as a challenge. I could see the triumph on their faces when they finally illicited a cry of pain. But the cries were few, so they were not satisfied when He hung limp, ribs exposed, blood pooling at His feet. They loosed the chains and began a new form of torture--mockery. Shame. It was my cloak they borrowed. I am looking at it now. Why did I let them do that?
He had claimed to be a king, apparently, and they thought it a wonderful joke. They. I need to stop saying that. We. I thought it was a great joke. We spread my cloak on Him like a royal robe and put a long reed in His hand, but we weren't content with that. There had to be pain in it--we Romans are masters of pain. One of us went and found a thorn bush and twisted a crown--a crown of four-inch thorns--and forced it on to His head. He had fully regained consciousness, so we made Him stand and bowed down, saying "Hail, King of the Jews!" Then we took the reed and sent Him sprawling with a few blows to the head. I make no excuses for what we did there. It was cruel. Merciless.
They took Him away again. When I was summoned, by name, I knew what it was for. He'd been condemned, so I had a job to do. I still didn't know the exact charges, but I figured that title, "King of the Jews" had something to do with it. They gave me back my cloak, but I did not put it on as it was wet with blood. I was near the back of the procession, so I didn't see everything. I saw them lay the cross beams on the prisoners' shoulders. There were  two others besides Him, but He was in a far worse condition than them. He did not make it far carrying the cross before He fell forward, landing hard on his battered chest and face. We hauled Him to his feet, only to see Him fall to one side as the beam over balanced. I went on ahead, so I did not see what happened next, but when the procession arrived at The Place of the Skull, our  standard execution site, another man was carrying the cross as the Man stumbled along behind him. Then began my part.
I barely remember the other two--I recall they were thieves or some such ordinary offenders, and I daresay they put up a fight like most do, but He was different. They already had Him laid out on the cross when I came there. He didn't fight. We held His arms as we always did, but we didn't need to. His muscles spasmed as I drove the nails, but He never pulled away. He was fighting his reflexes, letting us crucify Him. We didn't even hold His legs. As I drove the nail through His feet, I did what I had sworn to never do: I looked at Him. Our eyes met. My hammer stopped in midair. His eyes, so full of pain and tears, held no anger, no blame. I saw a sort of pity--deep grief and, what else can I call it--Love. But then the moment passed. I shook myself and swung again, driving the nail its full depth. Then the cross was erect and I was nailing the next man. I was wiping my hands, putting away my tools, when that "King"  spoke. People don't say much when hanging from a cross, so when they speak, you listen.
The words cut right through me. They turned my world upside down. I am an old and hardened soldier, but I cannot hold back tears to think of it. "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." He said it from the cross. He dragged Himself up on the nails I had driven but moments before, scraping the flesh we had shredded with the scourge against the cross that we had made Him carry, and spent His hard-won breath to cry those words. Forgiveness. What could motivate a man to forgive us from such a place?
Usually, I leave after I've done my job, but this time, I couldn't. I had to watch. I had to understand what kind of man this was--this Jesus of Nazareth. The crowds who had condemned Him had plenty to say. They mocked Him cruelly, but much of what they said raised questions in my mind. "He saved others, Himself He cannot save!" How had He saved others? What did He save them from? They said He could rebuild the temple in three days, but before I could even try to figure that out what that could mean, the most stunning accusation came. They called Him the Son of God. You probably don't see the significance--if you are Roman or Greek or Egyptian, you are accustomed to gods having children, but it's different in Judea. They hold to one God here, and their God doesn't beget children. To say "Son of God" here mean that He is equal with God--same in nature, same in essence--essentially, that He is their God. Some laughed over that claim, but I trembled. Truly, whatever else He might be, this was a righteous man.
He spoke five more times from that cross. I remember them all. The first did not mean so very much to me--though it showed much of the kind of man He was; He told one of His followers to care for His mother, who was crying at the foot of the cross.
The mocking continued, and the other two on the crosses joined in. It was ridiculous--who mocks someone else when they themselves are dying the same death? Finally, one of them seemed to see how foolish it was and rebuked the other, saying something about them deserving this and Him being innocent. Then the thief asked Him to remember him when He came into His kingdom, and He said "Today, you will be with Me in paradise." It was an audacious claim--not only was He certain of paradise, but the assertion was that paradise was His kingdom.
Then the sky became dark--I had no doubt the sun hid its face for Him. It was like a great cloud came over Jerusalem, but it came on faster and darker than any cloud. Some people panicked and began screaming and running away, but I just stayed there. I couldn't move. It was like there was no one and nothing else there but me and the Man on the center cross. I couldn't take my eyes off Him.
It was three or four hours before He spoke again, and when He did, it was terrible. He cried out in agony--not pain, agony. Torment. I have never heard such a tortured cry, not when I drive the nails, not under the scourge--never. "My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?" It wasn't despair like you would expect--like I said, it was agony, like this forsaken state brought on a torture of its own. He, who had borne the lash and nails with barely a sound, was in a state of torment like I have never seen. It made your blood run cold.
He hung there, gasping for breath, tortured, and exhausted for ten to fifteen minutes, but it felt like an age, watching His tattered muscles spasm and His face contort with pain. Then, barely audible, He whispered, "I thirst." We had wine--cheap wine, soured from long time in the sun, in a jug, so I took a sponge and soaked it in it and put it up, on my spear, to His mouth. I suppose I had some foolish notion that that small mercy might in some way make up for the evil I had done him.. He sucked up a little bit, then leaned His head back against the cross. I lowered the spear, thinking He might be dead, but then He took a deep breath, pulling Himself up with all His flagging strength, back arching, muscles trembling with effort, and cried out, loud and clear, "It is Finished!"
It was almost triumphant--a stunning contrast from His last tortured cry. There was no despair or defeat here. It was relief, like a man return from a long war, finally victorious. Like when a man finally pays off a debt. Then, wearily, but still clearly, He said, "Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit." And His head fell forward, and His body sagged and I knew it was over. No, not over. Finished. There is a difference. Over is loss. Finished is gain.
I don't know how or when I sank to my knees, but I was kneeling when He said that. Then I was on my side as the ground rippled and heaved beneath me. There was thunder and lightning, and the ground was tossing and churning like sea waves. It began the moment He bowed His head. No one can tell me that there was no connection between the earthquake and His death. My commander saw it too, and I heard him say it--a cry of fear and awe amid the crashing and crumbling--"This truly was the Son of God!"

There is little to say of the rest of the day--We made sure they were all dead. One of my fellow soldier stabbed a spear through the King's side and into His heart. Blood and water streamed out, confirming his death. Some wealthier Jews took His body to bury. But here's the crazy part: the Jewish rulers asked Pilate to set a guard on the tomb. To guard a dead man. How afraid were they of Him?
I soon learned they had good reason to fear. He came back. He rose from the dead, I'll swear it on my honor as a Roman. You say it's impossible? After that crucifixion day, I will never again believe in anything being impossible.
Fifty days later, His followers were preaching His resurrection in the streets of Jerusalem. They had nothing to gain by making such a claim, and so much to lose, but they stood by it. They said they had touched the nail-prints. And I am not speaking of a handful of people. There were hundreds making these claims. Some even died for preaching that He had risen, and that He was the Son of God.
I didn't want it to be true. Every day, every hour since His death, I had battled the guilt of it. I had almost convinced myself that He was no one special when word of the resurrection reached me. I had never know fear like this before--fear of the supernatural, fear that He whom I killed might truly have returned. I knew His death had been unjust, and, worse, I knew that if He truly was the Son of God, I had damned myself that day. I left Jerusalem the first chance I had. I returned to Rome, where the name of "Jesus" was not yet known. I suppose I was fleeing--trying to escape my conscience. No amount of pleasure or wine could drown my guilt.
Then these "Christians", as they were called, reached Rome with these teaching of Jesus Christ and His resurrection. Almost overnight, it became the talk of the city. Most laughed at it or regarded it as a threat. I kept my own council. "Father, forgive them"--those words haunted me day and night. I wanted to escape--I wanted to return to my old life, but the cross pursued me like a curse. Finally, I could endure it no longer. I had to seek out the Christians.
They were not hard to find. I had but to go to the cells below the Colusieum, where they were kept for the games. Games! How was it sport to see a man torn apart by a lion? And the calm courage they showed in the face of death reflected so clearly what I had seen on the cross that I could not bear it.
They had one of the Christian leaders in a cell alone. They let me in to see him, no questions asked. He was younger than I expected, not past forty--just like Jesus. I could not look him in the eyes. I told him everything of my part in his Messiah's death, and of my crippling guilt. He took my hand through the bars and told me the whole story, putting together all the parts that confused me, explaining why Jesus had died.
I killed the Creator of life. Can there be a greater crime? But the Creator gave His life in exchange for mine. He died for His murderer. The guilt I had fought, the memory of His words, were all His mercy, drawing me to Himself. There, kneeling with a condemned man, under the bloody sands of the arena, I finally repented and believed in the gospel of Him whom I had slain.
The next day, I saw the man who had taught me the way of life die a bloody death for the amusement of our sophisticated Roman nobles. It grieved me, but I saw the joy of paradise in his face as he waited for the beasts to descend, and I know death was but the door to his Redeemer's presence.
My time is coming. I sit alone in my home. Two hours ago, I made my faith public. I spoke of my Lord before my men and before Caesar himself. I am under house arrest. A Roman citizen cannot die a public death. They are coming. Any moment now, that door will unlatch and they will lead me away quietly. I am not afraid. As my Savior did not fear the cross, how can I fear the sword? The Father has forgiven my sins. Today, I will be with my Lord in paradise.

Giving Futuristic Fiction a Shot....

It doesn't take a genius to see that our society is changing--and changing fast. Things which were unthinkable a mere twenty years ago are widely accepted today. Between the transgender movement, assisted suicide, polyamory, and rigid political correctness, right and wrong, truth and lie, are being blurred and confused. So I have written this:

Madhouse

Six years. Six years of my life wasted. I stare in helpless fury at the screen. How could they do this to me after so long?
I see you are puzzled. Let me explain. My name is Tyler Mcdermott. I am an Undecided and am two months shy of seventeen. I live with my parent. Zee is a cat, officially one since I was four. I know little of my other parent, save that he was a transaphobic speciest and left us because my parent's life choices.
The government provided care to permit my parent to work, so I lived in the Care Facility until I started school. Then I lived at home and spent most of my time at the After School Center. I began gaming a little late, but excelled and soon overtook many of my peers. I entered the world of Alphadomine at ten years old. I chose a female wolf avatar. My supervisors thought it indicated my preference, but I am not ready to make that choice. Alphadomine is more beautiful and complex than you can imagine if you have never played it. I have established and guarded my territory against everything from hurricanes to zombies for years, rebuilding when need be. I had mates, children--a whole pack. I saw my daughter torn to shreds by the Blades and exacted a terrible revenge. I lost two thirds of my pack to famine two winters ago, but we have recovered and revived. Then here, now, on the verge of my greatest victory, when I would have taken the Scarrow Caves, I check Alphadomine one morning to find this message:
Alphadomine Users:
We apologize, but this game will no longer be available. Our programming center has
been closed until further notice. We cannot preserve data, but if you wish to be alerted
when the game becomes available again, please join our email list.
Former users will be given a discount when the game is again available.

What do I want with discounts? I've lost six years worth of data! I've messaged them twice--they know full well what I think of their offer--but they have not gotten back to me.





Hi. I'm Glen. I love skydiving, muscle cars, dancing, Jesus, my girlfriend, Dara, and barbeques. My church is Blaze Central. If you've never been there, you should. It's pretty awesome--basically a combination of all my favorite things (yes, we did go skydiving with the youth group last summer--for free, thanks to the marvel of fundraising!).
I was hurt by a church two years ago and swore that I would never set foot in one again, but Blaze was different. My last church--the church my grandparents attended--literally kicked one of their leaders out when he came out as gay. It also had this lady who would censor the church's e-library for anything that disagreed with her painfully narrow beliefs. It even banned women from the pastorate. Blaze, on the other hand, has equal numbers of men and women in all areas. We have a transgender worship leader, three gay men on the board, not to mention seven lesbians. Jesus came to make our lives more abundant and Blaze seeks the same. There can be no real happy life when you have to fight and deny who you really are. Here, we support all life choices as exhibitions of our freedom in Jesus.
In my last church, I was told to fight who I was and to try to become whatever the pastor wanted me to be. Every Sunday, I left church in a deeper state of depression and self-loathing. Until I met Dara, my self-esteen was lower than the Marianas Trench. You could almost say she redeemed me. She showed me myself in a whole new light and slowly helped me to see myself, not as some kind of wretched, damned sinner, but as a strong, smart, exceptionally talented man. Oh, she just walked by and told me not to forget that I'm also as hot as they come. I have spent far too long trying to be some kind of saint. God doesn't expect us to be perfect. It's my job to be the best me I can be, and I don't mind saying that I'm doing a bloody good job of it.
In my new church, preaching is reserved for those who come out to the midweek study. Sunday morning is better spent in worship than lecture. We had a worship band which has won dozens of awards. They can out do most secular bands on the stage. We also frequently view inspirational films in the service, and coffee, pop, cookies, and popcorn are supplied by the church. You really should come visit--it's basically one big party.




My first name is Jay, but on duty, I am Officer Ahmed. I used to believe in justice, but I've given up on it. Last month, I brought in two house-breakers, an ecstasy dealer, a woman who drowned her child, and a street preacher. The last one is the only one they sent to jail. It's not that I have religious sympathies.  I was taught  from my childhood that the greatest evil is religious intolerance and the greatest good, tolerance and unity most easily found under agnosticism. I fancied that I would be a champion of tolerance as a police officer, but that is not what happened. I have come to see the meaning of "tolerance": it means the guilty must go free and the innocent should live in fear of saying a wrong word. An ill-placed word can send a man to jail longer than a carefully placed bullet. I often wonder if we have become too thin-skinned. One of my fellow officers lost his job for repeatedly referring to and addressing a person who was, by all that eyes or ears may tell, a man, as male after he claimed to be a woman. I know another who has maintained her post, with no more than a bit of counselling after drunkenly beating her fiance with a baseball bat.
But I am not qualified to critique the morals of my fellow officers. I had a wife and two children. They left me when I would not stop using Cannabis. What can I say? It's not like I'm addicted--weed doesn't work that way. I needed to relax. I couldn't detach my mind from my work when I came home. I started smoking it for my family--I didn't want to take to drink. I had seen what that does to families. I just wanted to be calm--to forget that I had helped to break up a mob that was molesting a handful of teenaged girls, to forget that I had been called to the scene where  an elderly couple were found at the bottom of a pond after being murdered five months earlier. My neighbor used it often, so I started using it. My wife said that was when they started to lose me. She says we had our last meaningful conversation four years ago--one week before  I started the cannabis. It's been a while. I could quit. But I don't have a reason to. I've given up on most things. I live from day to day. I pay my bills, I do my job, I eat, I sleep. I haven't the will to live or the desire to die. I just don't care any more.


I'd give you my name, but then I'd have to kill you. (Jk, you take things WAY too seriously, man.) I'm definitely what you'd call famous. I sing and that is absolutely all the hints I'm giving about who I am. I made more money yesterday than most people make in their entire lifetime. I've lost track of how many girlfriends I have. I'm a bit of a promoter of open relationships, you might say.  I am literally on the top of the world. Life can't get better.
Am I happy? What kind of a question is that? Were you even listening to me back there?
Okay. Look, life gets us all down sometimes. Yes, I do sometimes think a single, private relationship, with no cheating or side-relationships would be nice. But I've got an image to maintain. I don't even like getting smashed. I do that 'cause it's expected too. But morality and fame are mutually exclusive--unless it's infamy you're after. I wasn't raised this way, you see. My parents had morals--my mom even had religion. I honestly wanted to live by those morals as a kid. But my parents were also poor. So I ditched everything they taught me and look at me now! The moral of this story, kids, is: Don't listen to your parents if you want to go anywhere in life. It's a different world today than the one they grew up in. Right and wrong aren't what they used to be.



I'm a tree. I became one to save them. This was their world before mankind came to be, and, if we are to save this planet, we must assimilate. Leave me alone. Trees can't talk.



I'm Phoenix--Phoenix Alexandra Butts. Yes, you heard that right. Everything has always been against me. I'm an ugly girl--and an even worse boy, so there's no use in that. They say looks aren't everything, but I get no points for intelligence, wit, talent or, really, anything. I was screwed up from day one--genetically, chemically programmed towards depression and self-hate. But tomorrow everything will be better. Tomorrow, I will die.
People used to kill themselves--back when no one understood, back when, if you failed, they would treat you like a criminal. But times have changed. People understand. If you wish to die, there are people who will help. Once, suicide meant slit wrists, ropes, drowning, poisoning and pain. Now, it is but now you need but make an appointment. I had two consultations with my psychiatrist to confirm that the route I had requested was indeed the best for my case. Then it was merely a case of choosing a day. Tomorrow, I turn twenty. It seemed a good day. I'm a bit scared of needles, so they have promised I can inhale it through a mask.



I am a business man. My card is simple enough:
Evan Moore
Sweet Satisfaction Inc.

I have sixteen young women in my employ here in the city, not to mention those on my private luxury island resort. I also have seven young men. I work in the sex industry, and I am a CEO of a corporation, which, though not as large as some, offers an impressive selection. We are one of the first to offer online purchase with delivery.
I take pride in my business. Why should I not?



Welcome. You've come to the wrong side of the tracks, I am afraid. My name is Jamie. I have no job because there is no work. My grandfather owned an oil company. By all rights, I should be heir to a fortune, but that before the crash. Oil is worth less than nothing. My father was arrested and fined to the point of bankruptcy for damage to the environment.
And now I live here. This is the re-forested zone of the city. It's the only place we can live. They wanted a clean city. There are no slum or red light districts. So we live in the trees. Hunting is illegal here, so we have no choice but to steal. Sometimes, I get lucky. Some people leave food out for the animals, and I get it.
The government used to pay for shelters and food for people like me, but that was before the money ran out. Now every tax dollar goes to paying interest on our national debt and studies in green energy. I've heard people say that it will be beneficial to the earth if people like us just die off. Fewer people means smaller carbon footprints, I guess. I understand perfectly. They think this tree is more important than me. They can think what they want. We will have our revenge. Their precious forests can burn for all I care.



My name is Elissa Lewis. I am a married woman. I have three children. I am a stay-at-home mom. I know. You didn't think those existed anymore. I am such because I want to be. My husband, Xavier is six foot three, with all the lean build of his Masai ancestors. He will turn thirty-one on April third this year. He loves to read books written hundreds of years ago and has never played a video game in his life. He is the best father ever. I have been married to him for seven years and never once seen him lose his temper. I love him more today than I did when we exchanged our vows. I love him more this year than I did last year. I doubt there was ever a happier couple.
My husband is also serving his third jail term. He was arrested just over a month ago. He will be in jail for two years this time unless he can get parole next February. This is four times as long as his last two terms. The charge, as always, is hate-speech and spiritual violence. The crime? Xavier is a pastor and evangelist. He goes out on the streets to preach and share the gospel of Jesus Christ. My grandfather was a pastor. He used to preach on the streets, but the laws were different back then. There are still no laws against preaching on the streets, but if you offend someone, then you are in trouble. The gospel always offends--no one likes to hear about sin and judgement. But if you offend the wrong people, then you are charged with hate speech. Hate speech has been illegal for years, but five years ago, another law was added to the criminal code. It forbids spiritual violence. Spiritual violence used to mean abusing a person to force a conversion, but now all you need to do to get charged is tell someone that their religion is wrong. Self-esteem is our world's greatest idol, and to damage it is the crime of all crimes. The gospel leaves no room for self-love, and Xavier refused to dumb the gospel down. I am proud of him. He stood strong in the face of a society that hates God, no matter the consequences. But my children are asking when daddy is coming home. They are too young to understand.

A Christmas Story I wrote in Grade 11

            December 24, 1554:  It seemed like it would be an ordinary enough Christmas. Father was shut up in his study with a messenger from Sir Robert Lombard, finalizing his purchase of a fine black gelding for my brother, Thomas, before Christmas began and work was banned. Mother was busy supervising the decorating of the house, dictating which doors could have kissing boughs, and which doors absolutely could not.  The cooks had been busy for days preparing for the Christmas feasting to begin. Thomas, Cecily, Stephen, baby Isabel, and myself, Susanna, dutifully bore the torment of the delicious smells of mince pies, roasting boar, and, cruellest of all, the aroma of a Christmas pie baking. It was impossible to focus on a game of backgammon surrounded by those smells tempting us to break our fast. Twelve hours until Christmas morning, when we could eat again. Myself, I was looking eagerly forward to the next day for another reason; Nicholas Daunce and his family would be at the feast and mass tomorrow. He had been courting me for several months, and, though my mother had hoped that I would marry his elder brother, who had the greater part of the inheritance, my father was willing to give his consent to our marriage.

            Though we were very excited to have Thomas back from grammar school, he had proved insufferable upon his arrival. Despite being four years younger than me at twelve, he acted as if he were my elder brother. Our parents had had a total of nine children, but my eldest sister, Alice, was already married, and they had lost two children between me and Thomas, and between him and eight-year-old Cecily, John had died at two years old. After that, Stephen, four, and Isabel, two, had both been born healthy. But enough about us; this supposed be an account of the Christmas that changed my life.

            We rose early on Christmas morning, and, after about an hour of getting dressed in our finest, we ate a meal of manchet, a fine white bread, with beef and beer for the adults and I, while the rest of the children drank milk. We then left in our carriage for the cathedral for the first mass of the day. I was disappointed that I could not locate Nicholas at any of the three masses held that day. I saw his family, but they told me he was taking mass at a chapel elsewhere. I wondered greatly at that; where would he be taking mass without his family? They assured me that he would be at the feast at our estate that afternoon, so I resigned myself to wait.

            When the time for the feast came, I waited near the doorway for him. I couldn’t help noticing the kissing bough over the door; maybe… I felt myself blush a little thinking of it. As people slowly arrived, I watched the mistletoe berries disappear from the bough as kisses were stolen from pretty serving girls and guests alike. By the time the Daunce family arrived, there were none left, to my disappointment. I wanted to run forward and embrace him, but I chose to make him pay for my disappointment. I greeted him coldly with a stiff, formal curtsy, and forced myself not to laugh at his confused expression. I turned away from him as if I had found something better to do, and left him standing in the entrance way. Just as I had expected, he came over to me in the main room to ask me to sit with him.

            “Why should I sit with you?” I replied icily, “You did not sit with me this morning at mass.”

            “Hey, that’s unfair, Susanna. I was in Gravesend. I could hardly have ridden all the way to London in time for mass this morning.”

            “I suppose I will forgive you this time—if I can have you for every dance tonight.” He laughed and heartily agreed to my conditions.

             That evening, on a break after one dance, Nicholas asked me to come on a walk with him in the gardens. I went, heart pounding, hardly daring to hope that today would be the day that he would ask me to marry him. Once we were far enough to be neither seen nor heard from the house, he released my hand and walked a few paces away. Twice he turned to me and began to speak, but rather turned back to pacing. I’d never before seen him so obviously agitated.

            “Susanna, if I were to—Susanna, I love you very much, and I desperately hope you love me as much, so I believe I can trust you with a secret—”

            “Of course you can!”

            “Yes, but this is a bit different. If this secret were to get out, I would be killed. Your knowing of it could put you in danger.” Nicholas turned again, and returned to his pacing for a few moments. Finally, he went down on one knee before me, grasping my hand. “My love, I did not go to any mass this morning—nor have I taken mass for more than a month. I have found a new Church—a true church. A Church made of people, not wood, stone, silver, or gold—a church ruled, not by a fallen, sinful man, like the pope, but rather by Christ himself!”

            “Stop, Nicholas! You cannot talk like this—calling the Holy Father himself sinful! You’re speaking heresy” I lowered my voice to a hiss, “Don’t be a fool. We all know there is only one Holy Mother Church. People are taken by the Inquisition every day for saying less than what you just said. Just stop it—stop it before I have to confess having listened to heresies. You know what that would mean for you. I don’t want to hurt you, Nicholas, but I cannot be expected to risk my soul for your safety.”

            “But that exactly what I’m talking about! There’s no more need for confession—I’ve already made my confession to God, and I’ll never need to confess again! I’ve been reading the Scriptures, and I’ve found that many of the church’s core teachings disagree with them. In fact, God’s Word says that church leaders should marry, that forgiveness comes through faith, not penance or any other work, and it make no mention of the Assumption of Mary, let alone her being crowned Queen of Heaven, and it even says that every Christian is a saint, not just those who’ve been canonized. And it even indicates that Mary was a normal sinful woman, had several children after Christ, and—”

            “No!” I interrupted him, “You can’t talk like that, not about the Blessed Virgin! That’s blasphemy!” I turned to leave, but he caught my hand.

            “Let go!” I pulled away. “And I would strongly advise you to leave London tonight, because I’m going to confession first thing tomorrow morning.” I tried to speak coldly, but my voice shook.

            “Do what you wish, Susanna, but please except this gift from me.” Nicholas put a small black leather bound book in my hand. “This is half of the Holy Scriptures—in English. Please read it, my love. And please, don’t turn it in to the priest. Surely it can be no crime against God to possess a copy of His Word.”

            “Just go away!” I half screamed, but I took the book anyways. Nicholas offered to walk me back to the house. I refused, and he went to the stables instead, took his horse, and rode away. I felt so cold and empty inside. There was my future, my lover, leaving forever, and tomorrow I would have to expose him as a heretic, deserving of death. I hated him, but not enough to stop loving him.

            I did not sleep that night. I cried a lot. I couldn’t stop thinking over all the wonderful times Nicholas and I had shared—the first time he gave me a ride home from mass; the afternoon we had spent riding together, and had stayed out so late; the family had been thoroughly scandalized; and then there was the day he had kissed me. I could almost feel his arms around me again, see his sea green eyes, and hear his voice whispering his love in my ear. Oh, why him? Of all people who could turn on the Holy Mother Church, why did it have to be Nicholas? Suddenly another thought came to me Who did this to him? Who filled his head with this heresy? Anger washed over me. I may not have been able to bring myself to hate Nicholas, but I could hate the one who converted him. That murderer. This was all his fault. And now I would have to report my Nicholas to the priest. It could not be wrong to pray that they do not catch him; maybe he could recant and return to the church without facing the Inquisition. I knelt before the crucifix on one wall of my room, and implored the Blessed Virgin for his safety. Still, I could not sleep. Out of sheer curiosity, I open the Book Nicholas had given me. I started at random somewhere near the middle of the Book and read “There is none righteous, no not one: there is none that understandeth, there is none that seeketh after God. They have all gone out of ye way; they are all made unprofitable. There is none that doeth good, no not one.” A faint sound outside my window nearly made me jump out of my skin. I quickly tucked the Book away under several things in my night table, and snatched up my rosary, praying silently for forgiveness for looking at a forbidden book.  I lay wide awake in bed clutching my rosary all the rest of the night.

            The next morning, I could hardly eat at all. The jester Mother and Father had hired for the Christmas season could not make me smile. Someone asked if I was sick, and I, seeing a chance to get away, said I was and asked to leave the table. I went straight to the church. I paced up and down in front of the door for a while, trying to make up my mind—would it be a sin to not betray Nicholas? Why, I could be saving his life! But no, I’d be hiding him from the church—perhaps there was still hope for his soul if he were to face the Inquisition. Perhaps he would see his error. On that thought, I walked into the church before I could change my mind. Father Ambrose met me. I told him I wanted to confess, and he led me to the confessional.

            “What do you wish to confess, my child?” He asked through the grating.

            “I have—I mean, I…I know a heretic!” I blurted out. There was a long moment of silence. I could feel my heart pounding. I had heard stories of friends of heretics, even informers, who were arrested simply for listening to their friend. What if they searched my rooms? The Book. Maybe I should tell about it? No! They’d arrest me for sure!

            Finally, Father Ambrose broke the silence. “This is grave indeed, my child. Pray give the details. Who was this heretic, and how did you learn of his heretical beliefs?”

            “His name is” I swallowed hard, “Nicholas Daunce, the eldest son of Sir Gerard Daunce of Shropshire. Yesterday, he took me aside into the garden. I anticipated a proposal, as he has been courting me for some time, but to my horror, he began telling me that he had left the Holy Mother Church, and finally fell to blaspheming against the pope, the saints, and the Blessed Virgin herself.”

            “And how did you receive his words?”

            “I was horrified, of course, and implored him to return to the church. When he refused, I told him to leave.”

            “My child, reasoning with heretics is unadvisable and best left to the Inquisitors. You should have called for help and immediately turned him over to the church. None the less, your confusion at the time is understandable, and you do well to tell me this now. I shall not report you, and I shall pray for you to be forgiven. Forget this matter, and leave it to the church. You may leave, my child, unless you have more to confess.”

            I instantly pictured the little Book lying hidden in my night table, but I quickly suppressed that thought, and replied, “No, there is nothing else, Father.”

            It was two days until I heard word of Nicholas again. He had been caught in Reading the very day I had confessed to the priest and betrayed him—not betrayed, just done my duty to the church, I corrected myself. They had, apparently transferred him to Newgate Prison so he, as a nobleman, could stand trial before some of the higher ranking officials of the Church. I recalled all the horrible tales I had heard of Newgate—oh, my poor Nicholas! Was there nothing I could do? If only I could get permission to visit him—but what if he did not want to see me? I wouldn’t blame him if he hated me. After all, this was all my fault. But if I hadn’t, surely someone else would have turned him in eventually; after all, if he had a bit of common sense, he’d recant and everything would be all right again. But no, they recanted so rarely—most were so obsessed with this new faith of theirs that nothing could make them change their minds. Maybe if I were to go talk to him I could convince him otherwise—he had always been open minded and willing to listen to other people’s thoughts on matters; that was probably why he believed whoever gave him that book. Suddenly I felt a strong urge to find that Book, throw it into the fire place, and burn it to ashes. I wanted to take out all my anger on it, as if it were what was condemning Nicholas. I dug it out of my drawer and sat there for a few moments, just staring at the plain black leather cover. It looked so pathetic; it had obviously been bound by a rather poor man, probably with some leftover shoe leather. Somehow, I couldn’t burn it, at least not now. I tucked it away again, and went down stairs.

            With my father’s permission, I had our coach driver take me to the prison. Gaining permission to see Nicholas was easier that I expected. I had feared a search and possibly even to get questioned, but the guard just got up and led me to a cell, unlocked it, let me and locked it behind me, telling me to yell for him when I was done. Perhaps that was because of the coin I gave him.

            Nicholas quickly rose to his feet with a clank of chains when I entered. He swept a low bow and greeted me by name, sweeping up one of my hands with his own bound hand and kissing it lightly, as if nothing had changed since the feast on Christmas Day. I couldn’t help staring at him—he looked so different. His fine clothes were rumpled, torn and dirty, his hair was unkempt and matted with dried blood, and his face was drawn and pale despite his wide smile.

            “My lady, I beg your pardon for appearing before you thus. You see, I was not given adequate warning of your coming today, and, I am afraid, my accommodations here are not quite designed for entertaining guests,” Nicholas began with all his typical exaggerated courtesy.

            “Stop it, Nicholas! How can you joke at a time like this? Don’t you realize that you might be killed? Doesn’t it matter to you that I love you? Can’t you see that I don’t want you to die? You have to prevent this—turn back to the church, Nicholas; it is your only chance to get away. Please, my love, do this for me!” I begged him, tears streaming down my cheeks.

            “Susanna, my sweet Susanna, can’t you see that I am not afraid? I have found Christ—I have no reason to fear death. I know that if they were to kill me this moment, I’d be in paradise instantly!” I drew back; stunned by the arrogance of that assumption—he thought he was good enough to avoid purgatory all together! “My love, it is you I am worried about,” He continued, lowering his voice. “Do you still have the book I gave you? The church cannot save a single soul. Only Christ can do that—all the prayers and penance in the world will not bring you an inch closer to paradise; only repentance and faith in Christ can save you from eternal punishment. You are in far greater danger than I—the Scriptures I gave to you say “Fear ye not them which kill the body, and be not able to kill the soul. But rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body into hell.” I nave nothing to fear from the Lord, who can destroy both body and soul, but you do—turn to Christ, my love!”

            “Nicholas! What is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what they’re going to do to you? We could have been so happy—you could have believed as you pleased, if only you kept quiet about those beliefs. How can you expect me to listen to this? It was because you talked like this that I had to turn you in to the Inquisition. And now they’re going to kill you! Oh, Nicholas, this is all my fault!” I rambled on and on. “I was the one who turned you in! I don’t know why I did it—I love you! I love, love, love you!”

           

            “Susanna,” Nicholas put his hands on my shaking shoulders, “calm down. I love you too; the fact that I’m behind bars hardly can change that. I know you turned me in. I can’t say that what you did was right, but I’ve forgiven you, and God can too, if you will only ask Him.”

            “Stop saying that! I—I  can’t stay any longer.” I staggered back a few steps, and called, “Jailor! I would like to leave now!” I will never forget the look in Nicholas’ eyes as I left the cell; that mixture of grief, pity, and love made me want to cry. I hated to leave him, but I could not stay. He would not change his mind—I could not help him. He even refused comfort; all he wanted was to preach his heresies to me. I managed to hold back my tears until I was alone in my room, then I sobbed my heart out. He would be burned. They always burned heretics. I had seen a burning once, and I could not block the images of the fire devouring human flesh from my mind.
            Why had this happened? Why God, why? Read. I started—had I simply been remembering what Nicholas had said to me, or did I just hear a voice? Surely I had just imagined it. Still, I took out the book and began reading. “Therefore if any man be in Christ he is a new creature. Old things are passed away behold all things are become new…” The more I read the more fascinated I became. This was not the rule book I had always thought the Holy Scriptures to be; rather, it spoke of love and freedom and peace. Some parts puzzled me, like where it said “Ye are temples of the living God”, other parts frightened me, “Satan himself is changed into the fashion of an angel of light. Therefore it is no great thing though his ministers fashion them selves as though they were the ministers of righteousness: whose end shall be according to their deeds.”, and other parts thrilled me, like where it talked about God’s love and mercy, but I kept skimming—what I wanted was to know if it really did disagree with what the church taught. I wanted to go back to the jail—I had so many questions for Nicholas! But if I went to visit him too many times, they would get suspicious. Then, I reached a part which spoke of peace—about Christ leaving peace for His followers, and I began to understand a little bit. Peace was what Nicholas had—that was how he could jest in the face of death. I knew I had no such peace…but he was the heretic and I was the faithful follower of God! It should be the other way around, shouldn’t it? Oh, if only there was a way that I could know the truth!  The church could not be wrong—everyone knew that—but what Nicholas believed seemed so much more real. I needed to talk to someone, but Nicholas was the only person who I trusted enough to reveal my doubts to, and he was going to be killed! Maybe Father Ambrose could help me free myself from these doubts…or maybe he would turn me into the inquisition as a heretic or assign me some horrible penance, or, worse yet, I had heard stories of priests who used girls, threatening to turn them in if they did not comply—I shuddered.
            I scarcely slept that night, and went to the jail again first thing in the morning, though my father admonished me not to. Nicholas was not there; the guards explained that he was on trial today and the next three days. I went home and prayed every prayer for safety I knew for Nicholas. Once the trial was over, I went again to the prison, and was let to visit him, though I had to bribe the guards far more than last time, they finally let me go to see him.
            Nicholas looked terrible when I entered the cell. He was lying on the floor, with his cloak wrapped around him. Fresh blood streaked his face, and his lip was badly swollen. He made a feeble attempt to rise when he saw me, but fell back with a gasp of pain. I quickly knelt down beside him
            “You have one hour,” the guard told me and left, locking the door behind him.
            “Nicholas, what have they done to you?” tears choked my voice as I spoke.
            “They tried a few of the Church’s gentle and loving means of correction on me,” Nicholas replied, rather bitterly. “Please forgive me for not rising, but I was briefly introduced to the rack this morning.”
            “The rack!” I had heard of that horrible torture device—many died on it. Others were left with broken and dislocated limbs. “Nicholas, please end this! Just recant—just say the word; I can’t bear to see you suffer like this!”
            “I cannot and will not recant,” Nicholas whispered through his teeth; I was certain from the way he said it that this was not the first time he had given someone that response. “The verdict has already been passed. They aren’t likely to torture me any more. After all, they say I need to regain my strength in time for the burning next week. I suppose burnings are more interesting when the victim is strong enough to struggle.”
            “Stop it! Don’t you dare mention the burning again to me!” I snapped, and instantly regretted it. He grasped my hand.
            “I’m sorry, Susanna, I’m sorry. I spoke without thinking—I spoke out of pain and anger. Please tell me why you came to visit me.”
            “I’ve been reading it, Nicholas, and I must know if what you believe is true. Can the church be wrong? Think of how old it is, think of how many believe it—think of all that must fall if it is wrong.”
            “I—can’t speak—not without some water!” He gasped, struggling to sit up. I grabbed a cup which was lying nearby and filled it from a stone pitcher. He took the water gratefully and continued. “Think, my love, of what we know of the time when Christ lived. The Jews had been following their false form of worship for centuries, and many, many followed it, yet it was still wrong. Their whole culture was built around it—there was indeed much to lose if it was false, and it was. Just because everyone believes something does not make it right; everyone in the world could believe that they could fly and go jump off a cliff to prove it, but their belief would hardly save their lives when they reached the rocks below. The Bible is truth. If you seek Christ, you will find Him in that Book.”
            “I need some kind of proof, Nicholas. I’m sorry, but I can’t just take your word for this, and if the church is right, I am damning my soul to hell by reading that book!” As I sobbed, Nicholas rather clumsily stroked my hair with his left arm—his right was twisted in such a way that I was certain both his shoulder and elbow were dislocated.
            “Susanna, will you believe in something which gives people courage, even joy in the face of death?”
            “I don’t know—probably.”
            “Then come to my execution, my love. I know it won’t be easy to watch, but please, come and see if Christ gives me the courage to die without fear.”
            “No! You can’t expect me to watch. That would be horrible—I can’t believe you’d ask such a thing! Please, my love, won’t you reconsider? You only have to say the words—you don’t actually have to give up these new beliefs. You cannot let yourself be killed—I cannot let you be killed. I can’t live without you!”
            “Did they put you up to this, Susanna? I didn’t endure their interrogations and tortures to deny my Lord for a chance at a good life,” He replied wearily. “I love you, but I love Christ far more. I’m sorry Susanna, but there is no point in trying to convince me to recant; I’m not going to.”
            “Just stop talking this way. How can you expect me to sit and listen to this? You may be resigned to your fate, but I am not! I’ll leave if you keep this up.”
            “Susanna, you know as well as I do that I have a very short time left to live; how can I not try to make every moment count? All I want is to see you in heaven one day. Is that too much to ask?” He moved a little, and sucked in his breath sharply, clearly suppressing a cry of pain. After several moments, he began again, much more quietly. “I am afraid. Afraid of the fire, but more afraid for you—afraid of you suffering in hell fire. I love you.” His voice was hardly audible, and his eyes were closed, “I love you, God’s truth, I do. I would give almost anything to live out my life with you at my side, but I could never be so unfaithful to my Lord as to deny him to get out of here. God loves you, darling, and His love is far greater than mine. Please think again—how can the Roman Church be the church of Christ? How could Christ, who loves us so much, be commanding His people to torture and kill those for whom He died? How can—” A fit of coughing interrupted him; I offered him the cup of water, but he turned his face away, blood splattering his lips. Finally, he stopped coughing and lay back, eyes closed, breathing heavily. The guard came and told me my visiting time was over. Nicholas gave my hand a weak squeeze, and I rose and left the cell.
I spent the next few hours pacing up and down in my chambers, carrying on a heated argument with myself. I can’t watch his execution—it would kill me!
            This may be my only chance to know for sure who is right.
            No! The church is right—it has to be; after all, it’s been around for far longer than Nicholas’ heretical cult.
            But what if it does disagree with the scriptures? What if Nicholas is right? What if Christ really is a God of love?
            What if he is wrong? Is it a risk worth taking? Look what it cost him!
            That’s exactly the point—how can someone have the courage to face all that for something false? What if it is true and you do not believe it? Is that a risk worth taking?
            I could not sleep that night. I tried in vain to silence the questions war back and forth in my head; doubts and my desperate longing to know the truth battered against the walls of my old faith—the walls I had thought so unbreachable a few short days ago. Late that night, or rather early the next morning, I finally got up, lit my lamp, and opened the Book. I read, desperately looking for something that clearly condemned or condoned the church system, but I soon was distracted from that by some verses about love. Out of curiosity, I decided to count how many times the book mentioned love; I started at the beginning, skimming, and keeping count of how many times it occurred. Finally, after several hours, I came up with the number 176; I probably missed some, but that number rather overwhelmed me—it could not have been more obvious that Christ was indeed a God of love. I found another thing while I was searching—a book near the end called “The First Epistle of St. John”; that book was so full of love that it made my heart ache for the love described therein. I was startled to find a place where it stated outright “God is love”. This could be real. It was so beautiful and wonderful; how could it be evil? Finally, though I knew it would break my heart, I resolved to go to the burning.
            “God? Please forgive me if it is wrong for me to pray directly to You, but if you really are a loving God; if what Nicholas believes is true, then please give me some kind of proof—please, if Nicholas is really Your servant, let him be brave and not fear the fire—and if he is not, then please let him recant before they kill him.” I prayed hesitantly—it felt so weird to address God rather than a saint; I crossed myself many times, hoping I was not sinning in praying like that.
            The next week was both the best and the worst week I had ever had. I spent as much time as I could spare without raising suspicions reading the Book in my room, and the more I read, the more I longed for the God described in it, the Christ who said “Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” Love, Joy, and Peace were recurring themes in the Book, and they were the three things I would give almost anything for. At the same time, though, my grief for Nicholas, my fear of seeing him burned, and most of all, my guilt for the part I had played in all this tore at me, leaving me sobbing for hours on end. Also, I found I could not bear mass that Sunday. It seemed false, emotionless, and wrong even; I desperately hoped my doubts did not show on my face as Father Ambrose placed the wafer on my tongue. He seemed to pause for a moment longer at me, and my heart stood still, but then he continued down the line, and I could breathe again.
            The dreaded, yet longed for day arrived after a long night of reading, praying, and crying. I managed to hold back my tears as a maid dressed me in the inconspicuous grey dress I had chosen long in advance for the occasion.  My father, who had been very reluctant to consent to my going, insisted that a manservant accompany me in case of trouble. I loathed the presence of the servant at my side as I rode out for the town square; I had to maintain my composure before him, though my heart felt like it would burst if I held in my grief, somehow I did.
            The square was teeming with people of all ages and classes; I pulled my hood forward a bit, hoping no one would recognise me as the daughter of the Earl. I thought for a moment that I caught a glimpse of Nicholas’ youngest sister, Eleanor, standing in the shadow of a building alone, holding a horse’s reigns, but no; there is no way that her family would have let her travel here to witness this horrible event—especially unescorted! I had hardly any time to think about that though, because suddenly a shout rose from the crowd nearest the jail. I turned to see a cart rattling up, surrounded by mounted guards, with Father Ambrose himself leading the procession carrying a tall crucifix. In the cart was my Nicholas; he was on his knees, his hands bound tightly behind him, and his head bowed, whether from weariness, or in prayer, I could not tell. The crowd hurled insults and curses at him and a few threw clods of dirt. It was so horrible; I wanted to somehow protect him; to take him in my arms, wipe away the dirt and blood from his face, and tell him everything would be fine. The cart jolted to a stop a few paces from the stone platform with the stake, and Nicholas raised his head. To my surprise his expression was not one of fear or grief, but calm, happy even, as if he was going to a ball rather than his own death. A guard stepped into the cart, and dragged him to his feet. Nicholas stumbled a few times as he was lead to the stake, and his face was tight with pain; I shuddered, remembering that he had been on the rack. Was he walking on broken legs? They quickly bound him to the stake with a chain around his waist, and steel ring was clasped around his neck to hold him in place. Finally, the executioner stepped aside, and Father Ambrose approached, still bearing the crucifix. Oh, please recant! Oh, God, let him recant; I cannot watch him die like this. I prayed silently.
            “My son,” Father Ambrose began in a pleading tone, “Why do you persist in your folly? Even now, you may be saved from the flames of this world and the next if you but say a few simple words. Denounce your heresy, accept the mass, and throw yourself upon the abundant mercies of the church. Even now you can be set free, if you say but a few simple words.”
            “You ask me to deny my Lord? I would rather die a hundred times! I should be proud to die for the name of the Christ who died for me.” I realised that Nicholas was not looking at the priest, but rather, he was gazing straight at me. “As for your offer for me to be saved from hell fire, that has already happened. It happened the day I placed my trust in Christ Jesus as my Lord and Saviour. I am not afraid of what you might do to this body; I shall have a new body today—one which shall never grow old or suffer. My Lord Himself commanded us to not fear those who can destroy the body, but rather to fear God, who can destroy both body and soul. No, I will not recant; I denounce the Church of Rome as perverted, the pope as a liar, and—” His words were cut short by Father Ambrose striking him hard in the mouth. It startled me, as I had never before seen the soft-spoken priest use violence against anyone.
            “He has refused the mercy of the Church,” Father Ambrose announced coldly, turning to the crowd, “So we now hand him over to the secular authorities, for far be it from the Holy Mother Church to shed blood.” As the priest stepped away from the platform, and the executioner stepped forward, Nicholas began to speak again, though blood dripped down his chin from his broken mouth. He was quoting from the Scriptures—I recognised a few of the verses, like “Do not pray with vain repetitions as the heathen do”, “Those who worship God must worship Him in spirit and in truth”, and “By works of the law shall no flesh be justified in His sight”. Others were unfamiliar, like “The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord”, and “Believe on the Lord Jesus christ, and you shall be saved”. I nearly cried out as the executioner jabbed the torch he bore into one of the faggots piled around Nicholas. The wood caught instantly, and the blaze quickly climbed up, licking his legs and feet; still he pleaded with the crowd. “Today, if you will hear His voice, do not harden your hearts in rebellion! Today is the day of salvation!” The flames wrapped around his chest, and his legs—oh, his legs! I could not bear to look at him, but I could not bear to look away either, even for a second. Finally, when I could scarcely see his face through the flames, he raised both hands into the air and cried out “Death is swallowed up in victory!” His arms remained in the air for a few moments, his face upturned, then they dropped, and I knew it was over. I put a hand over my eyes, and only then realized that tears were streaming down my cheeks.
            So many contradictory emotions crowded my head that I could scarcely think about what I was doing. I only vaguely remember swinging myself up on to the horse and riding away at a mad pace. I rode blindly out over unfamiliar terrain for about an hour before I reigned in my horse and realised that I had been riding astride! But it didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered now. I dropped from my horse to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
            “Oh God, Christ, Oh, Nicholas’s God, I know You’re real now. I don’t know what to do or say! Why God? Why did it have to be Nicholas?” You know why. It was not a voice I heard—more like a thought, but then I understood. It was me; it took Nicholas’s death to convince me. “Oh, Lord, why do you want me? I’m worthless—I’ve followed a false church, and, God, don’t you know that I was the one who turned in Nicholas? I as good as killed him! You don’t want me!” Today is the day of salvation. “Christ, I want it! I want that salvation!” And that day, lying on my face in an unknown wood, I gave my life to Christ.

JUSTICE (A Short Story)

Judge Alderman wiped his forehead. They had to fix that AC unit. The defense attorny had long since shed his suit jacket, but the prosecutor seemed comfortable enough in her dress suit as she paced the room, adding to her imposing mountain of evidence. 

"Guilty!" The mallet rang through the courtroom. The defendant, hopelessly entangled in his own web of contradictory alabies, buried his face in his hands. 

A few minutes later, everyone was out on their break. Alderman glanced over the next case--double homicide, wife and child. A tremor ran through his hand. There was no child, Dan. This is different. He tried to reasure himself.

"Daniel? Are you all right?"

Alderman started. "Yes--I'm just looking over this case."

"Ah. The Nicholsons. That's an ugly case if I've ever seen one. What'll you give him if he's guilty? I couldn't give a man like that less than thirty years, maybe twenty-five if they prove the child's death was accidental."

"Nothing is proven yet. I have to return to the court, Jessica."

"Of course. And we are still on for dinner tonight, right?" Alderman smiled. Few old widowers could find a girl as young and pretty as her. But this was what he had done it for. If she had only complied with the divorce. She had forced his hand.

"And why did the defendant say he needed this firearm?"

"Crows. He said they were eating his wife's garden." 

That cursed air conditioning. But Alderman knew it was just the heat that made him sweat. This story was far too similar...

"Daniel? Dan, is that you?" He could hear Evelyn's voice just around the corner. He had no choice. He saw the look of stunned horror on her face as he pulled the trigger. 

Suicide. He had set it up perfectly. No one would ever know. His in-laws suspected nothing. His neighbors had nothing but sympathy for him. It was a closed case--over, done. There was no danger. His guilt had been buried with her, never to be found. 

He took a breath and entered the court with his accustomed slow solemnity. The defendant was standing, handcuffed, eyes low. Jesse Nicholson was a large man, a former soldier, competitive body builder, but here, he looked small. His powerful shoulders were slumped, his face grey. Alderman looked away.

"Prosecutor?"

"Yes, your Honor." Stephens stood and began his professional pacing. "Jesse Samuel Nicholson, the defendant, on the day of May 23rd, 2013, did shoot and kill his wife, Shalayne Grace Nicholson and their six-month-old son, Alexander Elliot Nicholson..." The witnesses came and went, painting a clear, stark picture of a severely paranoid man who distrusted everyone and spent hours daily shooting out in the woods alone. Finally, the defense was called up.

"For my first witness, I c--"

"No!" The defendant rose to his feet, interrupting his lawyer. "I am guilty. I killed Shay and Alex." He started to cry loud, gasping sobs. "I took my gun and I took their lives like a monster. I'm a killer--a damned killer. Just get it over with--stop me before I hurt someone else." The voices in the court rose to a storm. Alderman pounded his gavel on his desk, shouting for order. When silence finally fell, the defense requested a recess. 

"Alderman!"

"Yes, Stephens?" Alderman did not let him see his face.

"I have spoken to the defense. They are going to maintain his guilty plea."

"Understandably."

"I am going to recommend the death sentence."

Alderman half-turned. "Even after he confessed?"

"He is asking for it--literally. He wants to die. He's begging us not to make him live with this. It's either death or a padded cell."

"I see. I will think about it. Excuse me." He made his way to the bathroom. Death or a padded cell. Justice. Justice was his life. And that was the greatest of lies. How could he kill this man without damning himself? Damning? He would only be damned if his deed was known. He had but to play this final role and it would all be over once and for all. He had condemned more criminals over the course of his career than he could remember. Why should his conscience chafe now?

"All stand." Alderman could hear his own heart beating as he formed his words. Death. He said it loud and clear. No tremor in his voice betrayed his fear of what he must say. He involutarily glanced over at the defendant. The man was nodding his head vigorously, tears streaming down his face. The sight was unbearable. He ordered the condemned to be removed and made a hasty, though dignified exit. 

That night, sleep evaded him. The face of Jesse Nicholson haunted his mind. Then, like a cancer, like Lady Macbeth's damned spot, Evelyn's face and voice invaded his thoughts. He saw her in her wedding dress, he heard her singing at their graduation--the voice of an angel, he had called it. He heard her laugh, saw her smile--how he had loved her once! But age and diabetes had taken their toll and all beauty had faded. All beauty except her voice. When she took to the piano, then he could forget her thinning hair and sagging figure. Stop it, Dan! What was he doing, thinking of her this way? She had been a crude-mannered vixen as a girl, a bossy, sarcastic wife, and a hideous, loud-mouthed old witch in the later days. She had deserved it--she had brought it on herself. No. She had not. He knew that. He began pacing his room, his mind churning. 

What is the difference between me and Jesse Nicholson? 

He was caught--I was not.

No. It was something else.

He killed his child. I had no child.

No. That was not the main difference.

The mortician shook his head. Why was it always the rich and famous? What could cause such a suicide? This man had had it all--an enviable fortune, a stellar reputation, a gorgeous young girlfriend, and a well-established career as a judge. Yet here he had been found, his suit splattered with blood and brains, a handgun in his right hand and an envelope in his left. 

"Who is Jesse Nicholson?" His assistant was holding the neatly sealed envelope. "A relative?"

Jesse Nicholson's hands trembled violently, his mind spasming with a confusion of memories and imagination. Images from the front randomly blended and distorted with more recent memories and flashes from his childhood. He knew only one thing for certain: He had, one dark night, in a confused state of anger, stepped out into his yard and blindly, madly, opened fire on his own house. He couldn't even remember if he had known his wife and child were in there. He did not even know why he had done it. But he did know he had killed them. And he knew that soon, he too would be killed. And he thanked God for that.

The officer entered with an envelope. Her words did not make sense to him. Judge. Suicide. Death. Note. Shoot. Kill. Death. Yesterday. But then she opened the envelope which bore his name and placed the note in his hands. He read it silently.

"You are more righteous than I."