Stories and Poems from the Writers' Critique Group of First Reformed Church, Schenectady, New York

Month: July 2023

A Hammer’s Purpose

By John Hargraves.  

Once upon a time there was a kind smart boy named Malleus. He grew up in a wonderful family with loving parents and many brothers and sisters. His parents had carefully named their children so that their destinies could be fulfilled. 

Malleus learned that his name meant hammer. He pondered his future and what his true gifts were. What kind of hammer would he be? 

He thought about Thor, the god of thunder, who carried a huge hammer and pounded it in the heavens for all to hear and bow to. But he didn’t want to frighten anyone.

He thought about being a carpenter and building all sorts of shelters for people. So when it thundered they would be safe. But he could never drive a nail straight and once hammered his thumb. This was too painful.

Then he thought about sculpting, for he was a sensitive artist at heart. His parents bought him a chisel, a stone carver’s hammer and a big block of marble. He was going to be the next Michelangelo. He was so excited that when he swung his hammer against the chisel striking the marble,  it shattered into pieces. 

What could he do with a hammer that would not frighten people, cause pain or break things apart? He prayed.

Malleus had a dream. In it he carried a peen ball hammer and gently pounded out dents and restored many things. On awakening he was puzzled. What could this mean? 

He prayed some more.

A hammer for good is what I want to be, he thought. A hammer to help those in fear, in pain and in chaos. A hammer of Love was his destiny. He became a man of God.

At the Honolulu Art Museum

By Virginia Bach Folger.

First published in the Adanna Literary Review

A wall covered with blue,                                                                                      brown and ochre faces:                                                                                  Indonesian masks. 

Japanese Courtesan in scarlet,                                                                                blue and purple robe, gazing                                                                                            at Mount Fuji.  

Nineteenth century Sargent portraits                                                                         of long-dead society matrons identified                                                                      by Mrs. and their husbands’ names. 

Woodblock print, black crow                                                                                      on plum branch in the rain.                                                                                      Brush-painted fans. 

Yellow lotus blooming above                                                                                         a reflecting pool                                                                                                              in the courtyard garden. 

Trade winds sway invisible                                                                                     palm fronds. Unseen ocean waves                                                                       crash onto sand. 

Never Give Up

By James Gonda & Arturo Intelli.

In the desolate aftermath of the zombie apocalypse, Penny—a lone survivor—peered out from her  barricaded hideout. The moonless night cast an eerie darkness over the decimated streets. Relentless moans of the undead echoed in the distance. Gripped by fear, Penny gathered her  courage and slipped out through a broken window, careful to avoid the hungry grasp of the rotting corpses.

Penny, plagued by a sense of unease, navigated the dilapidated streets with trepidation. The remnants of a once vibrant city lay in ruins—its buildings crumbling and stained with the marks of chaos. She stealthily maneuvered through the debris, aware of the threat lurking in every shadow.

Amidst the haunting silence, Penny’s mind raced with uncertainty. She had spent the day fortifying her shelter. But a restless urge for adventure consumed her. Driven by a desperate need to break free from the monotony of survival, she made a daring choice: venture beyond the safety of her refuge. She would risk it all for a taste of life in a world ruled by the undead.

Penny’s heart pounded as she treaded through the desolate streets. She avoided any sign of movement. Moonlight pierced through the thick clouds, casting an eerie glow on decaying corpses strewn across the pavement. The stench of death hung heavy in the air—a constant reminder of the peril she faced.

Reaching a decrepit building, Penny caught a glimpse of a flickering light seeping through a cracked window. Curiosity and caution battled within her. She approached the entrance, her  footsteps muffled by the overgrown vegetation reclaiming the concrete. Peering inside, she saw a group of survivors huddled together, their weary faces illuminated by a feeble flame.

The survivors conversed in hushed tones; their words laden with the weight of despair. Penny, crouched in the shadows, contemplated her next move. She yearned for companionship, for the solace of shared struggles—yet fear of betrayal and the unknown gnawed at her resolve.

Summoning her courage, Penny stepped into the flickering light, alerting the survivors to her presence. Their eyes widened with a mix of surprise and suspicion. Questions and accusations filled the air, testing her trustworthiness. Penny, her voice strained with sincerity, reassured them of her intentions—to find hope in a world overrun by darkness.

United by their shared desire for survival, the group cautiously accepted Penny into their fold. They armed themselves with makeshift weapons, prepared to face the hordes of the undead that awaited outside. Their determination burned brighter than ever. They knew that together, their chances of overcoming the relentless onslaught of the zombies increased.

As the night wore on, Penny and her newfound companions ventured into the treacherous streets, fighting their way through a sea of rotting flesh. Each step was a battle; each encounter was a fight for survival. Their collective strength and resilience carried them forward, pushing back the encroaching tide of undead.

Penny, drenched in sweat and blood, pressed on, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. The once-familiar city had transformed into a labyrinth of terror—but she refused to yield. In this harsh world, she had found purpose, forging bonds with her fellow survivors that transcended mere survival.

Through the darkest hours of the night, Penny and her comrades fought on, determined to reclaim their city from the clutches of the undead. With each fallen zombie, hope stirred within their souls, a flicker of resilience in a world consumed by death. They were the resistance, the last vestiges of humanity, standing strong against the terrors that threatened to extinguish their light. They marched onward, their footsteps echoing with defiance.

A Prayer for Mrs. McKee

By John Hargraves.

Somehow she had learned about my situation and offered to help. I was about to lose my berth. My delicate chances of completing a Hail Mary pass would be forfeited. My plan for survival and to make my heavenly mother proud was an early admission into the RPI Albany Medical College biomedical program at age 16. Being homeless again would be a problem.

At 14 I had left my father’s house on Palmer Avenue after he remarried. We couldn’t get along and I was declared an emancipated minor. A gaping hole remained from missing my mother. My big sister tried to fill it with love and took me in for nearly two years, but finances forced her family to move out of reach. A friend’s family took me in for a few months as they prepared for a new baby. After painting the baby’s room I slept there not knowing the arrival would displace me at Christmas. 

When I got the news that I needed to find another place I must have prayed. Certainly not to God because He wasn’t my friend. 

Mrs. McKee prayed a lot. She was the elderly widow of a shop teacher at Linton High School and a devout Baptist. She said I could stay and do chores to earn my keep. Somehow she knew not to proselytize and to just love thy neighbor. 

We ate breakfast and dinner together everyday. We watched Marcus Welby MD and Medical Center on her color TV.  She would encourage me with positive words and a steadfast presence. The snow got shoveled and the lawn mowed. Mrs. McKee was the pillar of patience as I probed and tested her with my unwashed neediness. She never once mentioned the nocturnal cigarette smoke that billowed about my bedroom. I thought I was clever leaving the window open on winter nights and tossing the butts out the window. She never admonished me for hitchhiking to Albany to see my girlfriend and coming home late at night. 

That Spring, just before high school graduation, I got real sick with a fever of 105. She didn’t have a car, so she called my father who I hadn’t seen in two years. She had never spoken with him and was worried. I cried, hearing her stern voice chastising his refusal to bring me to a doctor. She won out. He arrived with stepmother in tow and brought me to Ellis Hospital. Koplik spots suggested an early diagnosis of measles. 

“Is that all?” scoffed my old man to the doctor.

On the way back my father generously stopped at the Central Market on Eastern Parkway. He bought me a bottle of aspirin and my choice of orange or the more expensive grape juice. I chose the latter. I didn’t see him again until his near fatal heart attack almost two years later. 

Mrs. McKee was proud that I graduated early and got accepted into the program. She must have known from watching those shows that I would emulate the motorcycling young doctors rather than the avuncular Dr. Welby. I never saw her again.