The Beverwyck Review

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

Category: Flash (1,000 words or less) (Page 1 of 5)

Corona Fever (post-apoecliptic writing)

April 21, 2024 / / 2 Comments

By John Hargraves.


The State Police warned against heading north. Road congestion, food scarcity and limited restroom accommodations would be the order of the day. 

Eye doctors were on standby for injury. I decided to head up the Adirondack Northway from Albany to Westport, a little village 126 miles away on the west coast of Lake Champlain for the payoff of totality. 

New Jersey plates abounded as I jockeyed the middle lane between 20 and 60 miles per hour with occasional halts. Motorcyclists flew by in between vehicles and along the shoulders, clocking 80 plus with no fear of destination failure. 

Nearing the High Peaks Visitor Center at mile 100, I was ready for relief but hope was short-lived. A line equivalent in number to the mile marker lingered far out the front door, carrying Olympic bladders. 

No longer a member of this club, I continued on to an empty facility-free rest stop hosted by a woodsy surround. A weaker club dispersed there, traipsing hurriedly into the snowy tree cover and watching their step to avoid previous deposits. Emptied and satisfied, I was now able to focus on the last lap to the lakeshore village.

Arriving just in time for small town hospitality, free solar peepers and the last perfect parking spot, I was exhilarated. High on a hill, wide paths meandered to the gentle waves lapping below. I studied for a proper vista of the eclipse that was beginning. A tiny cookie bite was visible in the warm 60 degree air.

The shoreline facing the eastern sky looked like the best bet to view the paradox of a 360 degree sunset with its red shift at 3:25pm, just 45 minutes out.  At least a thousand friendly gatherers dotted the terrain, hailing from points south on their blankets and chairs. 

Herbal whiffs perfumed the air. I scoped the trees for potential shadow effects and even brought my spaghetti colander to play games with the light. 

Soon the air began to cool and I was wishing for my winter jacket and gloves left in the car. I had forgotten about the sudden predicted thermal loss. Twilight began to beckon with 95 percent of the cookie eaten. 

The chill rose and all became black through my solar glasses, followed by the roar and exclamation of the crowd’s oohs and aahs. Pulling them off, I beheld the crowning glory of the gaseous corona’s saw-toothed halo around the moon’s black disc in a night sky.

Stars began to twinkle and a rosy hue was painted over the lake.Then the gods Jupiter and Venus appeared for posterity. Three minutes seemed like only 10 seconds as the sun’s rays began to slip forth the daylight once again. 

It signified a resurrection from a glowing crown of thorns and marked the Eastertide of this April 8th. I wanted to put more quarters in the slot to keep it going but would have to wait for my next reincarnation. 

Palm Sunday

March 24, 2024 / / 0 Comments

As we approached Jerusalem, coming to Bethphage and Bethany near the Mount of Olives, I sent two of my disciples ahead with instructions. “Go into the village and when you enter, you will find a colt tied there, on which no one has ever sat. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you why you are doing this, tell them, ‘The Lord needs it.’”

The pair located the colt tethered to an outside door and untied it. I found out later that a bystander did indeed ask, “What are you doing, untying this colt?” They answered as directed and were permitted to take it. They brought the colt to me, threw their cloaks on it, and I mounted the beast. Many spread their garments on the road, and others spread leafy branches they had cut from the fields. Those who went ahead and those who followed shouted, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” I entered Jerusalem in this fashion and went into the temple. There I scoped out the scene. It became late, so we departed for Bethany.

March 25, 1911

March 21, 2024 / / 1 Comment

By James Gonda.

Author’s note: 113 years ago this Monday the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire occurred in New York City. This event was one of the deadliest industrial disasters in U.S. history. With no viable means of egress, many workers were forced to jump from the windows to escape the flames. In total, 146 people died.  

Flames licked at the walls of the factory. Panic ensued—we realized there was no escape. Doors were locked and windows barred. I shoved my way through fellow workers. Everywhere we turned, the conflagration blocked our path. Heat seared our skin and singed our hair. Amid the confusion a voice called to me—Anna, another seamstress. With a nod of understanding, we locked arms and through choking blackness tried for a stairwell.

Fire engulfed the floor. We were trapped inside Hades—immigrants who labored stitching garments for a pittance. Our day had started like any other. Machines clattered in a steady rhythm. The air smelled of fabric and sweat. Then near quitting time, a spark ignited . . . the building groaned and shuddered. The inferno raged; its fury unabated. Anna and I found a glimmer of light—an open window. With a silent plea to whatever gods may be listening, we leapt into the unknown and

plummeted

ten

stories

to

the

pavement.

End of an Era

March 18, 2024 / / 0 Comments

By Dirk de Jong.

I had borrowed a friend’s pickup truck, an old red Dodge, and backed it carefully into the driveway, right up to the garage door. It was a warm day in May, mid-afternoon. 

In the distance, the escarpment of the Helderberg mountains was silhouetted against a steel-blue sky. Inside the garage was a big pile of stuff: a couple of file cabinets, the poplar board that had served as my desk, an office chair, paintings, books, clothes, dishes, a vacuum cleaner. I loaded everything onto the truck, sorting items that I wanted to keep from those I wanted to get rid of. I checked the ropes that secured the boxes and bags and the various odds and ends that were bulging from the truck. I pretended it was just a job – cleaning out old things – people do it all the time.

I had never been to the dump before and didn’t know what to expect. It was simple. I paid my fee and was told where to unload. I looked around. Most of the junk had been bulldozed over. Nearby, a huge machine was devouring old couches, dressers, and mattresses, after large metal spikes ripped them into bite-size chunks. I had come to the right place. I laid those possessions I was going to discard in the path of that monstrous machinery. I added most of the paintings, testimony to another time. Then I drove the pickup with the remaining objects over to the side and leaned out the window. I turned off the engine. I wanted not just to see the destruction – I wanted to hear the cracking and crushing sounds. I was not sure why – to make the moment real, perhaps? To mask the regret? I felt the ground shaking. My belongings offered no resistance.

After one pass, only the broken stretcher frames of my paintings were still recognizable. Then they were also gone, turned into random rubble. A curtain of dust seemed suspended in the air as I steered down the hill and out of the gate. The sun was approaching the treetops on the horizon. I drove to my friend’s house and took what was left on the truck into his basement.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“Mission accomplished,” I answered. 

He went into the house and returned with two bottles of beer. We sat down on the edge of his kids’ sandbox and drank in silence. It was still unusually warm for an evening in May.

Memoirs of a Marmalade Cat

March 6, 2024 / / 5 Comments

By James Gonda.

I was born a sleek, orange kitten, with mysterious origins that even the most experienced alley cats could not decipher. My earliest memory is of being nestled in a wicker basket on Broadway. An older person attempted to market me as an exotic breed, but fate had other plans. A cat lover adopted me. She took me into her heart and cozy apartment.

From a pedigree kitten, I transformed into an ordinary cat with the hue of nectarines. My owner, unaware of the subtle differences, believed my ancestry traced back to the felines that Noah had whisked onto the ark.

Now, let me whisk you into the tale of our apartment. It was a quintessential New York den with a marble-clad entryway. Our flat was three stories up, filled with the standard feline-friendly furnishings: a scratching post, a mural adorned with mice, a fake fern, and, of course, her husband.

Life in the apartment was a snooze-fest. I watch my owner indulge in her daily habits. I dreamed of prowling the great outdoors, engaging in epic cat-and-mouse chases, and growling at old tabbies. Yet, I spent most of my days tolerating my owner’s affectionate gestures, even if I couldn’t savor the allure of chewing on cloves.

The husband, a tiny fellow, was besieged by his spouse. Each evening, while she prepared their nightly feast, she insisted that he attach a leash to my collar (for safety) and subject himself to a stroll in the moonlit alleyways. I empathized with him as he endured her rants about the second-floor neighbor’s uncouth behavior.

The husband was a feline look-alike with plump jowls, long whiskers, and furry arms. Together, we shunned the upscale streets, opting for strolls in areas inhabited by the less affluent. One evening, as we sauntered along, I gazed up at him, attempting to communicate in our silent language—an encouraging purr, a nudge, to convey the message: Be thank you you’re not a cat, my friend, and lighten up. He met my eyes with a glimmer of understanding, and for a moment, the weight on his shoulders seemed to lift.

“Well, kitty,” he said, “you look like you could speak. What is it, kitty—mice?”

But, of course, he couldn’t understand. Humans cannot talk to animals. The only way cats and people connect is through sounds.    

Meanwhile, in the apartment across the hall, a lady lived with a black-and-white tuxedo cat. Her husband also leashed it (for safety) and took the feline out every evening. The man-of-the-house always came home in good spirits. One afternoon, I met the tuxedo in the hall and asked for an explanation.

“Hey, Tweetness,” I said, “you know it’s not natural for a man to play nurse to a cat in public. I’ve never seen a human with a cat on a leash who didn’t look like he wanted to fight anyone looking at him. But your owner comes home as cheerful as a magician doing a trick. How does he do it? Don’t tell me he likes it.”

“Him?” Tweetness scoffed. “Well, he uses nature’s own remedy. He gets into the suds. At first, he’s very shy. But after we’ve hit three or four saloons, he doesn’t care if it’s a cat or a goldfish at the end of the leash. I’ve lost two whiskers from those swinging doors.”

These insights, fit for a comedy show, got me thinking . . . .

One evening around 6, per usual, my owner ordered her husband, whom she called Lovey, to do the fresh air routine with me.  

So, we set off. Then in a quiet place on a safe street, I pulled on the leash in front of an enticing, elegant lounge. I made a straight for the doors, whimpering like a cat stuck in a tree.

“Well, darn my whiskers,” the old man said with a grin, “darn my whiskers if the orange cat isn’t inviting me in for a drink. Let me see—how long has it been?

I knew I had him. He consumed pint after pint, sitting at a table. For an hour or so, he kept the beer coming. I sat by his side, tapping for the waiter with my tail, lapping up saucers of milk. When the beer ran out, the old man unclipped me from the table leg and cradled me outside like a fisherman releasing a catfish. He unbuckled my collar and tossed it into the gutter.

“Poor kitty,” he said, “she won’t annoy you anymore. Good kitty, go away, chase chipmunks, and be happy.” 

I stood my ground. I leapt and frolicked around his legs, content as a kitten on a cushion. Can’t you see I don’t want to part ways with you? Can’t you see that we’re both refugees in the concrete jungle, and your missus is the stern aunt chasing us with a dish towel and me with an ear-mite remedy? Why not ditch all of that and be pals forever?”

He didn’t grasp it. Or did he? He paused for a moment, pondering.

“Kitty,” he finally said, “we only get one life on this earth. If I ever catch sight of that apartment again, I’m a flat pancake, and if you do, you’re even flatter. And that’s no alcohol-induced prognostication.

Without the leash, I pranced alongside my owner to the Twenty-third Street ferry.

On the Jersey side, he told a stranger munching on a raisin bun, “Me and my cat, we’re headed to the Rockies.”

What delighted me most was when he pulled my ears until I yelped a little. He said, “You ordinary, monkey-headed, rat-tailed, citrus-colored offspring of a doormat, do you know what I’m going to call you?”

I thought Lovey and let out a mournful purr.

“I’m gonna call you Budweiser,” he said. “Only a cat who could outsmart a man into a drinking spree deserves such spirited moniker.   

If I had five tails, they could not have flicked enough to befit the occasion.

Tandy Cat

January 14, 2024 / / 1 Comment

By James Gonda.

At six months old, the little tabby lived in a sun-drenched cardboard box in an alley in Schenectady’s Stockade. Her father, a sleek Siamese named Zen, paid her scant attention, and her mother, a wise Persian, had traversed the Rainbow Bridge to the other side.

Zen spent his waking hours yowling about his disbelief in a feline deity. So absorbed in this philosophy, he failed to notice the divine spark in his kitten who roamed the neighborhood, sustained by the generosity of her departed mother’s relatives.

One day, a curious stray with a shaggy, ginger coat wandered into town. He was a lean tomcat, always inebriated on a mix of fermented catnip and cream. Often found lazing on a windowsill near Zen’s abode, he listened to Zen’s meowing about the non-existence of divine cat beings, exchanging glances with feline onlookers from time to time.

The vagabond kitty was on a quest to rid himself of his crème de la catnip addiction. Seeking refuge from the alleyways of the Big Apple, he believed a smaller community might offer a better chance to overcome his vice.

But his stay in the Stockade went astray. The lethargy of the passing hours led him to indulge in even more creamy concoctions. Despite his failure to break free from his habit, he did manage to bestow upon Zen’s daughter a name resonant with feline significance.

One twilight, recovering from a long catnip-infused stupor, the tomcat staggered along Cucumber Lane. Zen sat like the Great Sphinx of Giza on a flattened cardboard box, with his kitten-daughter at his side. The ginger flopped into a nearby box; he twitched, and when he tried to meow, his voice quivered.

As darkness encroached, a distant yowl echoed from the west—an eerie serenade from a fellow alley cat. A dog, awakened from its slumber, barked in response. The stranger started to ramble, making a prophecy about the tiny feline in the shadow of her skeptical Siamese father.

“I came here to kick the catnip habit,” he mewed. He leaned forward, fixating on the night as if glimpsing a revelation. “I fled to the countryside, seeking a cure, but alas, I remain ensnared. There’s a reason for this.” He turned to Zen. “Catnip isn’t my only vice,” he confessed. “There’s something more profound. I am a lover, yet I’ve not found my thing to love. That’s a crucial point if you catch my drift. It seals my fate, you see. Few felines can comprehend this.”

The stranger fell silent, overwhelmed by melancholy. Another distant yowl stirred him from his thoughts. “I haven’t lost hope. I want that made clear. I’m at the point where I know my yearnings may not be fulfilled.” Glaring at the kitten, he addressed her, disregarding the father. “There’s a she-cat approaching,” he predicted, his voice now sharp and urgent. “I’ve missed her, you see. She didn’t appear in my time. You might be the she-cat. It would be like fate to let me stand in her presence, when I’ve drowned myself in catnip and she is yet a kitten.”

His shoulders convulsed. Growing frustrated, he scolded, “They think being a she-cat, being loved, is easy, but I know better.” He turned again to the kitten. “I understand,” he cried. “Perhaps, of all felines, I alone understand.” 

His gaze wandered once more to the darkened alley. “I’ve heard tales of her, though our paths have never crossed,” he purred. “I know of her battles and her setbacks. It’s because of her letdowns that she appears so enchanting. From those defeats, a new feline quality has emerged. I’ve given it a name: Tandy. I coined the term during my days as a true cat dreamer, before my body succumbed to the vileness of life. Tandy is a strength to be adored, a quality that men seek from queens, but rarely receive.”

The stranger arose, positioning himself before Zen. His body swayed as if he might topple. Instead, he dropped to the alley’s gravel with true finesse. Then he lifted the kitten’s paws to his whiskers and pressed kisses onto them. “Be Tandy, little one,” he implored. “Dare to be strong and fearless. That’s the path. Take risks. Be bold enough to dare to be loved. Transcend the limits of being a tom or a queen. Be Tandy.” Then with a stagger, he stood and weaved his way down the alley. A day or two later, he leapt aboard the Express and rode the rails back to New York City.   

The next evening, Zen was escorting the kitten to a relative’s den where she had been invited to spend the night. Walking beneath the shadows of the trees, he had forgotten the slurred words of the meowing stranger. His thoughts returned to formulating arguments to shatter faith in a mystical feline deity. He spoke his daughter’s given name, and she burst into tears.

“I don’t want to be called that,” she declared. “I want to be called Tandy.” The kitten wept so deeply that her father was moved to comfort her. Underneath a tree, he cradled her in his paws, caressing her fur. “Behave now,” he admonished, but she refused to be hushed. With abandon, she surrendered herself to grief, her cries breaking the evening silence. “I want to be Tandy!” she wailed, shaking her head, and hoping her fortitude would sustain the vision conjured by the tipsy ginger.

A Little Sister

December 21, 2023 / / 5 Comments

By Kathy Petersen.

Hailey stood in line waiting to see Santa Claus at the mall. She privately doubted that seeing Santa was going to work. Still, when her turn came, she stood beside his knee while the elf took a picture and told Santa that her name was Hailey, and she was five years old.

“And what would you like for Christmas, Hailey?” the man in red asked.

“A little sister,” Hailey said. “And can you really do it this time? I asked last year, and I didn’t get one.”

Santa’s lips formed a round O while he thought. “I can try,” he said. “But a little sister isn’t always easy. Is there something else you might like, just in case?”

“Maybe a doll,” Hailey said unwillingly. “But it wouldn’t be the same.”

Santa patted her head, wished her a MERRR-RY Christmas, and sent her back to her mother, reminding her to get a lollipop from the elf’s basket.

Riding home, Hailey observed her mother closely. Her friend Audrey in kindergarten got a little brother for her birthday — not a little sister, but close. Audrey’s mother had been very fat for a while, and then there was the little brother. The two events seemed somehow connected. Hailey was watching her mother to get fat, but it wasn’t happening. She had no idea how long these things took, but it was getting very close to Christmas. In Hailey’s opinion the chances didn’t look good. She was preparing for another year of disappointment.

In fact, none of the usual Christmas things were happening. Shopping, baking, putting up the fragrant fresh-cut tree — none of that was going on.

“Are we even going to have Christmas?” she asked her mother.

“We’re doing something different this year,” her mother promised. “We’re taking a vacation. It’ll be nice, you’ll see.” This sounded sort of interesting, but Hailey wondered, how can anything be nicer than Christmas?

School vacation started. Hailey’s mother started packing suitcases. On a snowy morning, just days before Christmas, Hailey’s father drove them to the airport, and they all got onto a plane. This was completely unexpected, and Hailey was fascinated until she fell asleep.

They arrived at a different airport, where a huge banner hung in the concourse. Hailey’s father read it to her: Welcome to Seoul. “We’re in a different country,” he explained. “The people speak a different language, but they still have Christmas.”

To Hailey, the Christmas lights on their cab ride to the hotel spoke all the language she needed. Bouncing in her seat she pointed out marvels to her parents—tall buildings covered with lights, trees wrapped in lights, a church decorated with a huge cross ablaze in red neon. A little snow on the ground reminded Hailey of home. She didn’t feel a bit homesick, not the way she felt when she sometimes stayed with her grandparents; her parents were with her for this adventure. All she needed was a little sister. Even though they passed store after beautifully decorated store, something told her that they couldn’t just go shopping for a sister. This year, the lights would have to be enough.

The hotel was sponsoring a doll show; the lobby was full of dolls. I wonder if I’ll get to pick one out? Hailey dreamed. Santa thought a doll would be nice.  Maybe he was right. To her disappointment she wasn’t invited to select a doll. Instead, the family had supper in their room and then went straight to bed. Hailey felt a little grumpy. If her mother wasn’t going to get fat and give her a little sister, she should at least get to choose a doll.

After breakfast they all piled into another cab. Their luggage stayed at the hotel, but her father inexplicably carried a briefcase like the one he took to the office. “Daddy, are you going to work?” she asked.

“No, sweetheart. We just have to bring some papers with us,” he said.

The cab let them off at another colorfully lighted building. It seemed to be full of little children, reminding Hailey of the day care center she used to attend. Her family stopped at a counter, and a lot of papers went back and forth. Then they were shown into a big echoing room with a Christmas tree in one corner. A woman wearing a pink dress that reached right down to her shoes came from a doorway, leading a tiny girl, black-haired and almond-eyed, dressed in blue. She brought her directly to Hailey’s parents, let go of the child’s hand, said a few words, and stepped back.

They all stood silently for a few seconds. Then Hailey’s mother started to cry, and even her father’s eyes became suspiciously moist. The tiny child looked from one to the other, seemed to absorb the atmosphere, and clouded up.

Instantly Hailey took charge. She reached out to hug the little girl, the frightened toddler who understood nothing and didn’t even speak their language. She felt warm little arms wrap around her neck and felt the trembling little body pressed against hers. Suddenly her parents were on their knees, her father enclosing all of them in his arms, and everyone was laughing and crying at once.

“This is your sister,” her mother said. “Her name is Lin.”

Hailey stepped back, utterly confused. “How . . . ?” she asked. “You didn’t even get fat.”

“She’s a gift,” her mother said. “Lin had no family, no one to take care of her, so the people here are giving her to us.”

“Does that mean we can keep her?”

“Forever,” her mother said.

Hailey heard music playing. It sounded strange, twangy, and tuneless, but she knew what music was for. She caught Lin’s hands, and they danced, danced until they fell and lay giggling helplessly. Then her father lifted them up, took Lin on his shoulder and Hailey by the hand, and they all went out into the falling snow.

Arise, Shine, For Your Light Has Come

December 18, 2023 / / 4 Comments

By James Gonda.

The baby’s cry filled the sanctuary, a reminder of birth, life, and devotion.

Joseph and Mary, following Jewish customs, brought the infant to the temple in Jerusalem to present him to the Lord. The temple’s air hung heavy with the scent of burning incense. Intricate carvings and inscriptions adorned the walls. Its altar was a threshold between the mundane and the sacred.

Meanwhile, the Holy Spirit had guided Simeon, a pillar of faith within the community. From a young age, he had dedicated himself to a life of piety and prayer. He was a respected figure in the temple; his deep spirituality drew the attention of those around him. Simeon had also received a divine pledge that he would not die before seeing the Messiah. When he saw the baby that day, he cradled it in his arms and blessed God, praising Him for fulfilling the promise of sending the Savior.

Anna, a prophetess, was also in the temple. She approached Joseph and Mary and gave thanks to God. She was a woman of wisdom and insight. She had maintained a connection to the spiritual realm throughout her life. Widowed at an early age, she devoted herself to fasting, prayer, and service in the temple. Also known for her visionary gifts, she became a fountain of hope for those seeking comfort and guidance. Her presence in the temple that day was intentional—it came from a life of listening to the whispers of the divine. When she approached Joseph and Mary, her words affirmed the child was the long-awaited Messiah.

                                                                ***

A decade later, Simeon and Anna found solace in a quiet corner of the city. The air in Jerusalem was cool and crisp under the starry sky. The street murmurs had subsided, leaving room for the distant echo of night creatures. The pair had settled on a weathered stone bench; the temple loomed in the distance.

Simeon turned to Anna and spoke in a gentle rumble. “Do you remember when we first met the infant Jesus?”

She smiled. “I shall never forget. A presence beyond words charged the air, as if the cosmos itself bowed to the child.”

Simeon’s eyes sparkled with memories of the meeting. “The divine promise, in the arms of a couple from Nazareth. He leaned forward, his demeanor fraught with apprehension. “Anna, in my dreams, I see the child growing, his path marked by shadows and light.”

It was a full moon that night. A silvery glow illuminated the lines on their faces and the furrows of their brows.

“I, too, have dreamt of the child,” Anna said. “In my visions, I see threads connecting him to the hearts of many—a plethora of lives touched by divinity.”  

Simeon pondered her words for a short time. Then: “What is the child’s destiny, Anna?” His question lingered in the air; the word ‘destiny’ pregnant with possibilities.

Anna’s eyes held a distant gaze, as if peering into the beyond. “His destiny is to awaken the dormant light within every soul. To be a beacon that guides humanity from darkness into love.”  

Simeon kicked up a few pieces of gravel. “What if humanity’s darkness overwhelms the light? What if his beacon becomes a flicker?”

Anna looked at him. “Dear friend, I believe we are trustees of a truth that transcends time.”

The stars above, scattered like celestial witnesses, bore witness to their pact.

Simeon said, “Then we’re trustees of a fragile flame threatened by encroaching gloom. What if, despite his best efforts, evil prevails? What if the dark forces prove too formidable?”                                                                     

Anna placed her hand on his shoulder. “Simeon, faith is the anchor that steadies our hearts amid fear and doubt. The child, now a boy, carries within him a resilience beyond our understanding. The shadows may twist and bend, but they cannot extinguish his flame.”

“Hmm.” Simeon remained incredulous.

As they continued their back and forth under the moon and stars, a soft breeze rustled through the passageways of Jerusalem.

Then without preamble, a brilliance enveloped them. The night sky transformed into a canvas of silver and gold, casting an ethereal glow over their nook. For a few seconds Simeon and Anna found themselves blinded by the display. Then they rose from the bench, startled.

They fixated on the sight unfolding above. Simeon’s countenance gave way to a childlike wonder. He reached for Anna’s hand, seeking reassurance during this spectacle from another world. Caught off guard, Anna felt her heart racing. Her eyes shimmered with enchantment.

The weight of the moment pressed upon them. They exchanged glances that acknowledged the extraordinary encounter they were witnessing. In that sacred space, time seemed to lose its grip. The boundary between the normal and the paranormal blurred as Simeon and Anna permitted the glow to encase them.

From the midst of the radiance emerged an angelic being. Its outstretched wings cast a luminous aura. Simeon and Anna fell to their knees. Its voice was gentle yet powerful. “Simeon, Anna, your faith has been steadfast and your hearts true. You indeed met the Messiah in the temple. Please know his destiny is woven into the fabric of the universe, beyond the reach of mortals. Fear not, for the light he carries will outshine the boundaries of time. The shadows may attempt to obscure, but his flame is eternal.”

With those words, the display reached a crescendo. It bathed Simeon and Anna in a shower of radiant stardust. Then as quickly as the brilliance had appeared, it receded, leaving the night sky in a serene, starlit beauty.

Simeon and Anna stayed on their knees for a moment, absorbing the celestial encounter.

A profound peace settled within their hearts.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Deconstructed

December 16, 2023 / / 2 Comments

By Rudy Petersen.

Sure, you’ve heard the song dozens—if not hundreds—of times.

Let’s revisit the lyrics once more and then address some ethical questions.

You know Dasher and Dancer
And Prancer and Vixen,
Comet and Cupid
And Donner and Blitzen.
But do you recall
The most famous reindeer of all?

Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer
Had a very shiny nose
And if you ever saw it
You would even say it glows.

All of the other reindeer
Used to laugh and call him names
They never let poor Rudolph
Join in any reindeer games.

Then one foggy Christmas Eve
Santa came to say
Rudolph with your nose so bright
Won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?
Then all the reindeer loved him
And they shouted out with glee
“Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer
You’ll go down in history.”

OK, there it is, the whole tacky story in 113 simple English words. You, perhaps, may have seen the movie, which seeks to offer a back-story to the song. Now I must ask: have you ever really considered what is going on here—socially, ethically—regarding common decency toward other individuals? If not, then I suggest the key questions before us are these:

Item: Are the other reindeer immature and/or naive?                                   Hint: instead of getting ready for work on Christmas Eve, they’re playing games.

Item: Are the other reindeer a gang of bullies?
Hint: They habitually have been laughing at Rudolph and calling him names. 

Item: Are the other reindeer hypocrites?
Hint: When Rudolph’s “nose so bright” leads the way, thereby saving the jobs of the entire team, then they all “loved” him. Hmm.

Item: What is the nature of love in this song?                                                   Hint: Does the love seem superficial, tied only to a hope of sharing the glory—in effect, sucking up to Rudolph to get to Santa himself?

Item: What is Santa’s proper role in this situation?
Hint: He’s the boss, the head honcho, the leader. Does he not have a responsibility to use this episode as a teaching moment?

Item: Have the other reindeer reached an epiphany, or will they revert to their former behavior?
Hint: We hear the song, and probably see the movie every Christmas season, and yet the story never changes. Why not?

I have considered traveling to the North Pole and confronting the reindeer gang to press them on these points, but I suspect they would give me little or no satisfaction. I might interview Santa, and possibly Mrs. Claus, but I anticipate getting nothing but jolly elf-twaddle about it all being in “fun”—you know, the sweetness and light approach—always a good dodge.

So, I’ll leave this matter to you to ponder. Why do so many citizens greet the annual holiday with fond recollection of this most suspect of popular tunes? Is it tradition? Is it raw sentimentality? Bah humbug! I say.

I realize that these are not issues that you, or even us working together, can resolve. But I thank you for staying with me on this important cultural issue. I feel so much better now.

But My Pastor Said!

December 3, 2023 / / 3 Comments

By John Hargraves.

It was my first new car – a banging 1981 white Toyota Celica GT coupe with a 5-speed stick, blue herringbone seats and a center console 6-band stereo equalizer. I loved that car.

So, I kept it clean and paid close attention to imperfections. One day I noticed a slow leak in the left front tire and dropped it off at the Mobil station where they actually still did mechanical repairs. My office was only two minutes away.

Not too long after I returned my clinic, the mechanic called me. Sotto voce, he asked me to come back to the station right away. There had been an accident.

Soon on the scene, I discovered an elderly woman in the driver’s seat of a hulking green Buick LeSabre. After getting her tank filled, she had confused the gas pedal with the brake pedal. The mechanic had parked my baby Celica perpendicular to the pumps and she had broadsided it. I was astonished to see the GT’s width reduced to three feet and only the console’s equalizer appeared to be spared. The heavy chrome front bumper of the Buick had made a Jell-O mold out of the side of my car.  

The white-haired woman behind the wheel was a bit dazed but apologetic. I sublimated my nausea and channeled the good doctor. Discovering she was diabetic, I summoned a sugary coke from the mechanic, and she reconstituted. She was otherwise intact and fortunately had her seat belt fastened. Looking back now, I’m surprised that the mechanic did not call for paramedics. I guess he was killing two birds with one stone. 

The woman and I exchanged insurances, license information and phone numbers. The mechanic requested that I pay for my tire repair, eight dollars and change. The fact that I paid him is a testimony to the shade of chartreuse signifying how green I was.

Days later I learned my Celica was totaled out by my insurance company.  I ordered a new car which would take six weeks to arrive.  In the meantime, I had to rent a vehicle for $10 a day but had no rental coverage. 

I decided to call the woman who destroyed my car to see how she was doing. She was overjoyed to hear from me and thanked me profusely for attending to her at the accident. When she heard I’d be out $10 a day for six weeks, she said that the least she could do was pay me back by covering the rental costs. She insisted I come by her house the next day to make me lunch and pick up the cash. She told me she was a church goer, and this was the right thing to do. It felt good that this wasn’t just about a car accident anymore.

The next day she called me back right before lunch time. Sounding uncomfortable but firm, she told me I could not come by and that she would not be reimbursing my expenses. She had consulted with her pastor about what had transpired. He advised and warned her against opening the door to the admission of fault with her gestures.

“Really?” was about all I could muster. 

“But my pastor said!” she replied.

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