The Beverwyck Review

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

Category: Mashup

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.

The Fall of Sleepy Hollow’s House of Usher

October 8, 2023 / / 3 Comments

By James Gonda.

A mashup of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” by Washington Irving, published in 1820, and “The Fall of the House of Usher” by Edgar Alan Poe, published in 1839.

Outside the village of Sleepy Hollow, the Usher mansion’s decaying façade emerged from the dense woods. Gnarled trees clung to the property. Their branches reached for the heavens as if to escape the house’s sinister aura. Its pointed arches and weathered stone bore witness to the passage of time. Moss and ivy had crept up the walls, obscuring the intricate carvings. The windows, once grand and ornate, now resembled hollow eyes with shattered panes and warped frames. At night, the moonlight casts eerie, elongated shadows across the property.

Ichabod Crane, a schoolteacher known for his unwavering skepticism, made his arrival in Sleepy Hollow on an overcast afternoon. He was a tall and lean figure, attired in a high-collared shirt, a black stock tie, and a billowing black coat that swayed in the wind. The villagers had assembled nearby, their countenances marked by curiosity and unease. “Pray, who might this gentleman be, and what brings him to our midst?” Old Man Johnson muttered, his eyes narrowing. Sarah, the daughter of the innkeeper, responded, “They speak of him as some manner of investigator, intent on disproving our local legends,”

Nathaniel Wilkins, the village’s librarian, stepped forward, his visage etched with apprehension. He extended his hand towards Ichabod. “Mr. Crane, I presume?”

“Indeed, I am Ichabod Crane. You must be Mr. Wilkins.”

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence, sir. We find ourselves in need of your expertise.”

Ichabod surveyed the gathering multitude. “Very well, Mr. Wilkins. Kindly provide me with a comprehensive account.”

As the villagers drew nearer, Nathaniel began to recount the peculiar events that had befallen Sleepy Hollow in recent weeks. “It all commenced a few months past, sir. Folks began to witness strange luminous phenomena near the Usher mansion during the night. Uncanny sounds reverberated through the forest, and some claimed to have glimpsed the Headless Horseman.”

Ichabod’s furrowing brow betrayed his skepticism. “I comprehend the potency of local folklore, Mr. Wilkins. My purpose here is to delve into the matter.” And with this statement, Ichabod initiated his inquiry.

Nathaniel led Ichabod to the heart of Sleepy Hollow, the local inn to gather intelligence. Everyone fixated their eyes upon the visitor. “I am Ichabod Crane. I received a request to investigate the mysteries surrounding the Usher mansion.” I would appreciate your cooperation in shedding light on this matter.”

A middle-aged farmer named Samuel rose to his feet. His rugged hands, calloused from years of labor, toyed with the frayed edge of his coat. “We have seen peculiar occurrences, sir,” he said, his eyes darting toward the ceiling. “Lights that waltz in the night . . .”

Then Old Jeb, weathered by years of exposure to the elements, chimed in with a raspy voice. “And eerie sounds that send chills down one’s spine.” His eyes gleamed with fear. With a haunting intonation, he mimicked the mournful wail they all heard in the night—a lament that seemed to resonate from the very core of the earth. Then his gaze fell to the floor. “Some even swear they’ve seen the Headless Horseman.”

The villagers were well-steeped in the legend of the Headless Horseman, a spectral rider that had harassed their lands for generations. Its presence had evolved into a terrifying myth.

Ichabod raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “The Headless Horseman? Are you certain it’s not a trick of the light or a man disguised as a horseman?”

“I ain’t suggestin’ it’s some ghost, but I know what I saw. It wasn’t no ordinary man.” Old Jeb’s face reddened with indignation.

As the conversation continued, Ichabod’s doubts clashed with the villagers’ belief in the paranormal. He leaned forward, his spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. “Now, dear friends, while I acknowledge the influence of stories and superstitions on the human psyche, we must exercise caution in ascribing every peculiar sound and flickering light to supernatural forces.”

A murmur of disapproval rippled through the crowd. Rebacca, a farmer’s wife known for her keen intuition, interjected, “But, Mr. Crane, I saw it. Lights danced like ethereal spirits in the night, and I heard a wail that chilled the very soul.”

Ichabod adjusted his glasses and curled his lips. “Ah, my dear, the human mind can often deceive in the darkness. There’s a good chance you observed a will-o’-the-wisp or heard a woodland creature.”

The tension in the room escalated. Some villagers shifted in their seats, their gaze oscillating between Ichabod and the believers.

Then Jacob, a burly blacksmith with arms of iron, could no longer contain his frustration. “Mr. Crane, you may doubt our words, but this is our home, our lives. Generations have resided here, and we know what is real. The Headless Horseman is no mere tale.”

Ichabod sighed. “I intend no offense. I’m only suggesting there may be rational explanations for these phenomena.”

The room fell into an uneasy silence as the villagers exchanged glances. It was then that a young woman approached the gathering. She exuded a quiet confidence and possessed a discerning gaze.

“Mr. Crane,” Nathaniel said, “this is Katrina Van Tassel. She holds a deep fascination for folklore and is connected to the Usher mansion’s history.”

Katrina Van Tassel was a striking presence. Her fiery red hair radiated like autumn leaves in the sunlight; her intellect and self-assured demeanor set her apart. She was born into the esteemed Van Tassel family and raised in the heart of Sleepy Hollow. Her family’s lineage had long been intertwined with local legends and tales; she had grown up hearing stories about the Usher mansion and the Headless Horseman. She had dedicated her free time to the study of the village’s history, poring over ancient tomes and manuscripts in her family’s library. She often roamed the woods and pathways of Sleepy Hollow to collect accounts of ghost-like encounters.

Ichabod acknowledged the young lady with a nod. “Miss Van Tassel.”

Katrina’s eyes sparkled with intrigue as she regarded Ichabod. “Mr. Crane, your arrival has stirred the village. We rarely see skeptics venturing into the heart of our enduring legends.”

“I have come here, Miss Van Tassel, with the purpose of uncovering the truth.” He offered a courteous smile.


To unravel the mysteries that had gripped Sleepy Hollow, Ichabod forged a partnership with Katrina. Their first meeting in the Usher mansion’s library was filled with the scent of old leather-bound books and the faint rustle of parchment. They exchanged ideas and theories; their voices rose and fell in debate. Each had their own approach to solving the town’s mysteries. Ichabod favored logical, methodical analysis. Katrina’s intuition led her down unconventional paths.

One afternoon, their conflicting viewpoints reached a boiling point. Ichabod slammed a dusty manuscript shut; frustration etched across his features. “Miss Van Tassell, you can’t possibly believe these superstitions! We need concrete evidence, not ghost stories.” Katrina’s eyes blazed with defiance. “Mr. Crane, you’re too focused on what you can see and touch. There’s more to this town than meets the eye. I won’t dismiss the townsfolk’s stories without cause.”

One night as they leaned over a large table in the library, Katrina’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. She traced her fingers over a faded map of the town. Their heads almost touched as they engaged in fervent discussion. “Mr. Crane, our forebears believed that a curse ensnared this house. Legends speak of a malevolent force residing within these walls—a presence that hungers for souls.” Ichabod regarded Katrina with his usual skepticism. “Curses and malevolent forces are often birthed from the fertile soil of superstition,” Miss Van Tassell. My allegiance lies with facts, evidence, and reason.”

The pair continued to sift through old books, scrutinizing ancient symbols and faded illustrations. Katrina read aloud the faded ink on a timeworn page. “According to this journal the Usher family delved into the arcane, practiced forbidden rituals, and sought power beyond the mortal realm.” 

Ichabod examined the writings. “Yes, that confirms this place is steeped in the supernatural.”


One night as Ichabod and Katrina stood outside the mansion, a rustling noise came from the woods. Ichabod’s instincts came to the fore. He motioned for Katrina to remain at a safe distance while he approached the sound’s origin. Then a shadowy figure emerged from the forest, its silhouette veiled in obscurity. The air grew colder, and Katrina gasped. “Is that . . .?” she began. Right before their eyes, a figure on a horse materialized, its headless form outlined against the moonlit expanse. The chill in the atmosphere deepened; a hollow, eerie laughter resonated through the night. Ichabod struggled to maintain his composure. “Stay near, Miss Van Tassel. We must not allow fear to cloud our judgment. It’s likely an individual out for a late-night ride.”

The moon appeared to dim as the ghostlike rider drew nearer. Its tattered attire billowed in the wind. The cold intensified, permeating their clothing and manifesting as visible breath in the air. Katrina clung to Ichabod’s arm. Her fingers dug into his flesh as she watched in disbelief. As the headless rider approached, Ichabod’s voice quivered. “This cannot be real. It defies all reason.” The apparition paid no heed to his disbelief. In the eerie silence, a hollow, chilling laughter filled the night, bereft of warmth or humanity. Fear welled up in Katrina’s eyes. “The Headless Horseman . . . is real.” Ichabod’s skepticism crumbled; dread, bone-deep, enveloped him. As the headless specter continued its advance, its presence defied any rational explanation. The pair stood face to face with a nightmare from the town’s darkest legends. Its existence was undeniable. In that heart-stopping moment, reason yielded to the supernatural. Their quest for truth triggered an encounter with a legend that should have been folklore.


A few nights later as Ichabod and Katrina explored the mansion’s passageways, the oppressive atmosphere pressed down upon them. Venturing further into the house, their lanterns cast pools of light. Peeling wallpaper resembled the skin of a giant serpent. Cobwebs hung like phantom drapes, their tendrils clinging to their faces. Ichabod’s once-confident demeanor had eroded, replaced by an unease that contorted his features. He cast a sidelong glance at Katrina. “Miss Van Tassel, I must confess the evidence we’ve encountered . . . refutes logical explanation.” As they pressed onward, the mansion shifted around them. The floorboards creaked; its groans reverberated through the hallway. Ichabod’s fingers clenched the lantern’s handle as he struggled to make sense of the inexplicable. “These walls have borne witness to horrors that defy comprehension.” Katrina nodded. “It is as if the mansion itself is a living nightmare—a repository for the darkest secrets and the weight of centuries of tragedy.”

Their lanterns cast long, flickering shadows upon the distorted and discolored portraits of the Usher family on the walls. Each generation bore the weight of their inscrutable past, veiling the family’s history in mystery. The clan had always been a reclusive and enigmatic lineage; they shunned the company of the villagers. Tales and legends enveloped them, recounting eccentricities and esoteric interests. Yet the family’s secrets remained guarded; villagers could only speculate on the true nature of their ominous legacy. The name Usher struck terror in any person who dared to utter it.

As Ichabod and Katrina made their way deeper into the mansion, a chill wind swept forth from the darkness ahead. The flames in their lanterns flickered wildly. “Miss Van Tassel, I fear that we may have ventured too far into the unknown. The boundary between reality and the paranormal is becoming blurred. We are treading on uncharted ground.” His voice quavered with uncertainty.

“Then it’s our responsibility to confront the mysteries and bring illumination to the shadows that inhabit this mansion. We must uncover the truth, whatever the cost. This house, the curse, the Headless Horseman—they’re all facets of a reality we cannot dismiss.” Her voice brimmed with conviction. “The Usher family’s legacy commenced with a curse, a pact with an entity that has fueled the Headless Horseman. It serves as the impetus for the phenomena that have haunted Sleepy Hollow.”

“I’ve always placed faith in the power of logic and evidence. But this house has reshaped my convictions.”

Katrina turned to him. “Mr. Crane, you’ve always been the staunch advocate of reason. What could possibly have shaken your beliefs?” He hesitated; his gaze fixed upon an intricate, cobweb-covered chandelier. “It’s not just the stories or the folklore. It’s the inexplicable occurrences, the eerie sensations that grip me every time I step inside these walls. I can’t deny that there’s something here that defies rational explanation.”

Katrina spoke softly. “I’ve always believed that there are forces in this world beyond our comprehension. Perhaps it’s not a matter of abandoning logic but expanding it to include the unexplained.”

Ichabod nodded. “You may be right, Miss Van Tassell.” Reluctance filled his voice. “Perhaps it’s time to embrace the unknown and allow ourselves to consider the mysteries that have eluded reason for so long.”

As they arrived on the verge of a portal that held the key to breaking the curse, Ichabod knew this moment would decide Sleepy Hollow’s destiny. The air around them palpitated with anticipation. A large pentagram on the stone floor confronted them. Ichabod extended his hand and commenced reciting an incantation from their investigation: “In nocte stellis et tenebris, ad eam quae celata est, veritatem revelare! In the night of stars and darkness, to her who is hidden, reveal the truth!”

The words reverberated off the walls, causing the chamber’s temperature to plummet. The air became charged with energy. Katrina watched Ichabod as he continued the chant. As his voice swelled and receded in rhythmic cadence, an invisible force tugged at him, threatening to pull him into the abyss. He clung to his determination; Katrina saw the strain on his face. From the darkness beyond the pentagram’s confines, an unnerving, guttural growl emanated—an unnatural amalgamation of anger and torment. Katrina’s breath caught in her throat. She grasped the amulet adorning her neck, a protective talisman. Ichabod’s voice wavered, but he persevered, completing the incantation. The room pulsed with an escalating energy. Katrina sensed a pressure building within her ears. Their lanterns flickered violently. The pentagram’s lines began to emit an eerie, azure glow. The growling grew more menacing, its intensity deafening. Indistinct and ominous shadows materialized at the chamber’s periphery. Katrina’s grip on her amulet tightened. She inched closer to the pentagram’s edge, her eyes locked onto Ichabod. “Mr. Crane, exercise caution!” Ichabod steeled himself, with determination prevailing over fear, and continued to chant. The growling reached an ear-splitting crescendo. The shadows surged forward, almost breaching the pentagram’s boundaries. Ichabod’s incantation hung in the air, a fragile thread, the only barrier preventing the horrors from breaking through. Katrina’s heart raced as she watched Ichabod struggle to complete his recitation . . .   


The curse that had ensnared the House of Usher and tied it to the Headless Horseman dissipated into the night. Katrina stood by Ichabod, her eyes reflecting relief and joy. The darkness that had plagued Sleepy Hollow for generations seemed to be vanquished. The mansion shuddered and then began to crumble. As the walls collapsed around them, Ichabod and Katrina clasped hands and escaped into the moonlight.

As they raced through the forest, the ground beneath their feet trembled. A low, menacing chuckle echoed through the night. The Headless Horseman, whose spectral form was no longer bound to the mansion, emerged from the shadows. Its eerie laughter filled the air. Katrina gasped, her grip tightening on Ichabod’s hand. “How is this possible? The curse is gone!” The Horseman’s hollow eyes fixed on them, and its voice resonated like a chilling wind. “You may have broken the Usher curse, but I am not defeated!” It raised its sword and advanced towards the couple. Ichabod and Katrina were trapped; desperation surged through their veins. Then remembering the legends of Sleepy Hollow, Ichabod knew the Horseman had a weakness: an aversion to sunlight. With the first rays of dawn beginning to break, he saw their chance to fend off the vengeful spirit. “Lead it toward the sunrise! It cannot withstand the light!” They darted through the trees, luring the Horseman into the direction of the sunrise. It pursued them relentlessly; its sword slashed through the air as it closed the distance.

As the first rays of the sun crept over the horizon, the Horseman let out an agonized scream. Its spectral form began to flicker and dissipate. It tried to retreat into the shadows. Weakened and disoriented, it faltered, and Ichabod seized the opportunity. He grabbed the reins of its steed, wrenched them away, and dismounted the menacing figure. With sunlight consuming the Horseman’s form, it could not fight back. In one final, piercing wail, it dissolved into nothingness, incinerated by the rising sun.

Ichabod and Katrina were left standing in the forest, exhausted yet victorious. The curse was truly broken, and Sleepy Hollow was free at last from the terror that had plagued it for generations. With relief and gratitude, the pair made their way out of the woods. Their courage became the town’s new folklore; their names would always be spoken with reverence. Through the seasons that followed, Ichabod and Katrina watched as Sleepy Hollow prospered, and laughter and music returned to its streets.

Never Give Up

July 2, 2023 / / 1 Comment

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.

The Great Suppression

June 21, 2023 / / 0 Comments

A Mashup of Sherwood Anderson (1876-1941) & George Orwell (1903-1950) by James Gonda.

You cannot tell this story because many of the words are verboten. The story is almost forgotten but sometimes you remember. If you had certain words, if they were on the approved list, then  you would sing the story. You would whisper it into the ears of women, of mothers. You would run through the streets and recite it over and over. Your tongue would be torn loose—it would rattle against your teeth. 

The story concerns three men in a house. One is a young dandy. He laughs at everything and nothing. There is a second man with a long white beard. Self-doubt consumes him; sometimes this doubt diminishes, and he sleeps. A third man has wicked eyes and paces about the room rubbing his hands together. These men are waiting . . . . 

Upstairs in the house a woman is standing with her back to a wall, in half-darkness by a window. That is the foundation of your story. Everything you will ever know is distilled in it, and the forbidden words rest at the bottom of the kettle.

You remember a fourth man came to the house, a stealthy person. Was he a government spy? Everything about him was as quiet as the sea at night. His feet made no sound on the stone floor in the room with the three men. Then the man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid. He darted back and forth like a caged animal. The old grey man kept pulling his beard, infected by nervousness. 

The fourth man, the mysterious one, went upstairs to the woman. Oh, how quiet the house became! How loudly the clock ticked in the parlor! 

The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story. She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create love. When the silent man came to her, she sprang forward. Her lips parted and she smiled. The silent man remained silent. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question. His eyes were as impersonal as stars. 

Meanwhile, the wicked man whined. He moved back and forth like a lost and starving dog. What did he want? The grey one tried to follow him but soon grew tired. He lay down on the floor and went to sleep, and never awoke. The dandy lay on the floor too, in his spiffy clothes. He giggled and played with his tiny black mustache. What was so funny? 

There are no permitted words to explain what happened. You cannot tell the story. The silent one, the spy, may have been Death. The waiting eager woman may have been Life. Both the grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle you. You think and think but cannot understand them. But most of the time you do not ponder them at all. You keep ruminating about the dandy who laughed throughout your story. If you could understand him, you could understand everything. You could run through the world and share a wonderful story. You would no longer be encumbered. 

Why are the words under lock and key? Why are we suppressed? You have a wonderful story but cannot use the words.  

NO WORRIES – A Mashup of Joel 2:21-27 & Matthew 6:25-33

March 14, 2023 / / 5 Comments

By James Gonda.

The prophet Joel, a spokesperson for God, exuded optimism while facing a motley crowd. “Do not distress!” he said. “Be glad and rejoice for the LORD has done great things.” He glanced at the skeletal livestock. “Do not fret, animals of the fields, for the pastures will soon turn green. The trees will again bear fruit; fig trees and grapevines will bend from their bounty. Then Jesus of Nazareth, the Anointed One, chimed in. “This is why I’ve told you not to worry about your daily life. Whether you have enough food and drink, or ample clothes to wear. Is life not more than food and the body not more than clothing?” The assembled kept their eyes on him. “You’ve seen the lilies of the field,” he continued. “You know they do not labor nor make their clothing. Yet the most bejeweled kings in all their glory are not adorned like one of those. If God cares for the wildflowers which are here today and gone tomorrow, then he will care for you.” He paused so his words may sink in. Then: “Consider the birds. They do not plant, or harvest, or store food in barns, and your heavenly father feeds them. Oh, why are you of little faith?” Joel raised his arms as if grasping for heaven. “Celebrate in the LORD your God!” he said, and Jesus cut back in. “Brothers and sisters, aren’t you more valuable to Him than birds? Can worries add a single moment to your life?” He gave Joel a nod and Joel said, “Precipitation will be a sign of His faithfulness. Autumn rains will come, followed by spring showers. Piles of grain will again fill your threshing floors. Your presses will overflow with wine and oil.” Then without warning or preamble, a Voice boomed from the sky. “I will give back what you lost to the locusts, an army of insects which I sent against you. You will have all the food you want. You will praise the LORD your God who works miracles for you. Then you will understand that I am the LORD your God, and there is no other.” Jesus added, “So do not worry about these things, asking yourselves, ‘What will we eat? What will we drink? What will we wear?’ Such questions plague the thoughts of unbelievers. Your heavenly father knows your needs. Seek first the Kingdom of God and live righteously, and the necessities of life will be supplied. The Voice returned. “Never again will my people know shame, know shame, know shame,” it echoed.

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