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BIBLE ON THE DASHBOARD mike lee
April 17, 1985
The
bathroom smelled of burned metal. When I looked in the mirror I was reminded that
last night was not good. Drank way too much.
I
opened the door and walked down the hallway. Stopped to check in my room to see
Helen still sprawled on the bed and pulled the door closed.
I
returned to the living room and cleared the couch of its debris: a newspaper
from last week, punk rock fanzines, college textbooks and plastic cups left
over from last night’s party. I laid down. I was sick, my stomach was growling and
I had a headache. I meant to grab Tylenol from the bathroom cabinet but forgot.
I
was too tired. Burned out. Fried. Only wanted time to rest my eyes from the
glaring sun peeking through the dirty curtains above me before moving on to the
shower.
The
air conditioner was running, but the circulation was poor and gave little
comfort. We needed to have the landlord change the filter, but because of the
filthy condition of the apartment, we were too paranoid to let him in.
I
looked up to see Mary standing over me wearing her Minor Threat t-shirt, cut so
deep into the sleeves I could see the curves of her breasts, reaching out and
brushing my hair over my face, and smiling.
“Hey,
you,” I said.
“Hey.”
She flipped her hand and slid the backs of her fingers gently under my neck.
“Here
to make trouble?”
“That’s
what I do,” she said. “How many times did I tell you how much I love your face;
that strong chin and those gray sweetheart eyes?”
“Many
times since tenth grade, when we met in Biology class, sixth period.” I pointed
toward the hallway. “I would take care, since your boyfriend is in bed.”
“So?”
Then she cupped my face in her hands and kissed me.
May 10, 1985
I
had nodded off, with my face pressed against the car window. I squinted from
the sun’s glare, and rolled down the window to catch some air.
I
turned to see Mary driving, both hands on the steering wheel, wearing more
bangles than normal, and her hair pulled up with a red bandana.
“Rise
and shine, sweetheart,” she said. “You fall asleep too easy. I’m glad you are
not driving. You’ve killed me enough times as it is.”
I
leaned to push in the cigarette lighter.
“Light
me one, too,” said Mary, changing gears on her boyfriend’s ’76 Camaro.
I
lit two and put the other one between her lips. She was wearing white Ray-Bans;
she lost the screw for the right hinge yesterday and had stuck in a paper clip.
The black onyx and sterling dangling earrings her boyfriend gave her. I may
like them as much as he does.
Mary
puffed nervously on the cigarette and leaned forward over the steering wheel. I
had the sense she was suddenly unmindful of my existence.
I
looked at the road ahead. We were driving south on I-35, toward the record show
in San Antonio. When we passed the rotting billboard for the Snake Farm
advertising “SEE GORILLA!” I spotted a wrecked BMW wrapped against the
guardrail, the front end in flames. I turned to see if the driver was out of
the car and clutched the crucifix. The door was open and the man waved at us to
pull over.
Mary
didn’t slow down. Instead she placed her hand over mine, letting it linger
before reaching to punch in the The Smiths cassette.
I
was curious about why there was a battered Gideon’s Bible on the dashboard,
shoved tight against the edge of the windshield. The cover was faded and well
thumbed, its edging cracked. It changed position, so I know she read it.
I
thought to ask about that after the incident with the car wreck, but thought
against the notion as we sped south to the hardcore show.
June 21, 1985
I
had to move out kind of quick.
She
turned to me. “Did you get what you want?”
I
leaned against the entryway, boxes stacked behind me to take to my car. “I
don’t know.”
There
was a silence. I said, “Did you get what you
wanted?”
Mary
stared. Finally, she spoke. “I learned something about myself, but I don’t know
what that is, yet. But, I will do as I am told.”
She
took a long drag from her cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray on
the coffee.
I
nodded, and started carrying boxes to my car while she sat on the couch, trying
not to look.
July 11, 1985
I
moved into an apartment in Clarksville. My roommate wasn’t so bad. Played a lot
of jazz. I was driving north on Burnet Road when at the light, the Camaro pulled
up beside me.
Mary
turned, smiling. She dyed her hair red. Saw the earrings. Saw the bible on the
dashboard.
Her
boyfriend reached across her lap and pulled up the window. He just had the
glass tinted. Into the darkness Mary goes.
The
Bible was his, after all.
When
the light changed, he peeled out, burning rubber. I wasn’t impressed.
I
turned left on Allendale and drove through the Hill Country until nightfall.
Mike
Lee is an editor, photographer and a reporter for a trade union
newspaper in New York City. His fiction is published in Muskeg,
trampset, Lunate, Ghost Parachute and others. Website: www.mleephotoart.com. He also blogs for Focus on the Story.
HANGING / BURNING steve gergley
1. The Hanging Man
I am the hanging man. For two days I’ve hung from this elm.
There’s a rope around my ruined neck. Flies walk on my open eyes.
I am the first one you see from the road. He put me here to
let you know: the angel of God has come to this place. To revel in sin is to
end up like me.
I’ve lived in this town my whole life. Just before I turned
sixteen, I met God in a dream. His body was wrapped in shining gold. His face
was the face of the father I’d never known.
The next day I walked to the wooden church at the top of
the hill. It was Sunday, and the entire town was gathered for mass.
Near the end of the preacher’s sermon my body began to
shake. Moments later I found myself at the front of the church, speaking God’s
words. To this day I don’t remember what He said. All I remember is the feeling
of His voice passing through me, His words flowing from my mouth like cold
water in a creek.
For the next twenty years I stood before my neighbors and
preached my Father’s good word.
Then, on the morning of my thirty-sixth birthday, His voice
suddenly left me. So I tramped through the woods until I found a creek. There I
stepped into the clear water, rested my head on the rocks, and began to pray.
For two days I lay in that creek and let my Father’s water
wash over me, just as his spirit washed over me on that day twenty years ago.
Shivering in the icy water, I heard nothing but the bubbling mumble of the
creek, the rasping breath of the wind. But still I stayed, staring up through
the trees.
On the morning of the third day a column of fire came down
from the sky. Seeing this, I ran back to town and gathered my congregation at
my church. Soon an angel of God arrived at our door. His body was wrapped in
gold. His face glowed with God’s light. In an instant I recognized Him: He was
my Father, the one who had appeared in my dream all those years ago.
Overcome with joy, I opened my arms and let Him inside.
2. The Burning Man
I am the burning man. For hours I’ve sat on this slab of
scorched earth that used to be our church. Here I stare at His brilliant light,
His glittering gold, His beautiful face.
His face is the face of man, woman, and child united as one
spirit under God. He is God’s angel sent down from the sky.
My legs are afire. My fingers are swallowed in flame. But
still I stare at Him. His beautiful face fills my heart with light and love and
peace and divinity. When I try to turn away, the world begins to bend.
Just before sunset he looks down at me. Staring into His
golden eyes, I hear His voice in my head. His voice is the voice of God. With
this voice He tells me to stand up and to fetch a rope and to hang the false
prophet from a tree.
I try to follow His command, but my body doesn’t move. It
roars with pain. It shrivels and shudders within the crackle of the divine
flames. Seeing this, God’s angel walks up to me and touches my shoulder. His
touch is cool, soothing, the touch of a loving father comforting his frightened
child. In an instant the pain of my burning body washes away and I can move
again. Rapturous with joy, I follow my Father’s command. I walk to my house on
trembling, burning legs and grab a length of rope from my barn. Clutching the
rope in my blackened fingers, I stare in awe at the power of God’s will: the
rope does not burn.
Now I return to our destroyed church and wrap the rope
around the false prophet’s neck. Then I drag him to the edge of town and hang
him from a sturdy elm. Moments later God’s angel appears before me and rests
His hand on my head. A deafening peal of thunder cleaves the world in two. A
wall of gold light swallows my body whole. I fall into God’s arms and
everything disappears.
Steve Gergley is a writer
and runner based in Warwick, New York. His fiction has appeared or is
forthcoming in A-Minor, After the Pause, Barren Magazine, Maudlin House,
Pithead Chapel, and others. In addition to writing fiction, he has composed and
recorded five albums of original music. His fiction can be found at: https://stevegergleyauthor.