Mary Sullivan Esseff
Jun 15, 2015 | 1st pages, Romance, Spiritual
A hush fell over the room. Immediately, a voice, passionate and pure, rose high, kissing the rafters, filling the room with a soft stream of lyrics:
“Thi . . la wee . lek . fee . . neh roi . . yeh hah feen . . .”
The guitar began quietly, and then the drum entered with definitive Middle-Eastern quarter tones, not overwhelming, but blending with the tenor’s voice that achieved the highest notes with remarkable ease.
The notes—fairies dancing atop a puff of air—wove lithely among the crowded tables until they found the shy red-haired young woman standing alone in the entranceway. Students and teachers clustered around tables blocked the woman’s view of the singer at the far end of the social room. Even standing on her toes, she could see only the tips of the musicians’ heads.
The song caressed the young woman with tenderness, encircled her, held her in its arms, drew her into the room, guided her between the tables, lingering with her until she sat at a small empty table close to the others, yet still detached.
Notes exploded like silvery fireworks, first into a spectacular crescendo, then sprinkled like fairy dust onto the sea of rapt faces. The final whispered note hung in its purity for an eternity, then softly dissolved into the stillness of the night.
Silence.
The tenor bowed, his head almost touching his knees.
The silence gave way to applause from all except the red-haired young woman. She didn’t—couldn’t—move.
Without hesitation, the singer immediately began a rendition of The Sloop John B, popularized by the Kingston Trio a couple of years before. A dozen teenage boys surrounding the singer joined in the chorus with such enthusiasm, it was apparent they had done so many times before. Minutes later, though obviously enjoying the ovation that greeted their harmonic ending, the man apologized to the crowd. “We didn’t mean to put on a show or break up the party,” he said, taking another modest bow.
The spontaneous show over, the teens and the group of college-age girls burst into excited chatter. The young woman listened as the girls exchanged stories of their first two weeks in Europe. She didn’t move to join them.
She sat transfixed. She had heard about the magic in Salzburg—a force that captures, captivates, bewitches so many who visit the city known best as the birthplace of the musical phenomenon, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Is that what was happening to her now? She wasn’t sure about being enchanted, but she did know one thing—the tenor’s voice had touched her, struck her to her core.
Beth Green
Jun 12, 2015 | 1st pages, Spiritual
Chapter 1: The Beginning
Friday, May 10, 1974
The time for the first event was drawing near. There were three of them; and they landed silently on a hill above the town to wait for it to begin. Dusk began to settle over the area, turning the sky into a mixture of pinks and blues, as a few clouds drifted lazily across the sky. Each large angel was covered in a flowing white robe with gold stitching and their wings were tucked in behind them, glowing slightly in the expanding darkness.
Meris, the leader, was a full eight feet tall with long dark hair and pale blue eyes; and he wore a sword that glistened in the final rays of the sinking sun, as the wind gently swayed it back and forth on his waist. A grim expression covered his face, as he looked over at the other two angels, Nardic and Galdon, who were also tall; but they were a full half foot shorter.
Galdon stood directly beside Meris, his leader, and waited patiently for orders, while the younger angel, Nardic, paced back and forth. Meris shifted his weight and glanced up toward the sky, as he listened to the Father; and then he nodded in response to the orders that only he could hear. Stepping forward, he swiftly drew his sword and pointed it toward the town.
“It’s time, let’s go!” he bellowed, as he lifted off to go toward the place that had been chosen. The other two lifted their wings with a whoosh and flew swiftly with Meris to the north end of the town, where several demonic creatures were already gathering in response to the angel’s presence. They had sensed the coming change but had no idea what it would be.
One of the evil creatures screamed and ducked behind a tree, when he saw the large angels approaching; and the rest of the demons crouched low to the ground, covering their faces with their gray, scaly arms.
Meris took his sword in both hands; and in a single motion, he sliced through the darkness surrounding the area, fully penetrating the entire region with a supernatural light. The demons scattered and screeched in response, while Meris held his wings open to allow the glow to fully engulf the place that they needed to protect.
He gently moved his wings back and forth, sending an even brighter light radiating in all directions, fully disseminating any dimness that remained in the chosen area. The three angels stood guard for several minutes and then Galdon, the second in command, took his sword and rammed the blade into the earth, sending a loud Boom echoing throughout the region and simultaneously scattering any lingering demons well beyond the border of the light.
Meris left these two powerful angels to return to the hill to watch. Only one human in the area felt their presence and saw the light, and she was only two years old. The little girl looked out her car window and squealed and pointed. Her mom was too preoccupied to notice and her sister looked over and saw nothing.
Matt Sison
Jun 9, 2015 | 1st pages, Self Help, Spiritual
Have you ever had a dark secret? In the year 2001, when I was in my early thirties, I was keeping a secret that I didn’t want anyone to find out, especially my family. I was in great physical shape, but underneath my fit veneer, my health was in grave danger. I was a personal fitness trainer, had begun my career as a hypnotherapist, and had enrolled in a master’s program in traditional Chinese medicine.
As a fitness trainer working with people in their homes, I was doing quite well. I was good at my job and I looked the part. An exercise and nutrition fanatic, I ran up to thirty miles a week and was in the gym almost every day. I had earned my second-degree black belt in martial arts and practiced frequently. I ate healthy food and ninety percent of the time I was a vegetarian.
Despite these outward successes and healthy habits, every day I woke up with a terrified feeling. Although physically fit, I literally felt the imminent calling of the Grim Reaper. Thoughts of death constantly permeated my mind. Every morning I would wake in a panic, jump from bed, grab my chest, and ask myself, “Am I still alive?”
Throughout the day my left shoulder was always in pain with an uncomfortable tingling sensation. I had persistent heart palpitations and my jaw constantly ached. While I was excited about learning about acupuncture and herbs, it was extremely difficult for me to focus in class. All I could think about was collapsing of a heart attack and having to call an ambulance.
This was even more difficult because I couldn’t tell people how I truly felt. As a fitness trainer and hypnotherapist, I felt I had to play the part of being completely healthy: mentally, emotionally, and physically. I knew that something was seriously wrong, and I finally summoned enough courage to see a medical doctor.
Bad News From The Doctor
The doctor diagnosed me with high blood pressure. On average, one’s blood pressure should be 120/80. Mine was about 180/120. She thought the reading might have been a fluke and scheduled me to come back at a later date. When I returned to the doctor’s office, my blood pressure was slightly more elevated than before, and she diagnosed me with hypertension.
I was mortified to see my blood pressure so consistently high and my pulse rate at about ninety beats per minute (it should have been about seventy to seventy-five, or less). After all, I was in great shape, ate a healthy diet, and took care of my body, so how could this be? The doctor suggested that I take one baby aspirin (81 milligrams) a day to see if it would somehow help, and if it didn‘t work, she would give me prescription medication.
N.O. Carlson
Jun 1, 2015 | 1st pages, Featured, Spiritual
Chapter One
He arrived in Seward, Missouri, population three thousand fifty-seven, in the summer of 1949. A strapping, handsome young man fresh from St. Peter’s Seminary in St. Louis. He was six feet three inches tall with wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and huge strong hands that clenched into tight fists whenever he felt excited or determined.
He had piercing dark blue eyes and a mass of unruly blond hair that flew about as he tossed his head to punctuate a point. He exuded virility and vitality. Fr. Daniel Freeman was twenty-seven years old and was prepared to assume his first parish: St Francis in Seward, Missouri. The small, rural community was ecstatic.
They had been without a priest for two years, traveling to Barner, Missouri, population twenty thousand, for mass, holy days of obligation, confirmation classes, confession, and an assortment of other church-related events. They still maintained a Parish Council, Finance Committee, Ladies Guild, and Knights of Columbus but they prayed daily for a priest to take the place of their beloved Fr.
O’Hara, who had passed away at the age of eighty-four. Fr. Martin O’Hara had been with St. Francis for eight years. He was a mild mannered, diminutive man with a shy smile and a slow gait. The steps to the altar had become increasingly difficult for him to ascend the last few years.
The altar boys lent him their shoulders for assistance. Fr. O’Hara had a thick Irish brogue that never diminished even though he had been assimilated into the American culture for over thirty years. He was a cooperative, patient man, willing to delegate many of his duties and responsibilities to the lay people, parish elders and committees.
Paul Bryan Roach
May 25, 2015 | 1st pages, Spiritual
Chapter 1 The Accidental Spirits
God and the Devil
Samael was flummoxed. “I cannot fathom why you are giving up.”
“I’m not,” Adonai replied. “I am accepting our limits. Look,” he added,
“I am not comfortable about the situation, either, but let’s face it, we simply cannot engineer our way out of this one. From here on out we only set the conditions.” After a sigh and a pensive pause Adonai added, “In the end it will be up to them.”
“Up to them.” This was not what Samael wanted to hear. This was not it at all and it was, in fact, the crux of the problem between Samael and Adonai at this precise, historical moment. “Up to them?!” he shouted. Then softly he repeated the question, almost vulnerably, “Up to them?”
That day, as the co-conspirators walked along the shores of what someday later would be named the Island of Mauritius, they strove to sort out an impasse more profound than any they’d ever faced.
The area teemed with vitality. As the saltwater gently lapped upon the sand, beetles, dragonflies, crabs, and birds kept busy on the shoreline. A fresh, warm ocean breeze caressed them.
Seth Mullins
May 1, 2015 | 1st pages, Spiritual
1. The Stories We Cling To
Love was the most ruthless force in our universe. That’s what I’d believed, that I’d sooner endure the ravages of hate any day. Hate wielded the honest pungency of a fist full to your face. Love eviscerated you where you stood and yet still left you standing.
I remember the moonlight on the little window box balcony. Janie was so nervous that she’d stolen occasional drags off of my cigarette. This had been her idea in the first place: The two of us “getting away”, booking this room in the Latore Motel.
“I thought I was braver than I am,” she told me. The idea – insofar as I’d believed I’d understood it – had been to pretend we were on vacation, perhaps try and resuscitate the amorous mood that had characterized our rendezvous in New Mexico months before, when everything had seemed to open up and flow.
I stared back into the motel living room, which bore witness to the scalds and the warm patches of love’s dying embers, as if its solidity could somehow refute what was happening, what could not be happening. I’d played deaf amidst all of the whispered warnings.
Janie moved to catch me in a hard embrace then. There was tenderness in her clasp; but I see it now, that it was tenderness provoked by remorse, by loyalty to what had been, rather than by any enduring passion.
With her lips, her fingers, and all the womanly fire that her body could convey, Janie was saying goodbye. With all the unsinkable generosity of her heart, she gave me a hero’s send-off.
