Great Writers T - U - V

Teri Garcia-Ruiz is a Texas native who enjoys both reading and writing poetry, historical and science fiction. Her work has appeared in The Windward Review and in the Poets Facing the Wall Anthology. 

Like the eye of a storm, the mirador is a quiet moment 

Standing still 

within the swirling sea of passing cars, sailboats and swooping 

laughing gulls that fill the rushing

salt air with the lively song of coastal living. Just stop. 

Look around. Breathe in 

the moment

Sometimes it’s small, but every scientist knows – 

every swirl must have a center.

and it’s here

at the crossroad of pulsing 

streets, pedestrians, and serene Selena standing watch 

Right here, in the eye of the city

Where the charred mesquite scent from City Diner makes the air over Starr Street almost drinkable

Where you see, in the distance, a giant tanker towering over its halo of tugboats 

Blustering mightily up the harbor

then silently sliding away

disappearing below the brilliant, flashing lightshow 

of the Harbor Bridge at sunset

Where the wild winds calm to signal the coming of night

in a quiet moonrise over indigo waves 

that shines like our dreamy hope for a new tomorrow

when the setting stars will clear the sky for a brilliant Gulf of Mexico sunrise 

But for now, standing still in the moment

still in the dark,

this quieting city downshifts into dreamtime 

relaxed, 

yet joyfully bobbing to the tune of today even as it’s mellowing

into yesterday’s music 

the midnight marina party rolls on,

keeping the lights on in the slip space 

between Green Light 

and Fantasy.

Read more like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2019

Yo soy carne y hueso

sangre y luz

Soy de aquí 

y allá

mismos

El sol y la luna juntos 

dan luz a mis días, mis sueños,

mi alma entera

Yo soy

cósmica

I don’t dream in Spanish

I’m not quite there. But I can see

in Spanish. Like a tall green cactus rising from the flatness, 

it calls me, still keeping its secrets safe 

from the wide open 

flat middle of the desert. 

Safe from the scorching heat, from el sol de junio

Locked deep in the cracked, bleached white earth 

that still finds a way to feed the living desert 

Scorpion, snake and coyote

Spanish swirls like an underground river, joining the lost

languages to pulse in a murmur under my feet. Nourishing 

the short grasses, silvering the sand covered purple verbena

Sweetening the syrup of the honey mesquite I am still 

forbidden to drink

But somehow I know I belong here,

the whole universe holds me in place

the arm of the Milky Way arcs over the plain 

lulling me into sweet sueños

under a velvety sky of

darkening cobalt studded by millones de estrellas, 

todos brillando

An owl calls in the distance, reminding me of the long ago

days I lived near a railroad. Its soft horn passing 

through the small hours 

made the empty nights feel even 

lonelier.

The mournful sound would draw my mind along 

with its line of rusted out boxcars

rushing eastbound 

to the place where el sol was already clawing 

though the ragged edges of la noche. 

But for a few more hours it remained trapped 

like me. Still hanging quietly and without words

Controlled and burning 

just below the horizon.

The author is a veteran of the U.S. Coast Guard and a former newspaper columnist long

retired. Originally from Florida, he has now resided in Kingsville for almost eight years. He and his wife

Jill own and operate a small used bookstore located in historic downtown.

It was a blistering hot, windy, and dusty day when the glistening brand new black Cadillac Escalade pulled up to the address that the GPS had indicated. The driver advised the half-snoozing, exquisitely dressed gentleman in the backseat, that they had arrived. 

Mr. M. J. Rizen, utilizing a cane to steady his gait, stepped out of the SUV. Much to his surprise, Charles H. Flato Elementary School on West Santa Gertrudis Avenue in Kingsville, Texas was still standing. Not standing very sturdy mind you, but it was still there all the same. 

As he walked into the old hulking shell of a building, his mind swept back to 1952 to the first day of the fourth grade. Of all of the places that he’d lived and attended school, that one year in Kingsville had a profound effect on his life. 

Young Jimmy, upon arrival at school that day had been very thankful that he was actually starting the new school year on the very first day. He was just another regular student, and not one who had shown up new during the school year like in other locations. He’d hated the undue attention that it had always brought upon himself.

Prior to moving to Kingsville, which is near Corpus Christi, the boy had attended schools in Florida and Virginia and was destined to move on to several other locations around the country before eventually graduating high school.

The life of a “military brat” was tough and many of the kids oftentimes developed deep-seated anger. At such a young age, he’d already grown tired of the constant moving, and the making of new friends and then the leaving of them quite suddenly. 

He’d already begun craving a normal life, which meant having the same friends and one place to call home.

The best thing about his new school was his fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Irene Atwood. She was dedicated to her pupils and had a sensitive nature and was able to pick-up on emotions from her many students, even those who were very withdrawn and had very tough exteriors, such as Jimmy. 

Try as she might though, she never could crack the hard, outer surface of the boy. That is until one day when he was due to read an assignment he’d written, in front of his class. He’d shown up that morning with a look of absolute dread on his young face. In his left hand was a wadded-up batch of notebook paper. 

“Jimmy, what do you have there?” Mrs. Atwood calmly asked.

“My report on Paris, France but it’s ruined, ma’am.”

“What happened to it?”

“I was getting ready for school and I took it into the bathroom to read it to myself while I was brushing my teeth. My little sister was in the tub, and somehow my papers fell into it. I grabbed them real quick-like, but you can see they are ruined.”

“It’s alright, Jimmy. I can tell that you did the work. It’s not a big deal,” Mrs. Atwood replied.

“It’s not? I won’t be able to read it in front of the class, though,” he replied. 

Jimmy had always hated not measuring up to expectations and not getting everything perfect, which seemed to be things that his father was always able to do quite easily.

“I’ll tell you what, Jimmy. How about you just write down a few things that you remember that was in your report and then you just talk about them?”

“OK, I think I can do that,” he replied with a relieved smile on his face. 

What followed that afternoon in Mrs. Atwood’s classroom was remarkable to everyone present. Without realizing it, Jimmy had been able to recall almost every detail that he’d included in his earlier report. More remarkable than that, though, was how well he had presented the information to his classmates.

“Jimmy, you are a natural performer. You are also intelligent and creative. You kept everyone interested in what you were saying and for a while there, you just didn’t seem as angry and frustrated as you normally seem to be,” Mrs. Atwood showered those compliments on the boy as he was preparing to leave the classroom for the day, after everyone else had already left.

“Thank you, Mrs. Atwood. I sure appreciate how you took the pressure off me. I almost always feel like I can’t keep up with how everyone wants me to be.”

“I can understand that Jimmy. As you get older and wiser though, you’ll be able to figure out what it is that makes you happy and you’ll worry less about what everyone else thinks.”

“I see.”

“Now, I’m just a stranger to you and I don’t know that much about you and your family but I have been around for quite a few more years than you have and so I’ve learned a few things.”

“As in what, ma’am?”

“Like, just because we find ourselves on a certain course in life, it doesn’t mean that we absolutely have to stay on that course. Right now, being young, you don’t have that many choices that you can freely make, but someday, when you’re older, you’ll have that opportunity and I hope you’ll make good choices. You have to be true to your own spirit, Jimmy. That means doing what you really want to do and not what others want or think you should do.”

“Thanks, ma’am, thank you very much for those words.”

“You’re quite welcome, young man, it’s my pleasure. Now you get on home and I’ll see you tomorrow. By the way, I don’t expect you to remember everything that I’ve said to you today but I am hoping that the words will come back to you someday when you need them the most.”

“Thanks, again,” Jimmy replied as he left the room with a very rare smile on his face.

The rest of the school year went by quickly and many a day transpired along the same lines with Mrs. Atwood providing the young man with little snippets of wisdom and encouragement. Every time that he’d thank his teacher, she would almost always reply with “my pleasure,” which was a response that Jimmy had never heard anyone say before he had moved to Kingsville. It had always seemed to ring true with him though and he’d never doubted the sincerity of that reply from his much-adored teacher.

Jimmy had also learned to enjoy Saturdays in Kingsville. Regularly, he and a few of his buddies would walk downtown and watch an afternoon matinee at the beautiful Texas Theatre and then follow that up with delicious sundaes at Harrel’s Pharmacy, which had been in existence since 1916. The boy had learned to appreciate the slow and easy pace of small-town life.

And so, it was a sad day when Jimmy’s father announced that they would be moving on once again. Jimmy was able to finish the school year before they departed for Albuquerque. From New Mexico, the family moved to San Diego and then eventually to Alexandria, Virginia where he’d graduated high school. Jimmy eventually graduated film school at the University of California, Los Angeles in 1965, but not before attending a couple of colleges in Florida.

Then came those few years of fame and celebrity.

After that, he spent forty-two years in Africa turning diamonds into a fortune that he used to better the lives of the impoverished. He’d finally found a place to call home and he’d stayed. His health had taken a turn for the worse, though, and he’d decided to do some traveling in case he couldn’t in a few more years. His doctors had recently told him that it was a miracle that he was still alive, considering all of the drugs and alcohol that he’d consumed as a young man. He was surprised by that fact himself.

He’d always thought that if he could become famous by sharing his creativity with others, that both the recognition and the many acknowledged accomplishments would somehow soothe the savage beast within him. But, they hadn’t. In fact, with an almost cult-like following that sprung up and with an ever-increasing expectation from his fans for some new greatness to be revealed, it had all blown up in his face. The drinking and the drugs had almost killed him one day back in 1971, and in of all places, the city of Paris. 

A few days prior to that, and unbeknownst to Jim’s friends, he’d made a new friend. This Frenchman, Pierre Bernard, resembled him at the time. Both men had grown their hair long and had gone unshaved for almost a year. Pierre was even overweight by some twenty plus pounds, almost exactly the amount of weight Jim had put on over the several months prior. Neither man at that time had looked like a famous icon, whatsoever. Pierre had recently found himself without a place to live and so Jim had invited him to stay at his place. They drank and did drugs together and swapped true and false tales about themselves, and no one came around during those few days. 

One morning, Jim discovered Pierre’s lifeless body in the bathtub. The man had mistakenly snorted a dose of heroin thinking that it was cocaine. 

As Jim stood there, looking down at his friend’s body. It could easily have been him lying there dead and staring up into nothingness. He remembered the day he’d shown up for school with the soggy report and how Mrs. Atwood had told him he could pick a new path.

“I can pick a new course,” Jim had said out loud as he stood above the bathtub. “Right here, right now.” Mrs. Atwood’s words kept repeating themselves over and over in his mind.

No one else was in the apartment at the time of Pierre’s death. Jim had had no idea where his girlfriend was at that moment. She’d been almost totally out of her mind on drugs for weeks and Jim had figured that she’d probably not even notice that it was not he who had passed away.

All he’d have to do was to leave his American driver’s license behind, gather up some clothes and his passport and make an anonymous telephone call to the authorities. He could go somewhere else and start fresh. No fans would be constantly following him around and watching his every move. No one would be worshipping him any longer. He’d detested that aspect of his life. He’d be giving up potential millions of dollars in royalties over the coming decades. Was it worth it?

Could he actually get away with it? 

He’d pondered that question. A few minutes passed, the silence was surreal, and his mind was racing. There could be no more drugs and alcohol and that was for sure. It would have to be that way for the rest of his life, or he’d end up just like his dead friend Pierre. 

And so, he’d left Paris undetected and he’d allowed the French authorities to believe that it was his body in the tub. Pierre had no family and had run out of friends, so Jim had realized that the man would not be missed whatsoever. 

The quickly-thought-of plan had worked out perfectly, much to Jim’s amazement. For the next several years, he’d constantly looked over his shoulders but eventually he stopped worrying about being found out.

Jim had used his passport to get to Africa, a place that he’d often told his friends and fellow band members that he would maybe someday ‘disappear’ to. He had also told them that he would change his name to “M. J. Rizen”, the initials standing for “Mojo”, another joke that he’d often tell people that if he’d ever decided to disappear into anonymity, that he would change his name to because it was an anagram of his real name. 

While making jokes about a possible future disappearing act, Jim had always assured his friends and band mates though, that if he ever actually carried out such a plan, he’d write to them and let them know where he was and what he was doing. Of course, after Jim had been gone for a few years, he didn’t want to ruin his secret, and so he had never written to any of them.

How he had become a successful millionaire was a whole different story and one that might be told someday, after his death, he supposed. Neither his wife of thirty-nine years nor his two adult children had any idea of his true identity. He had not told them in order to protect them from crazed fans and the always intrusive media. But he had been writing a journal for years, which they would eventually see.

He had shared his secret only with two other individuals: his mother and father. Back in the late 1990’s he’d reached out to them and had mended a great divide. They’d both sworn themselves to secrecy and had promised that they would take the secret to their graves. It was a promise that they had both kept.

It was time to go to his last stop. He’d already visited California. His parents had been cremated there and their ashes had been scattered over the Pacific Ocean at a spot just off Point Loma and he’d paid tribute to them there a few days earlier. Prior to that, the elderly gentleman had visited Paris as well.

As they were leaving Kingsville, he was pleased to see that renovation work was going on at the old Texas Movie Theatre. He was also pleasantly surprised to see that Harrel’s Pharmacy was still open for business and, in fact, still had a soda fountain in operation. Also learning that the King Ranch, which had been established in the late 1860s, was still thriving and prosperous and in addition, that the Naval Air Station was still in operation as well, touched him deeply.

------

After paying the admission fee and wandering slowly through the many exhibits at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum the day after arriving in Cleveland, Mr. Rizen found the musician’s display that he’d been the most interested in viewing. 

As a way of paying tribute to the musician, various documents from his past had been put on display there. As the old man slowly scanned the exhibit, he was suddenly taken aback by the sight of a simple little piece of paper. He’d immediately remembered that artifact and chills had instantly run down his spine. 

Posted there, for every visitor to see was his fourth-grade report card from Charles H. Flato Elementary School, in Kingsville, Texas. And, emblazoned on that document were the handwritten words of his former teacher, Mrs. Irene Atwood. The words on the card read “It was a pleasure to work with Jimmy”. 

By the way, Jim Morrison of The Doors is supposedly buried in Paris and his gravesite is one of the most popular tourist destinations in the country. Believe it or not, his gravestone contains a phrase on it that is engraved in the Greek language.

The words translated into English read, “True to his own Spirit.” 

Author’s Note: This is a fictional story based on historical and documented information as well as popular rumors and lore. The information about the report card on display at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum is absolutely true. 

Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2020

Thomas Ray Garcia lives in Pharr, Texas.  See his website

The boys and I used to run all over the Rio Grande Valley like Road Kings until the “easy twelve” at the Santa Ana Wildlife Refuge taught me what it meant to roam.

There we were, half-naked and sweating even before the sun rose above the flatland horizon, sneaking under tollbooth gates and over chained fences until we reached the Malachite Trail. Although it was an hour until opening, who would kick out six cross-country runners cutting across trails and roads and brushlands? And if we were caught, that middle-aged, mafia-hat-wearing, goatee uneven and gray bastard of a coach would do anything to bail us out.

Even in the twilight, I admired my hodgepodge of a team. Who could forget Beans’ telenovela celebrity chin, scarred from his monthly trips across the river? And Russian, who was as white as you could get, was probably more Mexican than all of us combined, but he was pale and his middle name was “Ivan,” and that was all that mattered to Coach Austin while bestowing his nicknames. And then there was Danny Bear, the darkest runner Coach Austin had ever had, and so his nickname followed suit. Julian and Josh, keeping their real names because they transcended the nickname game, were the two self-appointed team leaders and traitors to that necessary tranquility before a run; they ran ahead without telling anyone else. Only Russian and I had Garmins, and this sole fact made us saviors, so we caught up in haste.

“Too fast,” Russian said under a mutter. Those two words slowed us down.

And who would want to rush past the scenery of Santa Ana with its cracked soil and brown plants and suffocating paths winding past one another, a road here and a trail there, all leading in circles until our twelve miles were over and we returned home with nothing to do but wait until the next run? In the middle of a heartbeat, we sunk into a rhythm led by pattering shoes three hundred miles overworn.

“Russian, let’s go sub-six on the last mile, or what?” Danny Bear asked.

No reply, only breathing, and so Danny Bear made the first move: A jerk to the right to escape the pack, and then a surge forward to interrupt Russian’s stride. No good, for the pack sided with Russian, and we answered Danny Bear’s treason with a turn into a clearing off the main trail.

After a silent minute, Danny Bear caught the back end with Beans, Julian and Josh remained in the middle, and Russian and I led the pack with a tinge of reluctance since both of us were beat after a long week of studying English and Biology and whatever else we thought would help us escape this never-ending run. How many miles now? My Garmin sounded off in reply: One. One out of twelve, twelve out of sixty-five or sixty-six that week. We were only sixteen years old, and there were only six of us. We were like the Spartans of the Southmost South, where the weight of Texas crushes the upheaving Mexico, and we’re caught in the middle, trying to hold one up while pushing the other down.

If only I had known the struggle going on in their minds at that moment, whether they realized it or not. They wanted to escape. Their futures foretold it: Russian with his unfulfilled PhD dreams, and Julian—the MIT bright-child of Pharr or Donna or whatever town he put down on the school form, who threw out his back and joined a frat and fell in love with a brunette back home—who left Texas and came back to Texas and never went anywhere but Texas. For love, he said. For fear, I said. Josh joined the Border Patrol (told you he was a traitor), while Danny Bear disappeared into who knows where—some obscure mechanic shop down by Las Milpas most likely—I probably drive past him every day. And Beans? He overdosed the night after graduation.

We all yearned for that salvation from our duties as citizens of the Rio Grande Valley, and my words fail to capture the torpor that hung in our minds every day until I left and “became a writer like Jack London” like my dreams told me I would; and I still run (six days a week in fact) to fulfill my duty, but to jump so far ahead of my story would do injustice to the immediacy of the moment—we were six runners then.

Six was an odd number. This revelation struck me as I fell back with Beans and Danny Bear and watched as we stomped our souls into the dead earth. I saw ten soleless shoes rising and falling in unison, then discordant, then both, and then I stopped staring at the legs and looked at the bare backs. Josh must have been whipped by his abuelo last night. Russian with his acned back didn’t mind, neither did Josh with his suntanned, blotched, bronze shoulders pumping him forward. I fell into Beans’ rhythm, a slow steady pace, relaxed with the world, not resisting the inevitable. Danny Bear followed.

“Who’s gonna be our seventh man?” I asked, tired of the silence. “We can’t compete without him. Ricky, Gecko, or Takis?”

“No seas mamón, Tommy,” Beans said. “Focus on yourself.”

That’s the way it was in the Rio Grande Valley. Think about yourself, forget about the next guy, and don’t give out free rides. I remembered joining this team as an overweight, idealistic cheerleader spouting spirit and teamwork and goodwill to those who would take it. But no one did; we ran as a pack but lived in our minds. We woke up before our parents rose and ran before the sun rose and showered naked (hiding our roses) and learned how not to learn and ran again after the sun set; we were miserable but reassured in our cycle of sleep, run, school, run, sleep. And here we were, at the edge of the nation, running away from it all, together but separated by that invisible border of human disconnection.

The loneliness of the long-distance runner was real.

The sun remembered to rise by mile four, and all attempts at connection were replaced by the gasping of humid air. We were lost. Even if Beans knew the routes, he refused to pick up the pace and lead the pack, so we ran through trails overlapping and never-ending. Thickets surrounded us, but I could still make out the breaks in the trees and bushes to where the river rushed by. I could hear it gurgling. I’d never seen the river, but it was right there. Momma told me to stay away from it. But it’s beyond the trees and right there, separating two worlds, bleeding with foreign blood, and I was the only one who was thinking this as we turned into a new trail, the Bobcat Trail of all names, and we left behind the wonder of that false placidity with no reflection whatsoever.

I had it. I ran past them all. No one protested as I swung my arms in a frenzy brought upon by delusions of the rut I was in. Their route was now my whim, and they struggled to follow me as I circled back toward treaded paths and unfamiliar branches glowing with light. I was drawn to the sound of the river that was a border and a border that was natural in essence yet unnatural all the same.

And there was the river, calm and turquoise, no hints of life anywhere, hidden by encroaching branches and bent-over trees that seemed to return to the land. I stopped. My chest heaved in tune with my mind, pulsing with adrenaline, and I felt like crossing the Rio Grande and disappearing into nowhere.

“If you’re tired, then don’t pick up the pace,” Julian said, annoyed.

I turned to face him, but in my rush my eyes caught a shirt thrown across a nearby trunk. I approached it. It was wet.

“Watch out for beaners,” Josh said.

Only Russian joined me in my quest to retrace wet spots in the soil back toward an incline leading out of the river, and then follow the faint traces of footprints that were separated by two-foot-long strides. Bursting into a sprint, I ignored the protests behind me, my eyes on the trail, discovering discarded candy boxes and empty prescription bottles until they stopped appearing, and I was at a loss until I saw him.

A tall, shirtless teen with a thick bigote stood hunched over, hiding the scar across his chest. His shorts revealed his darkened thighs, not unaccustomed to sunlight. His calf muscles tightened as if in constant alertness, ready to flee, but he remained staring absently at the six sweaty bodies circled together facing him, the singular, beaten stranger.

“Pinche Tommy,” Beans said. Our breathing had subsided. The four miles, and all the miles we had run, meant nothing standing face-to-face with a true lonesome traveler.

After a light tap on my shoulder, Julian ran back through the woods. The pack followed him. I, too, followed, shocked at the nonchalant encounter until I realized he was following us; he ran, long legs pushing off the same ground we treaded, keeping a considerable distance away but still maintaining a pace only conditioned runners could match. Julian and the others had dashed away, pretending they saw nothing, and let the dust left by their soles remain as the only evidence they had seen of the teen that now neared us, gaining momentum without breaking a sweat, determined to join this solitary band of runners.

Waiting for him to catch up, I remained behind. What was there to fear but a possible escape from this heat-infested land? Would he attack me, steal the shorts and shoes that composed my identity, run far and away until he was me and I was dead?

Laughter erupted from him, and I was sure a mania had burst forth from his body as he exaggerated his arm movements, contorted his face so his lips pushed forward and his eyes widened. Then he stopped goofing, and then he started up again, never breaking his gaze with me.

“Want to run with us?” I asked. A naïve hope had kindled in me, and despite the improbability of it all, I hoped he would say yes. No reply. He just pushed forward, looking back as if expecting me to respond in turn, and I did, extending my stride and quickening my pace until our legs chugged in a silent harmony disturbed only by our breathing.

The pack lay ahead. From afar, I noticed how they composed a morphing vehicle of bodies that worked separately for a common good, that is, a physical reminder of human existence that many take for granted, but its absence can easily de-motivate the long-distance runner stuck in the never-ending step, step, breathe, step, step, breathe cycle that both prolongs and invites suffering. And here I shared this experience with the teen beside me, matching my movements limb by limb, never daring to move ahead or shrink back, content with his newfound position.

The long-distance runner never questions why, but always asks how things happen or how things will end up, and I asked myself the same questions until the teen suddenly sprinted forward, catching up with the pack. Russian and Julian and Josh and Danny Bear and Beans ran on. They knew, or maybe they really didn’t know, about the seventh man in their midst; a new breathing pattern and running gait had to have registered in their unconscious, sharpened only by miles of thoughtlessness, but I realized that it didn’t matter whether they thought the teen was he or me. He could run with the pack if he could keep up with the pack, and that was that.

How he could run like that after trekking who knows how many miles and living off scraps and swimming across that divisive river I will never know, but I did know he wanted to be one with the world, or to put it in layman terms, one with the pack of runners that provided anonymity, protection, and freedom, despite it not offering any of these things.

Of course, I didn’t arrive at this conclusion until we ran alongside the scenic road and passed a trolley full of workers and visitors reveling in its shade. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a transformation in the teen’s face—it was done, it was over, the journey had ended, and it was time to go home. I knew this because those eyes betrayed any and all traces of fear. He held his breath mid-stride. But the trolley passed. Only waves from tourists had graced our group of seven runners, all apparently coming from the same place and going to the same place, all one entity in the eyes of a stranger. The teen’s shoulders eased.

We turned off the road and into a path that ran along a dried-up lake. Its red soil cooked in the heat, as did our bodies as we silently yearned for water and relief from the remaining three miles. Where we were headed, I had no idea, and this fact bothered me until a swell of anger rushed from my head to my feet, and I ran up to the front with Russian and Julian, dominant in my ambitions to take control of this lost vehicle. The teen must have felt the same, for he joined me, and I remained quiet until the urge not to ask was overcome by my curiosity.

“Your name?” I asked between breaths.

“Jesse,” he said. And that was all he ever said.

So Jesse and I took the lead, Russian and Julian following, Danny Bear and Josh straggling behind, and Beans behind them ensuring we stay together, yet this was the last thought on the rest of our minds as all we thought was run, run, run, don’t look back, just move on, go past that tree over there that looks burnt from the South Texas sun, jump over that fallen branch, watch out for that dip in the trail, don’t stop.

My Garmin beeped mile ten, and against the wall I went, feeling a growing heaviness in my legs and fatigue burning my chest. Everything slowed down, from the birds crisscrossing the laneless sky and the leaves drooping down, and I even blinked and breathed slower, believing the whole world had joined me in my madness, until I looked over to Jesse who ran straight and tall and confident, those lean arms swaying in rhythmic motion, hypnotic to someone as exhausted as me, and I couldn’t help letting him gain distance on me, so I could watch that body defy time, motion, and the stifling existence we all suffered.

The pack stayed with me, I was the new leader, but Jesse was the true alpha, running at least fifty meters ahead, directing our path on his impulse. I questioned none of it. I followed blindly, his movements inspiring my own, knowing that I couldn’t quit; and despite the quickening pace, I refused to look down at my Garmin to know how many minutes were left because I didn’t want it to be over.

If I had known how it would all go after this run and all our other runs, I would have said, don’t bury your nose in the books, Russian, it’s all worthless; go find your voice like Julian, except he found love instead, and not even in Massachusetts, but right under his nose here in the lowland Rio Grande. And Beans? Don’t die, Beans. Go work with Danny Bear, go make that engine scream, go follow Josh on his travails with forlorn Mexicans. Remember the miles, remember them all, and although we will never run together again, my words will never let your spirits die.

In the final moments of that run, the pack surrounded me like never before. I was propelled forward by an unexplainable force from the energy emanating from their muscles and mouths. We were six, but we were one. We were six minds, six souls, twelve legs that pushed beyond the limits that the world placed on us. We infiltrated this refuge, we ran the miles the way we wanted to run them. We found someone as lost as ourselves and we followed him, he who had transcended it all, and we thought nothing.

I extended my stride to catch up to Jesse, and in this impossible task, I found myself smiling, chasing after a long-forgotten desire I thought I had lost somewhere along the way. I laughed like a child.

The trees and trails looked familiar again, and a sign indicated the beginning of the Malachite Trail up ahead. The fence appeared in the distance, and as we slowed down, Jesse sped on, heaving his whole body onto the wire, until he climbed up and out and ran past Coach Austin’s mini-van and toward the rest of Texas.

“Who was that?” Coach Austin asked us while we climbed over.

“Jesse,” I said.

“He can run.” And that’s all that he ever said about that day.

Now, whenever I wake up early enough to see the sun rise over the Rio Grande Valley and spot a long-distance runner hiding in its shadows, in his eyes all that road behind and beyond him suddenly gone as if my gaze could pierce diamonds and pick his soul out and deport his dreams, I remember Jesse, who could have been Jesus for all we knew, and I look the other way.

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Trev Trevino writes poetry and short stories that explore themes of love, the search for identity, and the LGBTQ+ community. More on Trev at the end of this section.

because it is late at night you listen to the trees and close your eyes

the suburbs that are surrounded by mountains are the quietest

you realize no one is around to make a sound

only the wind that pushes through branches and leaves that make it sound like rain

the pink house that is surrounded by the eastside is the most dangerous

the child sleeps to the city’s lullaby of heated arguments and fireworks

only the clinks of beer bottles and laughter over Tejano fill the streets on the weekends

silence just is not what it used to be

The student never sleeps through slammed doors and wind whistling through the hallways

college was calm as crashing waves was only a window crack away

silence was the only thing that was missing

people having muffled conversations and bursts of laughter just outside the door

downtown was desperate for attention at all hours of the night

sirens scream to let you know that the city is being protected

people yelling at someone and no one

the heat suffocates you into soaking the freshly washed sheets 

silence screams nothing at you as you lay under the window

because it is late at night you listen to the trees and close your eyes 

the chilled breeze covers you like a blanket under freshly washed sheets

feeling less afraid as you realize no one is around..

Read more like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2020 

The name that was given to me was never mine but rather belonged to a classmate of my mothers with blonde hair and blue eyes who was a cheerleader and sweeter than cherries

my brown hair and brown eyes could never fit that name

I wanted a name that would fit in the boys so that I could get dirty and not have to wear dresses instead i was trained to turn when her name was called

I took the first chance I had to change it in any way possible I learned how great nicknames are how much better they sound when that name can be abbreviated or shortened to a single letter it was a way to stray further away from who I was supposed to be some didn’t see her name within me instead they called me Alex Lexi(e) Ashley Trevino Trev Sandee Val TÚ

I later became accustomed to turn when any name was called though I still longed for a name that is mine one that maybe was neither he or she but just me just recently I asked myself who I was because I knew that I wasn’t the blonde cheerleader the softball star or the straight A student they were not me I then thought

am I the nameless boy who had no problem sitting quiet in the corner was I supposed to be the third Daniel my fathers son I thought her name was too feminine until I met a boy with the same name and I thought that it could be possible I first didn’t want to lose the name that was given to me but the more I heard it the more I disassociated from it most people like me despise their deadname and as much as I wish I could hate her as well

I could not be who I am now without her while I am still my mother’s child a friend a student a writer and a person living without a true name I hope to one day find the name that makes me want to turn around one that looks like me one that can play in the dirt a name to fit my brown hair and brown eyes a name that is not hers

Trev Trevino, is a 22-year-old, San Antonio native. They are currently an undergrad student at

Texas A&M University- Corpus Christi and is studying English along with teaching and TESOL certifications. Trev has been actively and independently writing poetry and short stories for over five years non-academically with themes of love, searching for one’s identity, and being part of the LGBTQ+ community. Most recently, they have been published in the Windward Review and spoken at the graduate symposium at TAMUCC back in 2019.

 Tyre Carter lives in Corpus Christi.  He has been sober since April,4,2021. He was baptized Dec, 25, 2022 after feeling he had been guided to write his book in favor of the word of God.

Blue River (1876)

The fire rose wildly and high. Winds of peace frisked the red heat near Deuteronomy, and Melicarthus. Deuteronomy licked at the wind, practicing his duty given to him by his master. He could judge you by licking you, deciding if you held some kind of wicked agenda or not. The direction he was headed to was Northeast Nevada. It was either a ride on “Doot” (Deuteronomy the horse) or a fast ticket on the freight train. Beans simmered in a pot right in front of Melicarthus’s blue hat, and his Black cowboy getup.

“Coffee pot heated up!” said Carthus. “Coffee ready.”

The grass was high, up to Doot’s knees. Wasn’t any telling what kind of snakes hid in there. Could be any type. Cobras, Vipers, water snakes. Even more water snakes. Those are the kinds that belonged in the water. A river, almost blue, ran up along them, almost fourteen yards away from the two that accompanied the campsite. Privacy was well appreciated, for they had previously been working under the hot sun, executing thieves and lawless cowboys.

It wasn’t fun. Melicarthus hated the fact of having to use money to operate in life as well. He would love to burn it. He had just enough money to catch the morning or noon train, and he was hoping that his horse could ride along, too. He slurped his bean juice up, and he approached his horse carefully, who was calmly meditating under his grey coat of hair. Carthus quoted a verse from Deuteronomy, which spoke of Lebanon and Jordan. It was Deuteronomy 3:25.

“Please let me cross over and see the good land that is beyond the Jordan. That good hill country and Lebanon.”

Doot’s neigh contained good judgment and licked his owner with no doubt that he was lawful and a G.od fearing individual. The stars were under the impression that the sun would joyfully eliminate them from mankind’s eyesight in just a few hours.

The moon was impressed with the light it prohibited to the flowing river below it. An eclipse was expected the next day at noon, and the two personalities would meet together and allow darkness into the midday sky. Something he was looking forward to catching a glimpse of while riding towards the train station.

“I ought to let these calm breezes and river splashes soothe me to sleep now. Ain’t no telling what time you’re going to be rested for the road. Now I know you’re not going to sleep if I don’t go to sleep now.”

 Doot neighed, and Melicarthus chuckled. Before you know it, interesting fish were popping out of the waters. It was impossible to sleep with them around.

He buckled his belt and threw on the hat he so dearly loved, which was much better than the executioner hat he wore to send the bad ones to their melegical graves.

“No smells of death around here,” Melicarthus said.

Only the fine grass and the chirps of birds above his self-proclaimed Tree, secretly known as the tree of Melemary. He began dreaming of the Deuteronomy yog.act clock quite often. He dreamed of something that monitors human existence, judging them behind a poor dog’s face and an angel wink behind it. He would sing of this reality in his sleep. The man did not know his true identity or purpose. He was really in melememory. He dreamed of a world where humans did not know judgment day had already approached them. Christicdallic honed insight showed mercy to those by G.od on the “new earth.” He dreamt of something called the Deuteronomy yog.act clock. The D.y.c.’s main attribute is the N.A.F equation.

“Picture this,” Melicarthus said. “There is a square that contains nothing. On the right side of the square, there is a -1. The negative one is the possibility of something being in that space. Since there is already a possibility, something has to be there to create it. On the left side, there is a 0. That is the possibility of there being a creator after the possibility of something being created. Imagine rubbing two sticks together to get fire. The 0 and the negative one are two sticks. The 0 has to produce a one to meet the expectations of -1. That One would be fire. That One would be G.od. G.od created the heavens and the earth, so the negative one would turn into a zero after. The One and the Zero are directly connected because G.od made the 0. The 0 is the universe. Apart from the 0 is our earth, and that would be mother nature."

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William Henneberger is the publisher, “editor”, graphic designer, salesperson, and writer for The Vent Daily: A Monthly Publication. More about Wil at the end of this section.

I love Tom Cruise. So what if he’s nuts or part of some religion crazier than all the other crazy religions? When I look at Mr. Cruise I see a go-getter, a winner who conquered dyslexia and Katie Holmes. Say what you will about the zealous movie star, but I will always be a fan, and not just because of my family’s odd connection to that charming man. 

+++++

If I had to praise one thing about this Federal Prison camp it would be the individual showers, but if I had to praise two things, the second would be the Recreation Department. Some long-time guests of the Federal Bureau of Prisons say that Rec is better behind the fence at the larger, low-security prison down the street or even at other camps, but for a short-timer like myself it’s hard to complain. Sure, the Trivial Pursuit set was from 1995, but any later edition might put those who have been ‘down’ (incarcerated) for the last 20 years at a disadvantage. 

My favorite leisure activity on the inside was playing pool, which accounts for my early purchase of this 1980’s hit by Warren Zevon. There is no Google in prison so I’m operating by memory alone, but in my mind Werewolves of London was part of the Color of Money soundtrack. Specifically, played over one of several Scorsesian montages of pool-hustler Vincent (played by, yes, Tommy Cruise) doing his thing. His thing being sinking shot after shot and swinging his pool-cue around like a certain reptilian-martial-artist-inventor. I listen to Werewolves of London on repeat through my headphones while I play the sport of criminals. Now if I could only make a shot. 

++++

According to my mom, once upon a time my old man was a fairly successful pool hustler. She speaks fondly of the times she would head out of the bar just before a game concluded to position the car for a quick getaway. I remember my dad first introducing me to this geometric art in the bar owned by his mother. During an early 80's Christmas visit to my Depression-era Grandparents double-wide trailer home, dad and I walked the fifty yards to Penny's Place where I stood on a crate to reach the velvety green plane. My old man gave me my first English lesson before the professional drunks arrived. The novelty of this adorable scene must have worn thin because I don’t recall playing much pool with my dad as I grew older. If he was trying to avoid his misspent youth, he could have at least given me some pointers in that too. 

In the month between finding out my prison date and turning myself in, my top priority was to spend as much time as I could with my children, especially my 8-year-old daughter. We watched all 6 Star Wars movies (my picks) plus Ponyo, Spirited Away and Annie (hers). We practiced pitching for kickball and I took her to her first Pool Hall. I'm sure it is the prison-time talking but one thing I’ve decided in here is that when I get out I'm going to turn my daughter into a billiards prodigy. She seemed to enjoy the game and took to it well. I’m also pretty sure I’m the only idiot father sending her letters from prison, explaining the rules of 9-ball. I can already imagine the Color of Money reboot with Tom in Paul Newman’s role and introducing Suri Cruise as Lillian, the young pool shark hustling for enough cash to bail her dead-beat-dad out of the slammer. You’re welcome Hollywood. 

In 1985 my dad was an extra in Top Gun. The Tony Scott adrenaline rush was filmed in part, at Miramar Base near San Diego, CA, where we were stationed for the greater part of the 80’s. Toward the end of the movie when the crew of the Aircraft Carrier surrounds Maverick to celebrate whatever vague mission he had accomplished, one of those unidentifiable sailors is the man who squirted me out 30-some odd years ago. The background role was no big deal, certainly unpaid and nothing that would qualify him for S.A.G. membership, but dad did bring home an autographed photo of the actor. That leads me to believe that under the right circumstances he might actually express some appreciation for the Arts, specifically if his dead-beat son was to ever write a book or maybe a Top Gun remake starring Suri Cruise as a young hotshot fighter pilot, taking on the rogue nation that has her daddy locked up (I'm in a very particular headspace these days). 

Most likely, my apparent daddy issues are part of the reason I've always wished to excel in the art of sticks and balls. On the outside my allotted billiards time diminished, due to the distractions of everyday life. I never practiced enough to get great. I could win 7 out of 10 games when I played anyone in my circle and I was content with what my dad might call mediocrity. Surely he can still easily put me in my place over that green felt, if he ever took the time to try… (one tear). 

+++++

In prison camp I spent 2-3 hours a day playing pool. The winner held the table so a good portion of these hours consisted of waiting for my next game. To get in line you knock on the table and find out who is last in line. There are two worn-out but functional tables and about twenty inmates who played regularly (ten who played daily). I learned in my skateboarding days that if you want to get good at something it's best to practice with people who are better than you. With this in mind I had no problem getting destroyed by a big black inmate named Ross. (I’m still talking about pool, sicko). I could beat Ross about twenty percent of the time but my dormant geometric skills were awakening, and he could see that I was no joke. He started to give advice at a ratio of one tip for every three insults. Ross was a good friend and while we ended up here through very different criminal ventures, we had a lot in common, like watching independent films, political views, and misguided intelligence. A couple of months into my sentence, Ross broke his arm, yet continued to run the table on me regularly. 

If prison pool isn't your preference there are plenty of other options from board games to ball games to leather play, I mean leather craft, even spinning. The recreation department for someone with a relatively short sentence seems bottomless, but I understand how these activities could stale over the years. 

Sedentary time killers include Trivial Pursuit, Scrabble and my personal favorite, Risk. No Monopoly—I heard that was because the money could be used as some form of prison currency. No game of Life, probably since we've already lost at life—no need to rub it in. Just remember when you check out a game, those dice better be in the box upon return. The recreation boss cop does not take kindly to bathroom corner crap games. There are also some random 1000 piece puzzles. You can assemble the one of cute little kittens and get a sorry excuse for a YouTube fix. 

Dominoes, chess sets and playing cards can be purchased through commissary. Pinochle cards can also be brought at the store but since I don't have the slightest idea what pinochle is, I'm not going to mention it any further. Table games are only allowed after four pm. By 6:30 it's almost impossible to find a flat surface not being used for some kind of play. If a locker is empty, turn that baby on its side and shuffle up. After some new friends taught me how to play Gin Rummy and spades, among several other games, I realized how quickly you could burn through four or five hours. Anything you can learn to eat up the month/year is very much appreciated in Prison camp. 

Health conscious prisoners have an even greater selection of activities to maintain weight and physical condition. The track and exercise equipment are available all day long. If your prison camp job only takes an hour or two you can take advantage of your free time. Most of us, however, work until three p.m., which is when the Rec Yard explodes like an inmate at a conjugal. (Sorry that was uncalled for. Conjugal visits don't even exist anymore; that was just gratuitous sexual imagery. I have a problem.) 

Prisoners look at you strangely if you opt to stay indoors in the afternoons or weekends. Even the guys who don't participate in team sport will at least go walk the track once in a while. Then you have the guys who really walk the track— ten to fifteen miles a day. However, much like in the Old West, not many people run for fun. With hours and days and months and years of exercise time, it's common knowledge to go for a low impact routine. 

+++++

Another link in the Tom Cruise connection chain: my younger brother was an extra in the War of the Worlds reboot. He was in a group of background actors who, along with Tom and a Fanning progeny, were running through a field to escape death by alien laser-beam. I don't want to infringe on a story that isn't mine, but you get the point: my family must be cosmically bound to the greatest actor of most Tom Cruise movies. 

+++++

Aside from walking/running you can also pick from a variety of sports according to the season. Basketball is mostly six on six pick-up while football, volleyball, softball, and futbol are more organized. With only 200 campers, the sport leagues usually consist of about four teams who go 'round and 'round with one another. Handball is the most popular sport, basically racquetball without the racquets and against only one wall. I tried it a few times but wasn't willing to callous the palms of my prissy little creative-class hands. There were racquets available but getting by in prison requires one to fine tune the art of minimalism. 

If you prefer a little less cardio you can demonstrate your hand-eye coordination at the horseshoe court(?) field(?) sandbox(?). I'm going with sandbox. If tossing footwear still stresses your heart rate, you might need to take it easier and roll some bocce ball, the only game with benches incorporated into the court. Not to brag, but those benched ballers say I'm a natural, a real bocce phenom. 

For anyone who hasn't yet given up on his bodies, working out is a big deal. Some campers build their entire routine around their regimen. I get it; if you’re losing years of your life inside, you want to make the most of the time you will have in the free world. Staying healthy and living longer is the only way some inmates can gain back the five, ten, or twenty years some guys have paid for their crimes. I'm lucky enough to have dropped weight simply from the lack of fast food. Either that or the couple of times I went to softball practice really paid off.

I've never been in a Tom Cruise film, but I’m darn sure going to try and keep this odd new tradition going, and hopefully even pass it along to my son. Still, if missing Maverick is my lot in life, maybe getting Goose is a good enough consolation for this gander. When I was 11 years old, watching one of my dad’s softball games on Naval Air Station Kingsville, one of the young sailors next to me asked if I had seen Top Gun. Of course I had. He informed me that Goose from the movie happened to be in the stands, spectating. Amazed, I scrambled for pen and paper and politely approached him for an autograph. He signed my scratch piece of paper. I was ecstatic. What were the odds of Goose being in Texas and at my father’s softball game? I gave it about as much thought as any kid with just over a decade of Earth residency would. Cut to, one divorce and two custody battles later I was almost an adult, properly jaded and much more cynical about life and all of its serendipitous celebrity sightings. I found myself wondering about this bizarre encounter and figured I now had the where-with-all to find out if that really was Maverick’s co-pilot and Meg Ryan's beau or if 11-year-old me was just being pranked by a couple of trashcans. It didn't take much detective work. I dug the autograph out of the bottom of a drawer and immediately felt my first ever dose of mortification as I read on the torn-edged slip of paper, not the signature of actor Anthony Edwards, but instead the printed word; “GOOSE”.

Read more great writing in Corpus Christi Writers 2019

William Henneberger is a first amendment advocate and borderline-diabetic liberal with $43 dollars in the bank. He used to go by Billy but is now called Wil – yes, with one “L”.

For a hot second, he was a television newswriter and producer for Corpus Christi’s CBS affiliate.

A baker’s dozen years ago, he professionalized the zine he started in college, to its current newsprint version. He has since acted as publisher, “editor”, graphic designer, salesperson, and writer for The Vent Daily: A Monthly Publication, which consists of highbrow satire, lowbrow comedy, and (unibrow?) celebrity interviews. 

He is also the Creator of and Writer for ventdaily.com and deadtomeobits.com

Wil’s favorite suicided writer is David Foster Wallace, even though he has only read his short stories. His favorite living (at time of print) writer is Chuck Klosterman. 

He has impregnated his legal wife twice, in 1998 and in 2006 and is very proud of the results. Wil’s life is defined  by a constant struggle with the fact that he has a younger, thinner, more successful brother.

William Walton grew up on a ranch in the Texas Hill Country. He graduated from Bandera Texas High School, then from Yale University. His collected fiction is available in Madmen and Fellow Travelers. More about William at the end of this section..

Casey was very drunk. He leaned his forearms on the cold, sticky stern rail and hung his head over the side. The sea was rough, and every time the ship rolled so did his stomach. His drink sloshed over, soaking his wrist and sleeve, but none of this distracted him from the memory of stone-faced mortuary people, condolences from friends, his wife in a body bag, nights alone, and whiskey—lots of whiskey.

Casey stared down into the dark turbulence of the ship’s prop wash, its trailing wake beckoning him. It would be so easy…

Shaken by his dark impulse, he jerked upright and gripped the railing hard with his free hand. He struggled to gather himself, to erase all memory, all thought.

As the ship plowed through the night roiling Casey’s stomach, the lights of another ship came into view. Casey felt strangely warmed by the lights of this passing vessel, even though the night was too dark and it was too far away to tell its name or even what kind of ship it was.

At least it has a destination, he thought. That’s worth something. 

His sickness and despair eased, and all night he gazed into the blackness hoping to see the lights of still another ship that, if sighted, would pass from view just as surely and swiftly as the one before.

Embracing his solitude, Casey was soothed by the sound of the water rushing below. 

Just before dawn, an over-friendly passenger found him, very hung over, still at the railing, the warm remnants of his drink in his hand. 

“Up a bit early aren’t you?” asked the passenger, a big, imposing man.

“No, actually I'm up late,” replied Casey, looking up at him.

“Howdy. My name is—”

“I don't care what your name is.” Casey turned his gaze back to the water.

“Let's try again. What's your damned name?”

“Casey to my friends, but you’re not one of them.”

“Friendly son of a bitch, aren't you?”

“Yeah, well, you got it half right.”

“Hey, listen. We got off on the wrong foot. How about we start over? This is my first cruise. How about you?” 

“Please just leave me—” 

“My wife, Molly, and I think it's great. Our favorite spot so far is Cozumel. We plan to go back and learn to dive. Molly always says—”

“Look, I don't want to talk, okay? I'm looking for ships.”

“I don't see any ships.”

“There aren't any right now, but there will be.”

“I think you’re wasting your time.”

Casey turned and faced the man. “No, you are wasting my time.” 

“And you are really being an asshole,” the man replied, his eyes narrowing.

“You know, you’re absolutely right. How would you like to go down to C deck and have some breakfast?”

“Fine idea,” the man replied, relaxing.

“Good. Why don't you go have some then” Casey suggested, “and leave me the hell alone.”

“No. I think I’ll kick your scrawny ass instead.”

“Look, why don't we just play a nice friendly game of 'toss 'em into the sea'?”

“And just what is that?” The man asked, balling his fists.

“I think it's self-explanatory. We try to toss each other over the rail and into the water. One of us goes for a swim and the other goes for a drink. My drink could use replenishing. So could I. Works out for me either way.”

“You’re one crazy son of a bitch. Good thing I’m in a good mood or your ass would be shark bait. I'm going to give you a pass. Consider yourself damned fortunate.”

“Not playing isn’t an option. I just hope I don't spill what's left of my drink,” Casey replied, stepping back slightly, turning sideways toward the man. 

“You're a nut case. This is over nothing.”

“No it's not. I am looking for a ship. It's over everything.” 

“I'm having no part of this, you sick son of a bitch.” The man's fists un-balled and he moved back a step.

“Okay. I'm going to give you a pass,” said Casey. “Consider yourself damned lucky. Turns out the game is optional after all.”

Maybe for me as well, he thought. 

The man moved quickly away. Just as he disappeared from sight Casey shouted after him, “Say hello to Molly for me.” The man did not reply. And do it for yourself, man, thought Casey, every chance you get.

Casey remained at the rail until full daylight, hoping to see another ship. None came into view.

The next night found him standing at the railing again, but this time on the side deck of the ship, not at the stern. The moon, which the night before had been shrouded by clouds, tonight cast a silvery glow to the sea.

If only I could see a ship tonight, he wished. 

He did not see a ship that night. There are, however, nights when Casey does see ships. He lives for those nights.

READ MORE LIKE THIS IN CORPUS CHRISTI WRITERS 2021

Jake sat on the shaded porch of his Texas Hill Country home well into his second six-pack of the afternoon. The porch overlooked a lush green pasture, backed by a thick grove of trees where half a dozen cows grazed lazily in the shade. Putting his feet up on the rail, he leaned his rocking chair as far back as it would go, crushing one of several empty cans strewn about the porch floor. 

“Hey, Ellie!” he shouted. “How about bringing me a cold beer? I'm almost out.” 

“Oh no, not out of beer. Anything but that,” Ellie answered from the kitchen. “I'll bring you one when I've finished what I'm doing. Or you could just get it yourself if you can still walk.”

“Okay, fine, just bring it after you do whatever is so damned important.”

“I'm preparing your dinner. Is that important enough for you?”

Great, but why do you have to give me such a hard time about bringing me a friggin' beer? He took another swig. 

Turning his attention back to the field, Jake noticed a white light, distinct even in broad daylight, emerging from the trees. The cows began milling around, bellowing fitfully. As the light drew closer, their commotion ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The cows, lowing quietly, seemed drawn into its glow. Docilely, almost in formation, they kept pace as it continued its slow, steady movement toward the house, expanding as it came.

When the light moved so close it obscured everything else from view, Jake saw a figure standing in its midst. He closed his eyes and tried to compose his thoughts, focusing on the smells coming from Ellie's kitchen. 

Crap, I've had way, way too much to drink.

When he opened his eyes, he fully expected to find the vision to be gone, but instead it appeared nearer, much too close for comfort.

The figure wore a white robe, which merged with the surrounding light. Its face was that of an older man, but one whose posture was very erect. His long hair and beard were shaggy and unkempt, and he wore a straw hat with its wide brim turned down in front. In his hand he held a gnarled staff with what appeared to be a Harley-Davidson logo on the handle. Despite the almost four foot elevation of the porch, the figure towered head and shoulders above Jake.

“Howdy,” said the apparition.

Jake sprang to his feet. 

“No, don't get up,” said the figure, thrusting his arm forward, the palm of his hand toward Jake. Jake sat back down.

“Who...?” he asked incredulously, his hand trembling so badly he was barely able to hold onto his beer. “Who or what are you?”

“I'm God. Who else?” 

“You look more like an over-sized Willie Nelson to me.” Jake immediately regretted his remark, hoping he hadn't angered the apparition.

“How'd you get to be such an expert on how I'm supposed to look?” the figure replied. “Besides, now that I think about it, you look a lot like John Belushi. Hey, just joking with you, fella.” 

“Yeah, very funny. And why should I believe you're God? You could be the friggin' Wizard of Oz as far as I know.” 

“Well, for openers, who else could appear before you bathed in a bright light? Not your Aunt Emma I'll bet. You ever see a light brighter than this?”

“Okay, yeah, I'll grant you it is pretty damned impressive,” Jake said, regaining his composure. “Great special effects. Got any other miracles up your sleeve?”

“Well, it just so happens I have a few. Here's a very minor one, just for illustrative purposes. Better put your beer down.”

“Why?”

“Just take my word for it.” 

Jake set his can down on the table next to his chair. The chair began to vibrate, slightly at first, then more roughly. 

“Well, Jake, what do you think about that? Not so good on the old hemorrhoids, eh? Yeah, I know you've got them.”

Jake burst out laughing.

“Who put you up to this crap?” he said, looking under the chair. “Okay, I don't see any wires. I'm curious how do you do it, but it doesn't really knock my socks off.”

Suddenly the chair started rocking so violently Jake had to grip its arms with all his might to keep from being thrown out.

“Yippee! Ride that sucker!” the apparition shouted. 

Just when Jake was losing his grip, it stopped.

“I call that my 'Rodeo Cowboy Deluxe,' simple, but effective. Not feeling so skeptical now, are you?”

“N.., no,” replied Jake, struggling to catch his breath.

“Good. Unless you want to experience another of my little attention-getters, and believe me I've got some doozies, maybe we can get down to business.”

“What do you want from me? Am I in some kind of trouble? Oh, crap, I'm not dying, am I?”

“No, you are not dying, Jake. And you are not in any kind of trouble, unless you've done something I don't know about. Oh, wait a second, I know everything, don't I?”

“Then why would you appear before me?” Jake asked, oblivious to the joke. “I'm nobody special.”

“Quite the contrary, you are very special. I have chosen you to demonstrate a love for me, a faith in me, so absolute it shall be spoken of with reverence until the end of time.”

“Until the end of time? You gotta be kidding.” 

“No, not at all. The Book of Jake, your book, will be the first one in the Third Testament of my Holy Bible.” 

“Book of Jake, my ass. Now I know you're messing with me,” Jake said, relaxing slightly. “How are you doing this white light thing anyway? And why aren't you doing it in Vegas for big bucks instead of out here in the boonies? You're every bit as good as that ventriloquist guy who won America's Got Talent. Better maybe. You really had me going there.”

“Oh, you think so, do you?” The apparition, without warning, tossed Jake his staff. Jake grabbed at it, lost his grip and fumbled it, but it remained in his hand as if affixed by glue. Jake tried to shake it loose, but could not.

“What the— how the hell did you do that?” Jake asked. The handle of the staff had transformed into the image of a snake's head, turned up with its mouth opened wide. The roof of its mouth was as white as the surrounding light.

“Never mind. Just toss it down on the ground.”

“Uh, okay.” To Jake's surprise, it fell easily from his hand onto the grass where it turned into a living snake, a very big one. He didn't know what kind it was, but it moved menacingly toward him. Its tail vibrated so rapidly that it made a rustling sound in the leaves. It appeared fully capable of climbing the porch steps. He leapt to his feet.

“It's a water moccasin,” the apparition told him. “Cottonmouth. Every bit as poisonous as a rattler.”

“Holy friggin' shit, that's...No, I mean, crap, that's one big mother snake.”

The apparition chuckled. “That might actually be an understatement.” he said. 

“Sorry. I was just caught by surprise.”

“Forget it. I had to do this with Moses when he doubted his ability to lead his people out of Egypt at my command. Believe me, it got his attention. Have I got yours?”

“Freaking-A, I mean, uh, darned right you have!”

“Good, now grab its tail, pick it up, and toss it back to me.” The snake's tail started vibrating again.

“Pick it up? It's a friggin' snake for God's, sake!” Jake caught himself, realizing he had taken the Lord's name in vain. “I'm sorry, I, I didn't mean to blaspheme.” 

“That's okay. Almost everyone blasphemes when asked to pick up a snake.”

Jake smiled feebly. “But you're kidding, right? About picking it up?”

“No, not in the least,” the apparition replied. “I’m deadly serious.”

“Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of.”

“Jake, I command you to pick it up now! I don't think I can put it much more plainly than that. Now!” The air became warmer.

Heart pounding, Jake descended the steps, grabbed the snake by the tail, and it immediately reverted into the rough-hewn wooden staff. He lobbed it back to the apparition who, he was beginning to believe, might indeed be God. Weak-kneed, he stumbled up the steps, and sank into his chair. He gulped down the remnants of his beer, and dropped the can to the floor. 

“Ellie,” he shouted, turning his head toward the door. “How about bringing me that beer now? Please!” Not only did he badly need one, but he hoped her presence would wake him from this delusion, if that's what it was.

“For God's sake, Jake, I'm trying to fix dinner,” Ellie hollered from the kitchen. “Why don't you get off your butt and go fetch it yourself? Not that you haven't already had enough to drink.”

“Damn it, Ellie, I don't need you ragging on me right now!”

Ellie came and stood in the doorway. “I'm not ragging on you. I'm working my tail off cooking your meal.” Without taking any notice of the apparition, she stepped onto the porch, picked up several beer cans, then walked back into the house.

“Okay, don't get all bent out of shape,” Jake shouted after her. “I'll get it myself. Sorry for asking.” He didn't know whether to be heartened or shaken that she didn't see the apparition. 

Jake reached down, picked up his can, and turned toward the visage. “I gotta go get myself a beer. I suppose I'll have to get you one, too.” 

“That won't be necessary,” the apparition replied, waving his staff. Jake's beer can was instantly full. The unexpected increase in weight startled him, almost causing him to drop it. 

“Nice recovery, Jake. Didn't spill a drop. Pretty good reflexes you've got there.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.” 

“Don't mention it. I've been filling your beers for years. Haven't you noticed how long it takes you to get through them sometimes? And how you drink better quality beer than you used to?”

“I thought my taste in beer had just evolved. I suppose you were teaching me?”

“Yes, and I am still teaching you. Now maybe we can get down to my business.” 

“Okay, but first tell me if Moses led his people out of Egypt. I think the Bible says he did, but I'm not sure.”

“He did as I instructed. And even when my chosen people strayed and worshipped a false god, I forgave them and delivered them to the promised land. You, too, shall do my will.”

“What are you asking of me? I don't have anything in common with Moses,” replied Jake, confused. 

“You are being way too literal. I only related Moses’s story to make a point about certainty of faith. So before I tell you what I require of you, we need to talk about the strength of yours.”

“It's pretty strong, I think. I believe in God, I mean you I guess, and all.”

“And do you believe that God would ever ask you to do anything wrong?” 

“No. Of course not.”

“Suppose I asked you to steal food from a convenience store to feed some starving homeless people living under a freeway?”

“Then, I guess I would do as you tell me. But what about the Commandment 'Thou Shalt Not Steal?'”

“I see things that you don't, Jake. You would just have to trust me. Do you think you could do that?”

“I think so, but I wouldn't be comfortable with it. Is that what you want me to do, steal to feed homeless people?” Jake shifted in his seat uneasily. 

“No, Jake, but I do require you to demonstrate that your faith in me is absolute.”

“Why me?”

“I don't have to explain myself to you. I'm God. Just trust me. Now, are you ready to demonstrate your faith?”

“How?” Jake asked, warily. 

“I command you to sacrifice your wife, Ellie.” 

Jake bolted upright from his chair. 

“Holy shit! You want me to what? What do you mean, sacrifice?”

“I want you to slay her.”

“Slay? You mean kill her?” Jake began trembling uncontrollably.

The apparition waved his staff and a large knife appeared on the table next to Jake's chair. Jake flinched.

“Yes. Do it now. You can use that knife right there.” Jake recoiled from it, backing away several steps.

“Why, in God's name, would I do that?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“To demonstrate the absoluteness of your faith and that your love for me is limitless, as mine is for you.” 

“I just said I have faith. I never claimed it was like Moses and all those big Bible guys. I'm just a regular person.” 

“Not anymore. Your testament of faith, as inscribed in the Book of Jake, will be remembered and venerated for all time.”

“I don't want to be vener..., venerated.”

“Well, you shall be, Jake. Just do as I require of you.”

“Please don't ask me to do this!” 

“Ask? Did I say ask?” The air got warmer again.

“No. No, I won't!” Tears welled in Jake's eyes.

“You would defy me?” The apparition's tone was now quiet and menacing. It got still warmer, and Jake began to sweat profusely.

“I don't want to disobey you, but I can't do this.”

“Yes, you can, Jake. Have faith that God would never lead you astray.”

“No, I can't. I'm not killing anybody, and Ellie is the last one on earth that I would harm,” Jake said, his eyes narrowing. “The Bible is supposed to be your word, and it says 'Thou Shalt Not Kill.'”

“Yes, and it says 'Thou Shalt Not Steal' too, but you were willing to do that. You either have absolute faith in me or you have none at all.”

“Then I have none. No, that's not true, I do have faith, but I don't believe you are God,” Jake said. “God would never ask such an awful thing of me.” He took several gulps of beer, then set down the can. 

“Haven't you read your Old Testament, Jake? When I asked a similar sacrifice of Abraham, the life of his only beloved son, Isaac, he did not refuse. He did not hesitate. He was certain in his faith.”

“I don't give a rat's ass what Abraham did. You're not God. I don't know whether you're Satan or just voices in my head, but you sure as hell aren't God. And, if it's voices in my head, I'm not crazy enough to listen to them.” 

“Abraham had the faith to do as he was told. Now, you shall do the same!”

“No, I won't do it!” 

“Jake, obey me now! Your life depends on it. Your eternal one as well.” The heat became so intense Jake's shirt was instantly soaked.

Although the sky was perfectly clear, a bolt of lightning struck the ground a few yards from the porch, followed immediately by a tremendous clap of thunder. The pungent smell of smoke filled the air. It was then that Jake had his epiphany. 

I'd never do that. I'd rather die than kill Ellie. 

Immediately, his fear was lessened to the point that he was almost unaffected by the lightning strike.

“No way,” Jake said, picking up his beer. “Get off my property. Now!” Without realizing it, he'd squeezed the can so hard he’d crushed it.

“Defy me at your peril,” the apparition said in a quiet, ominous tone.

“Obey you at my peril, you mean, for I would surely rot in hell, or at least state prison, if I did as you command.”

“I'm going to say it one last time.” The apparition paused. “Trust me,” he urged in a less threatening tone.

“No!”

“Well, then, you have determined your own fate, Jake.” 

The apparition put on his hat and began walking away. A few yards from the porch, he stopped, turned back, and tipped his hat to Jake.

“Know I shall always love you, Jake,” he said in a gentle, almost sad, tone, then resumed walking toward the woods, the light receding with him as he went, until he disappeared.

The light continued to fade until it, too, was completely gone, the air cooled, and Jake could see his surroundings again. The cows grazed contentedly, the sun was low in the treetops, and the sky was beginning to pick up the colors of the immanent sunset. He was relieved to see the knife was gone.

Jake needed, really needed, another beer. He stared at the ground where the apparition had stood. 

“Okay,” he said, picking an empty beer can off the floor and hoisting it. “Make it a Guinness this time.” 

Nothing happened. Jake realized he'd have to get it himself, that he probably wouldn't get any more freebees. He was fine with that, and got up on wobbly legs to fetch his own. As he opened the front door, Ellie called out to him.

“Honey,” she shouted, “dinner is ready. We're having my mother’s chicken stew, your favorite.” 

“Okay, that's great. I'm coming.” He struggled to control his trembling as he made his way into the dining room.

“Dinner looks, uh, really good,” he said. He held on to the edge of the table, steadying himself for a moment, then, sat down. 

Ellie sat down, unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap. “Do you want to say grace, Jake?” 

“No, not tonight.” 

“Why not?”

“I just don't want to tonight.”

“Are you drunk again?”

“I don't know, but that's not it. I just don't want to. I can't.”

“Honey, what's wrong?” she asked, her brow furrowing. Jake noticed her eyes were glistening and regretted his earlier unkind remarks had hurt her.

“Nothing I can talk about right now. Just bear with me. I'll explain later.” 

Jake knew he wouldn't explain later, but with the passage of time he'd be able to say grace again because he didn't believe the apparition had been God. His was a loving and forgiving God. But it might take him awhile. He also knew he would do what he had to if what he experienced had been voices in his head. If they returned, he'd get his shotgun, go into the woods, and shut them up for good. Nothing was ever going to hurt Ellie. Not on his watch. A wave of tenderness washed over him, and he looked across the table at her as though for the first time. 

You are the only grace I will ever need, Ellie.

Jake gingerly took his first small bite of her special chicken stew, but his encounter with the apparition had left him with little appetite. 

You, Ellie, not any damned chicken stew, are my real favorite dish. 

He had hurt her feelings enough today. Things were going to be different from now on. 

Jake took a few more bites, pretending to relish them, when he noticed tears running down Ellie's cheeks.

“Ellie, sweetheart, what, what's the matter? Are you, are you...all right?”

“Jake, I...”

Jake felt a sudden tightness in his chest. He struggled, gasping, to catch his breath. 

“Ellie, something is, is...very...wrong. I...” Jake stumbled over each word. 

He couldn't breathe. The tightness in his chest became a searing pain. His fork fell from his hand, clinked onto his plate, and bounced to the floor. He tried to reach down to pick it up but couldn't move. 

“Ellie…help me…please.”

“Oh, Jake, I'm so, so sorry,” Ellie whispered, wiping at her tears with her napkin. “Please forgive me. I had no choice. God commanded me.”

The colored rays of the sunset streamed through the dining room windows and reflected against the opposite wall. The colors seemed first to envelop him, then fill him, and his breathing became less labored. He closed his eyes, a calm came over him, and the image of Ellie's face filled his consciousness. 

It’s, it’s okay, Ellie. I forgive...

THUS ENDED THE BOOK OF JAKE.

read more great writing like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2018: An Anthology

William Walton grew up on a ranch in the Texas Hill Country. He graduated from Bandera Texas High School, then from Yale University. A dissolute youth, William tried later to become a deep, sensitive person. It was a waste of time. He spent the rest of his life getting in touch with his innate superficiality, a surprisingly easy task. Except for his work with troubled adolescents, voyaging under sail, and his writing, William never deviated from that path. His stories have been published in An Honest Lie, vols. 2 and 3, anthologies of short stories by Open Heart Publishing, and in Angels on Earth.  His collected fiction is available in Madmen and Fellow Travelers