feebly, drumming his fingers on the lip of the font. "Valerie informs me you're about to become a father again. Congratulations."
"My instincts tell me it's a boy," says Stephen, leaning over the rail. "He's going to get a second candy cane at Christmas," asserts the bewildered pilgrim as, with a wan smile and a sudden flick of his wrist, he breaks his bondage to the future.
If I don't act now, thinks Connie as he pivots toward Valerie Gallogher, I'll never find the courage again.
"Do we have a destination?" he asks. Like a bear preparing to ascend a tree, he hugs the font, pulling it against his chest.
"Only a purpose." Valerie sweeps her hand across the horizon. "We won't find any Edens out there, Father. The entire Baltimore Reef has become a wriggling mass of flesh, newborns stretching shore to shore." She removes her ovulation gauge and throws it over the side. "In the Minneapolis Keys, the Corps routinely casts homosexual men and menopausal women into the sea. On the California Archipelago, male parishioners receive periodic potency tests and – "
"The Atlanta Insularity?"
"A nightmare."
"Miami Isle?"
"Forget it."
Connie lays the font atop the bulwark, then clambers onto the rail, straddling it like a child riding a see-saw. A loop of heavyduty chain encircles the font, the steel links flashing in the rising sun. "Then what's our course?"
"East," says Valerie. "Toward Europe. What are you doing?"
"East," Connie echoes, tipping the font seaward. "Europe."
A muffled, liquid crash reverberates across the harbor. The font disappears, dragging the chain behind it.
"Father!"
Drawing in a deep breath, Connie studies the chain. The spiral of links unwinds quickly and smoothly, like a coiled rattlesnake striking its prey. The slack vanishes. Connie feels the iron shackle seize his ankle. He flips over. He falls.
"Bless these waters, O Lord, that they might grant this sinner the gift of life everlasting . . ."
"Father!"
He plunges into the harbor, penetrating its cold hard surface: an experience, he decides, not unlike throwing oneself through a plate glass window. The waters envelop him, filling his ears and stinging his eyes.
We welcome this sinner into the mystical body of Christ, and do mark him with the Sign of the Cross, Connie recites in his mind, reaching up and drawing the sacred plus sign on his forehead.
He exhales, bubble following bubble.
Cornelius Dennis Monaghan, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, he concludes, and as the black wind sweeps through his brain, sucking him toward immortality, he knows that he's never been happier.
Timmy and Tommy's Thanksgiving Secret
Bradley Denton
Timmy and Tommy were best friends. They lived on a farm in the Great Midwest with Daddy Mike, Mama Jane, Buster and Scotty the Farm Dogs, several pigs, a few chickens, and Maybelle the Moo Cow. Timmy was five years old and belonged to Daddy Mike and Mama Jane, but Tommy was younger, and an orphan. Even worse, he couldn't talk.
But Timmy didn't feel sorry for Tommy, because Tommy was just like one of the family. Mama Jane called him Timmy's adopted brother. Tommy even went out with Timmy every morning to watch Daddy Mike milk Maybelle the Moo Cow, and Daddy Mike would surprise them both with squirts of milk in their faces.
"Ha ha!" Daddy Mike would laugh. "Look alive, there!"
Then Timmy would laugh too, and Tommy would do the best he could.
And even though Mama Jane had said that Timmy didn't have to share his room with Tommy, Timmy was glad to do it anyway. At night after they went to bed, he and Tommy whispered secrets that they promised never to tell anyone else – secrets about all the adventures they'd had together.
And oh! What adventures!
They fought pirates on the banks of Muddy Pond . . .
They chased buffalo across Grassy Meadow . . .
They explored deserts that
"My instincts tell me it's a boy," says Stephen, leaning over the rail. "He's going to get a second candy cane at Christmas," asserts the bewildered pilgrim as, with a wan smile and a sudden flick of his wrist, he breaks his bondage to the future.
If I don't act now, thinks Connie as he pivots toward Valerie Gallogher, I'll never find the courage again.
"Do we have a destination?" he asks. Like a bear preparing to ascend a tree, he hugs the font, pulling it against his chest.
"Only a purpose." Valerie sweeps her hand across the horizon. "We won't find any Edens out there, Father. The entire Baltimore Reef has become a wriggling mass of flesh, newborns stretching shore to shore." She removes her ovulation gauge and throws it over the side. "In the Minneapolis Keys, the Corps routinely casts homosexual men and menopausal women into the sea. On the California Archipelago, male parishioners receive periodic potency tests and – "
"The Atlanta Insularity?"
"A nightmare."
"Miami Isle?"
"Forget it."
Connie lays the font atop the bulwark, then clambers onto the rail, straddling it like a child riding a see-saw. A loop of heavyduty chain encircles the font, the steel links flashing in the rising sun. "Then what's our course?"
"East," says Valerie. "Toward Europe. What are you doing?"
"East," Connie echoes, tipping the font seaward. "Europe."
A muffled, liquid crash reverberates across the harbor. The font disappears, dragging the chain behind it.
"Father!"
Drawing in a deep breath, Connie studies the chain. The spiral of links unwinds quickly and smoothly, like a coiled rattlesnake striking its prey. The slack vanishes. Connie feels the iron shackle seize his ankle. He flips over. He falls.
"Bless these waters, O Lord, that they might grant this sinner the gift of life everlasting . . ."
"Father!"
He plunges into the harbor, penetrating its cold hard surface: an experience, he decides, not unlike throwing oneself through a plate glass window. The waters envelop him, filling his ears and stinging his eyes.
We welcome this sinner into the mystical body of Christ, and do mark him with the Sign of the Cross, Connie recites in his mind, reaching up and drawing the sacred plus sign on his forehead.
He exhales, bubble following bubble.
Cornelius Dennis Monaghan, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, he concludes, and as the black wind sweeps through his brain, sucking him toward immortality, he knows that he's never been happier.
Timmy and Tommy's Thanksgiving Secret
Bradley Denton
Timmy and Tommy were best friends. They lived on a farm in the Great Midwest with Daddy Mike, Mama Jane, Buster and Scotty the Farm Dogs, several pigs, a few chickens, and Maybelle the Moo Cow. Timmy was five years old and belonged to Daddy Mike and Mama Jane, but Tommy was younger, and an orphan. Even worse, he couldn't talk.
But Timmy didn't feel sorry for Tommy, because Tommy was just like one of the family. Mama Jane called him Timmy's adopted brother. Tommy even went out with Timmy every morning to watch Daddy Mike milk Maybelle the Moo Cow, and Daddy Mike would surprise them both with squirts of milk in their faces.
"Ha ha!" Daddy Mike would laugh. "Look alive, there!"
Then Timmy would laugh too, and Tommy would do the best he could.
And even though Mama Jane had said that Timmy didn't have to share his room with Tommy, Timmy was glad to do it anyway. At night after they went to bed, he and Tommy whispered secrets that they promised never to tell anyone else – secrets about all the adventures they'd had together.
And oh! What adventures!
They fought pirates on the banks of Muddy Pond . . .
They chased buffalo across Grassy Meadow . . .
They explored deserts that
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