Who am I? I am redeemed.

These words, to me, seem to echo the picture of the Apostle Peter at the end of the Gospel of John. Peter has become an interesting personality for me, a reflection of that ugly side of human nature we sometimes call selfishness. So, when I was asked to write the Easter play for my local church, I gravitated toward this very human fisherman, and got to know him a little.

The other guy I got to know was Judas. Judas, I think, gets a raw deal, especially in Sunday School. We grow up learning that he was the deceiver who betrayed Christ with a kiss and then went and killed himself like an ugly coward. But that picture’s only half right. Judas might have been a villain—he certainly behaved villainously, his cunning was most certainly ruthless. Still, I couldn’t help but ask myself why he did what he did, and my time at school helped me answer some of those questions.

When I first toyed with the idea of writing the Easter play from this perspective, I drew from the various angles presented to me while earning my Bible / Theology degree, and I wanted to take the sum of all of those curious facets, and present as clean a portrait as I could. The result, I feel, was blessed.

The entire script is too long to post here, though I’ll share some excerpts. I began with the notion that, if the twelve were certainly a tightly knit group, Peter and Judas were likely friends. They spoke to one another, and certainly shared their fears and concerns. After three years of following this man they called the Messiah, I’m sure frustration had started to set in. If He is truly the King of the Jews, I imagine they thought, then why has He not pursued the throne.

Developing out of this was a notion that perhaps the disciples held a belief, a small belief, that Jesus would overthrow the Roman government. They could see that He possessed power. So I started trying to look at this through their eyes—who did they think Jesus was? What questions did they ask?

Judas: Look, you remember what we talked about before?

Peter: When?

Judas: A week ago; the day we met the lepers on the road. You said you were confused.

Peter: Yeah.

Judas: And?

Peter: And what? I won’t pretend to know more than I do, Judas, I mean, he’s the Messiah. I’m not supposed to know everything he knows.

Judas: Do you really think he’s the Messiah?

Peter: (becoming indignant) Judas, what are you looking for? You were on the boat that night he came out to us. You remember the storm. And he walked across those waves like they were the dry earth. I know, because I walked on them too.

Judas: But you fell.

Peter: Yes, but not before he caught me. Judas, he quieted the storm. He rolled the clouds away. Now I’m asking you, what more do you want?

Judas: I want more, Peter. I want to do more. I want to know that we’re not just going to wander from place to place with a lot of talk. In case you haven’t noticed, the Empire isn’t a very friendly place to be a Jew. I want to do more.

More to point, what I really wanted to capture was the story of the two betrayers; Judas who betrayed Christ to save his country, and Peter who betrayed Christ to save his skin. Both are equally guilty. In the end, however, it was their response to grace that leads them to their fates—one commits suicide, the other is redeemed.

What we normally get at an Easter play is the cross, the resurrection, and a speech at the end. We lead the audience through this wonderful story, and then invite them to share in the grace provided by this One that died while were still sinners so that we too might live. I felt that, instead of just talking about it at the end, let’s actually let them see it happen. We get that at the end of John’s Gospel.

Jesus: Peter, I wish to tell you something. Anyone who knows the law knows how hard it is, how tremendous a responsibility it is, and how daunting a task it is, to obey. You wonder how it is you can obey when the flesh is so weak. When you are so poor. Peter, do you know now what it means, that I came to fulfill the Law of the prophets? That through me, you too can experience the resurrection of that which was dead? Blessed are the poor, Peter, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.

Peter: My Lord…I have failed you. I cannot accept your blessing.

Jesus: Peter, do you love me?

Peter: Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.

Jesus: Then feed my sheep.

Peter: Lord, I—

Jesus: Peter, do you love me?

Peter: …Yes, Lord, you know I do.

Jesus: Then tend to this flock. Watch over them. I will leave soon, but after, you will receive a power you have never known when the Holy Spirit comes upon you; and you, all of you, will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea, and Samaria, and to the very ends of the earth.

Peter: …Lord, I fear that I don’t have…I don’t—

Jesus: Peter, do you love me?

Peter: Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you. And I know that you cannot—

Jesus: Peter (places his hands on his shoulders) …Follow me. I called you before. I am calling you now. Stand with me again, Peter. Follow me.

I don’t know how well I got it. I used to think that creating any Easter production was an exercise in futility—how do you best the greatest story ever told? I don’t know. I think I was being a little too naïve when I felt that way. After all, God did use faulty, imperfect humans to write His Word. I’m just happy He let me take a crack at this. And I hope He likes it. It’ll be fun to see what He can do with it.

What's in the lunchbox?

Working from a short assignment suggested by a book I’m reading, I started writing a little about school lunches the other day. The exercise is meant to release the cramps of not having anything to write about with the hope of finding some gem within the clutter of writing about school lunches. It isn’t much. I just sat down and started typing…

School lunch falls into many stereotypes. It’s almost like your birthright. I mean, the very fate of the rest of your afternoon could depend on the content of your lunch bag. This means you’re not one of the wealthy, more affluent kids who can actually afford to purchase their lunch. You don’t necessarily qualify for free lunch. Therefore, you take your sack.

If’ you’re really smart you bring your lunch in a simple, modest, brown paper bag. I emphasize brown because it is the most nondescript. Anything else, you could open yourself up to the worst kind of torture, the most aggravated insults, and the most buoying kind of banter. You’ll be called anything from a sissy to a bed wetter. And all of this simply because of a bag.

The contents of the bag mattered. However, the trends seems to match whatever collective mood was brought to the table that day. Girls were the worst. And usually, it only took one voice before all the other little beret-filled, pig-tailed talking lemmings would all join in the raucous noise that had become the celebration, or even the defeat, of your lunch.

Sandwiches were always safe. So long as your mother didn’t cut them into cute little shapes, like Pac-man. This was fine for Kindergarten. First grade, however, is like a trip to Mars; the air is different, and everything looks red. Your lunch is a status symbol, it need not be a indication of your wealth. You could simply be more…prosaic, or even refined. Some of the cool kids bring their lunch to school in a sack, and the content of their bags are lauded up and down the halls of the lower grades, and quietly denounced as trifle by the older kids who have moved on to much more sophisticated things, like video games.

You set your lunch out on the table cautiously. This is an art in and of itself. The wrong allocation or balance of food or drink to your left or right may invite any number of atrocious behaviors. Therefore, a vital part of lunch who you sit next to. Still, the inherent balance and aesthetic appeal of your lunch to the eye is important. It mustn’t look like a masterpiece, and it can’t look like you just don’t care. You must strike that perfect pitch between inane and inept. And God forbid you show up with the same lunch as someone else. Such matters must be avoided at all cost.

We must also take a moment to consider lunchboxes. Here, the opposite rule applies than what applied to bags. A nondescript lunchbox means only one thing: uncool. It means the death of any chance at scoring some socially satisfying stature. A lunchbox must meet a wide appeal. Superheroes are not good subject matter for a lunchbox. On this, hardly anyone agrees, and the fight only gets more intense with age. Characters from newspaper comics, however, are a totally acceptable, and an almost flawless choice. The political and philosophical bents that compel people to read some of the funnies and ignore others with disdain don’t develop until college.

Lunch must be eaten slowly. This is a fair bet to avoid, again, any possible social repercussions. Eating lunch too fast is enough to send even the skinniest kid to the proverbial fat farm. When you’re finished, and if no one has said a word to you or about you, do not consider this failure. Instead, this is an honest success. You will not change the world with your lunch.

And the exercise worked. At least a little. I thought the bit about Sunday comic character lunchboxes as opposed to superhero lunchboxes was a little interesting. So, that thought led me to pen this paragraph which will start chapter 8 of the novel I’m working on…

On the inside of Anthony Kidwell’s doorway hangs a framed portrait of Charlie Brown. His round face beams with a characteristically thin, wide smile; his arms spread in joyful composure while Snoopy sits proudly at his feet. It is a small picture, surrounded by a wide matte, and framed in cherry wood. He told he that he hung it there once just for kicks, meaning to take it down later that day, but he forgot. A month later when the compulsion struck him, he went to remove the humble Peanuts character from off of his wall, and finally decided to leave it there. He said he felt better somehow, knowing that the last thing he saw before he left the house each morning was a picture of Charlie Brown smiling. I don’t think I’ve ever know a bigger, more enlightened geek.

Merry Christmas

For fun, I wrote a little Christmas pagent for the family to read aloud together this Christmas Eve. Today, I thought I'd share it with all of you.

Merry Christmas and God bless.


A Christmas Pagent
(a retelling of Luke 1:26-38; 2:1-20)

Reader 1: In the sixth month, God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, to a virgin pledged to be married to a man named Joseph, a descendent of David. The virgin’s name was Mary.

Reader 2: Greetings, you who are highly favored, the Lord is with you!

Reader 3: How did you get in here?

Reader 2: I was sent by God.

Reader 3: And He never taught you to knock?

Reader 2: Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. You will be with child and give birth to a son.

Reader 3: Are you nuts! I haven’t even – wait a second, Elizabeth put you up to this, didn’t she?

Reader 2: Mary, your cousin Elizabeth is with child also. You see, nothing is impossible with God. You, Mary, will name your child Jesus. He will be called the son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever. His reign will never end.

Reader 1: In those days, Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. Everyone went to his own town to register, so Joseph left Nazareth with Mary, and journeyed to Bethlehem. While they were there, Mary gave birth to her firstborn, a son.

Reader 4: She wrapped him in cloths, and placed him in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn.

Reader 1: Meanwhile, out in the fields nearby, shepherds kept watch over their flock by the light of the moon.

Reader 5: I was sitting under a tree, munching on a twig when the light came. Suddenly this tall, scary, but annoyingly handsome looking fellow stood before me. I made to smite him with my stick. But the light was just too bright. I clenched the staff and took a mighty swing, whiffed, spun all the way around, and landed on my back.

Reader 6: Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all people. Today, in the town of David, a Savior is born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: you will find a baby wrapped in cloths, and lying in a manger.

Reader 5: Suddenly, a great company of heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying:

All: Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace to men on whom his favor rests.

Reader 5: The angel left as quickly as he had appeared. The other shepherds and I decided to go to Bethlehem to see this marvel the Lord had told us about.

Reader 6: So they hurried to Bethlehem, finding Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who lay in a manger exactly as the angel had said.

Reader 4: When they saw him, the shepherds spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard were amazed at what the shepherds had said.

Reader 3: Mary treasured all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

Reader 2: The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had seen, which were just as they had been told.

Reader 4: And as we celebrate this day the coming of the Christ, we also look forward, to the day he comes again.

Reader 1: God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…

Reader 5: Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas day…

Reader 6: To save us all from Satan’s power when we have gone astray…

All (sing): Oh tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy – oh tidings of comfort and joy.

Dreams and Basketball

Stories can come from anywhere. Very rarely, they'll come from dreams. And sometimes, those dreams contain entirely fictional characters, like this one. Here's my first attempt at making a story out of it.

(C) 2005

John Palmer arrived at the church every morning at a quarter past five to play basketball alone. He shouldered the strap on his bag and unlocked the door, stepping quickly into the hallway. He punched in the code to kill the alarm and, shouldering his strap once more, sauntered down the darkened hallway toward the stairs.

His footfalls echoed off the walls in the empty vestibule. The church seemed more itself in the quiet of predawn. It became in these mornings for him a place of refuge. Here he could be alone and think his thoughts, pray his prayers, and play where no one could see. It was important for him to hide from the eyes that he felt watched him. He knew they didn’t, really. It was like a kid at his first school dance—the biggest hurdle is learning that no one’s eyes are on you. Palmer never learned that lesson, and he’d been hiding ever since.

He reached the foot of the stairs and paused. The two iron doors that opened into the gym sat ajar, darkness beyond. The security light above the door shone a faint yellow glow, lighting a few feet of the tiled gym floor before him. He stepped in quietly, scanning along what he could see. Old memories of the monsters that hid under his childhood bed began claw their way out of the shadows, and he felt a little more embarrassed than usual, palming the wall and finding the switch. He always seemed to find himself cringing to boogeymen that were never really there.

With a strong click, the halogens above glimmered to a pale, half-awake shine. He set his bag on the floor and stepped into the restroom to his left. He came out of the restroom, moments later, to find the halogens burning at peak intensity, and a young girl standing alone under the basket.

She held her right arm high, her hand locked in follow-through, her shot falling through the hoop, followed by the crackling snap of the net. A perfect shot. The ball bounced merrily into a confident hand as her other hand moved a stray strand of auburn hair out of her angular face. She was young, no older than eighteen. He’d never seen her before. And he was willing to bet that he felt more out place than she did. “Hi,” she said.

Palmer took a furtive step onto the tile, and let the door to the bathroom close behind him. “Hi,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Christine, I’m the new custodian—Rob hired me three days ago.”

Ah, Palmer thought. The custodians came and left around here with great frequency. He rarely even knew any of their names. Just when he felt he knew their faces, they moved on, replaced by another nameless face. Christine. Thank you for telling me your name. “Who are you?” she asked.

The question almost startled him, made him remember the monsters again, even out here under these intrusively bright lights. “I’m John Palmer,” he said.

She smiled a crooked grin, her eyes looked him over head to toe. “I know you,” she said. “The Pastor has a picture of you in his office. You’re taller than I thought.”

“You’ve been in the pastor’s office?”

“I’ve cleaned it twice.” And she threw him the ball. He caught it awkwardly, fought to keep from taking a stumble back. She seemed to enjoy this, her crooked smile only widened. “So what brings you here?” she asked.

Palmer held the ball at his hip. “I was actually about to ask you the same thing.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, a meek smile replacing the wry one, her head dipping slightly. “I live just over there,” she said, tilting her head, “in the apartments behind the church. I’m supposed to start at 6:30, and thought I’d come here and unwind for a while before I get to work.” When she raised her eyes back to his, the wry smile had returned. “What about you?”

He gave the ball in his hand a passive glance. “Kind of had the same idea.” He tossed the ball back.

She caught it, held it at the ready. “Had?” she asked, and snapped it back.

His fingers pocketed the ball steadily, ready this time. She was daring him, he thought. He threw it back, underhanded, a dismissal. “You were here first,” he said.

Her smile faded as the ball fell into her arms. “I think maybe I got here second,” she said, and fired it back. “Lay it up, show me what you got.”

She was daring him. He looked down at his feet. He stood maybe two or three inches from the three-point stripe. He looked up to the hoop, squared his feet bent his knees, and let fly. She followed the ball as it arched though the air, falling clean through the hoop, enjoying the same smack as she had moments ago. She retrieved the ball, her crooked smile lighting her face like a sunrise over Christmas. “Play with me?” she asked.

Palmer only stared, feeling all his forty-one years hanging like a chain around his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said, but she was talking before he had even finished.

“Come on,” she prodded innocently. “You came dressed to play. So play.” She underhanded the ball to him, the same daring furrow creasing her brow. He felt somehow weakened, and annoyed; annoyed that this girl, really a child, could hold him like a pet to a leash. Still, when he looked back on the encounter later, he felt more hurt than anger, and it troubled him for most of the day.

He played alone the next morning. He had come to the church feeling almost despondent, catching himself whispering a frightened prayer that she not be there, and here is prayer was answered. Shot after shot he went back in his mind to the previous day, remembering her laughter, her talk, the gentle form of her confidence in handling the ball. It was intimidating. And he felt very much like a criminal, spending his time with her, laughing with her, and allowing himself to enjoy her smile.

She was there again on Monday, and everyday the next week. She entered his world as if she had always lived in it, and felt free to hang her coat on the chair like a relative, rather than in the closet like a guest. He wanted to feel invaded. She checked the ball to him and taunted, “I’m not that tall, come on. Arc it in.” She stood before him, legs apart, knees bent, her left arm out to the side, her right arm high above her head. He faded back and fired. She leaped high, grunting in the effort, whiffing her hand past the ball. It bucked the rim and fell back to the floor. She turned to him with a wicked smile. “I distracted you,” she said.

“Let me off the hook,” he said. “You’re a lot taller when you’ve got your hand waving in front of me like a lunatic.”

She retrieved the ball and they switched, she stood at the free throw line as he made to guard her. He postured himself he same way she had, careful not to crowd her, but watchful. She’d proven her quickness, faking a shot and springing around him like a gazelle, laying the ball in as easily as she seemed to do everything else. He kept himself ready.

“Watch my shoulders,” she said. “I can’t take the ball anywhere without them.” Her eyes became like a teacher, intensely focused, clear as glass. She watched her instruction melt into him, and made her move to the left. She planted her left foot hard and shot back to the right, making to move around him again. He saw her shoulders, and he anticipated, reaching out and snatching the ball from her hand as she dribbled. “Oh!” she yelled, delighted. He held the captured ball high as a trophy. “You’re a quick learner,” she said.

“I have a good teacher.”

“No,” she said quickly. “You’ve played before. Don’t act like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

He lowered the ball, tossed it between his hands. “I used to play with my dad,” he said. “A long time ago.”

From time to time, he’d catch her in the hallways of the church as he made his rounds. He’d look forward to her crooked smiles, and grew more secure with her when she’d ask him sometimes, “We on for tomorrow?” His answer was always yes. Now that her coat was on the chair, he couldn’t stand to shame her and put it away. So he left it.

The teens were selling ice cream for fifty cents a cone. He stood against the rocky wall of the church, watching as the littler kids chased each other around the parking lot. A few adults were scattered here and there, and occasionally, a parishioner came up to him, peppering him with questions. “We miss the hymns,” was a favorite topic. “The sound system, it needs a little, I don’t know, work, don’t you think,” was a another. Palmer didn’t care. How could he? The moment he accepted this position, he ceased being part of the church and became just another part of the building, another piece to manipulate.

He silently withdrew and crossed to the front of the church, stepping onto the sidewalk and meandering deeper into the neighborhood. He nursed his cone as the sounds of the children playing faded behind him, replaced by the soft breeze rustling high green leaves. His feet carried him into the neighborhood park attached to the high school. A high, chain link fence surrounded a concrete ball court, guarded by small wooden bleachers that had dried and cracked over many years. He came here sometimes to enjoy watching the game, perched on the top row, away from the mingling groups. Occasionally, one boy would bow out as another shed his shirt and joined the foray. He listened to their chatter, the short congratulations of ability mixed with healthy doses of trash-talk. He was always surprised that the boys, when faced with such slander, responded in laughter rather than scorn. Palmer felt as though he looked through a grimy window to a place that, to other eyes, might almost feel welcoming. “Hey.”

She tromped up the rugged and parched wooden steps and sat down beside him. “You look funny,” Christine said.

Palmer chuckled and swallowed the last of his cone. “I don’t have ice cream on my face, do I?”

“No,” she said, her face serious, examining him like a nurse. “You look like you’re not here.”

“Where else would I be,” he asked.

“Down there,” she said, “with them.”

Palmer looked back down on the court. A tall, muscular teen seemed to fly at the rim, stuffing the ball through the hoop and landing on happy feet. “Boo-yah!” the young man yelled. The others simply waved off his candor as they exchanged possession.

“That could be you down there,” she said. Palmer laughed hard. He tried not to let his voice carry, suddenly self-conscious, looking for peering eyes. “I’m serious,” she pressed. She turned and watched the game. Palmer only stared at her, saw the soft lines of her face stiffen with conviction. He felt he could see a small amount of frustration welling inside of her. He was at once embarrassed at his laughter, and shamed. An apology perched on his lips, but he she rose from her seat, and headed down the steps to the fence.

“Last one, man,” he heard one of the boys say. He watched as Christine cast off her sweatshirt, straitening the tank-top underneath and girding herself to step on the court. “That’s it, I’m out,” said the same young man, and went to sit down.

“I’m in,” said Christine, stepping onto the concrete. The play resumed. Palmer watched, incredulous. She joined with little effort, instantly accepted, instantly a part of the game; she played fiercely, more aggressive than their little match-ups at the gym. She worked the court like a ballet, weaving around her resistance with deft and beautiful precision. After fifteen minutes, she and another withdrew, replaced by two more. She bumped fists with the other boy. “Nice skills, chica,” Palmer heard him say, “Come back some time.”

She threw her sweatshirt back on over her head, and tromped back up the steps to Palmer. Her shoulders heaved with heavy breaths. He saw in her the same sternness as before, but with it this time, was her crooked smile. “We on for tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Palmer said, and he watched her hop down from the bleachers, and head back up the sidewalk in the direction he had come.

Christine and Palmer continued their morning match-ups through the summer. They progressed from games of horse to finally 12 point one-on-one. This morning she was late. Palmer rounded the three-point line to pass the time. She jogged in through the doors, tying her hair back and shrugging off the duffel bag she carried. “You hear the news?”

Palmer fired his last shot and looked at her, her hands behind her back, shifting her weight from foot to foot like a giddy schoolgirl. “What?”

“Guess,” she said through her crooked smile. He saw she held an opened mail envelope behind her back. “And I’m only gonna give you three.”

For several weeks, she’d told him of her efforts to apply to different schools both in and out of state. She had set her ambitions high, sending applications to Stanford and Dartmouth, and she worried for her mother, who often lamented her little girl leaving home. “You get into Stanford?” he asked.

“No, Dartmouth!” she said, bounding on her feet and throwing her arms around his neck. Palmer sucked in a breath, startled, and tenderly touched her back. “Can you believe it,” she said, letting go and holding out the envelope, “they sent me a letter and everything.” She handed it to him.

Palmer pulled out the folded card stock and read quietly. He felt at once sullen and thrilled. “Congratulations,” he said, sharing her joy. “What are you going to do?”

She took the letter and reread it to herself, probably for the millionth time, Palmer thought. “I’m gonna study graphic design,” she said, staring at the paper. “I just can’t believe it. I’m gonna go to Dartmouth.”

She stayed through the next week, appearing every other day to play, to share her progress on arranging for her move. Her last day was a Friday. The church held a goodbye party for her. Palmer watched her, feeling what he thought might be envy, and told himself not to be silly. He had come to look forward to seeing her. He didn’t like to think of playing in an empty gym. The farewells were short, and soon, Palmer was alone with her in the classroom they had commandeered for her. “I wasn’t looking forward to this part,” she said.

“Yeah,” Palmer managed. She saw her eyes glisten slightly, and she embraced him one last time. He wrapped is arms around her, holding her, and letting go at he same time. She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. Words were few. “Don’t forget about me,” she said. And then she was gone.

The gym carried the sound of the ball a little heavier. He’d amble across the key, tossing lay-ups into the boards, watching the ball fall into the hoop. Alone. All this time to come back to where he started, and all he wanted to do was play one more game.

The mornings grew darker. Games at the park grew further apart as the school year began. Palmer found himself perched atop the bleachers once more. Three boys played together under his shadow, enduring modest two on one, or various other games. Palmer stood, slowly stepped down the bleachers and up to the fence. His heart hammered in his ears and his legs felt like rubber stumps. Still, he placed his fingers through the links of the fence. He caught the eye of one of the others. “You want in, man?” he said.

Palmer cast off his shirt and stepped tentatively onto the court. “Tricks, take the old man,” the one said.

Tricks, a tall young man with a shaved head, squared up to the big one who had called Palmer in the game. Palmer found himself checking the ball to a younger, wiry fellow who grinned in subtle mischief. “Keep an eye on the shoulders,” he said.

“You can’t go anywhere without them,” Palmer finished for him. The wiry kid took a step to his left. Palmer caught the shift in his weight and made for the ball. The kid compensated and spun around Palmer’s left, dishing the ball to his mate, who scored an easy shot. Tricks rebounded the ball and threw it to Palmer. The wiry one checked him this time. Palmer watched the kid’s feet. He made to drive and stopped short, sending the kid off balance. He sent the ball to Tricks and ran for the hoop. Tricks put the ball to the ground once and laid it up to Palmer who tossed it in.

“Boo yah!” Tricks yelled.

The wiry one grabbed the ball, looked Palmer head to toe. “You all right, man,” he said. He let Palmer check him, and grinned once more. “Let’s do it again.”

They played as the sun dimmed at the horizon while the park lights slowly flared to life around them. Palmer felt his confidence surge with every step, every dribble. At game’s end, Palmer grabbed his sweatshirt and wiped his brow. “Hey,” said Tricks tapping him on the shoulder. “You all right, man,” he said. What’s your name?”

“Palmer,” he said. “John Palmer.”

“Lend me some skin, Palmer,” said Tricks. In the grasp of the man’s large hands, Tricks clapped Palmer on the shoulder with his other hand. “You got some skills,” he said. “Come back some time.”

“Definitely,” Palmer said. He watched Tricks sling his damp shirt over his shoulder, and disappear into the growing night. Palmer shouldered his bag and started up the walk and back to the church. He stole one more glance at the empty court, illuminated in the dark by the bright halogens. “Thank you, Christine,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

What is this place?

I'm glad you asked.

I created this writing blog as a place to post the first drafts of some of my shorter works, and hopefully receive some feedback.

If you like what you read, great! If not, please let me know, and please tell me why. I welcome any and all criticism, so long as it is constructive.

All posts and short stories are copyrighted by me, Travis A. Johnson.

Abyssinia.