The Shulamite
Posted on: April 2, 2015
Nessa was thirteen years old when she was baptized by her handsome youth pastor in a country club swimming pool. That afternoon, she bought her very own Teen Study Bible that included bright colored articles about abstinence and honoring your parents. Nessa took it with her wherever she went, including Ruby Tuesday’s after church on Sundays. For some reason it made her father feel like he couldn’t have a beer with his meal.
Her boyfriend Stephen lived on the other side of the Internet in Oregon. He was the one who lead her to accept Jesus Christ as her Lord and Savior one night after they had cyber sex in a private chatroom. Stephen loved Jesus so much, sometimes he’d cry when they talked on the phone late at night after Nessa’s parents went to bed. She didn’t care that he was so much older than her. She was really mature for her age. He was praying about whether or not to get his GED, but if that didn’t pan out, he’d keep making swords.
Shortly after being baptized, Nessa made a habit of playing Christian worship songs while lying on the floor in her bedroom, staring at the ceiling as she imagined dancing on the beach with Jesus. She loved the sound of the CD beginning to spin, and the words would push the tears out of her eyes. She would do this for hours because she wasn’t allowed to go out, and Stephen wasn’t around. Jesus was her best friend, her only friend. He wanted to give her the desires of her heart, and she wanted to give them to Him.
One night, she read Song of Solomon from the Old Testament. The introduction in her Bible said it was a love story about King Solomon and a beautiful woman, but it was really a metaphor for our relationship with Jesus. Nessa figured she should start thinking of Jesus not only as her Lord and Savior, but as her lover, too. Sometimes, she would lie in bed late at night after using up her calling card to phone Stephen, feeling a little turned on, thinking about how perfect Jesus is. He would know how to hold her, how to touch her, how to kiss her. He would say all the right things and treat her right. But then she would cry a little because she knew that Jesus loves everyone else just as much, and He would never be just hers.
It was awkward having a boyfriend who lived so far away. Nessa envied the couples holding hands on the way to class, the quick peck on the lips. When she felt alone, she would remind herself that Jesus is always with her in her heart. She would pray for freedom from a covetous spirit, for wisdom and discernment to be a good girlfriend, and one day a wife. Stephen told her they were already married in God’s eyes. That’s why it was okay that they had phone sex. Nessa was really grateful that Stephen knew so much about pleasing the Lord and doing what was right in God’s eyes.
When she masturbated thinking about Jesus, Nessa felt conflicted. Stephen was spiritually her husband, but so was Jesus. Should she feel bad? Should she tell Stephen? Was Jesus mad at her? She imagined being Mary Magdalene, sitting at His feet and listening to Him tell her everything about God the Father. She imagined His piercing blue eyes and long brown hair falling over the shoulders of His crisp, white tunic. Nessa imagined kissing His feet, then Jesus reaching down and caressing her face. She imagined Him whispering in her ear, “Come to me. My yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
But then she knew it was becoming a problem when all she could think about was sex whenever the pastor preached on Sundays. Nessa’s palms would sweat as she bit her lips and tried to push the thoughts out. It was so hard not to think about sex all the time. Stephen was always talking about how excited he was to have sex with her one day, and boys at school would tell her it was so hot that she was still a virgin. Nessa had been reading Genesis over and over again because somebody was always “knowing” somebody else and women were seducing their fathers or getting raped by men from other tribes. Faith was no escape from the onslaught of careening hormones, whether they belonged to her or someone else.
Nessa told Misty, one of the leaders in her youth group, about having phone sex with Stephen. Misty was really upset and told Nessa to confess it to Jesus, but they never talked about it again after that. On a mission’s trip, Nessa was fond of her counselor Lauren, and told her about her sexual thoughts. Lauren sat and prayed with her, saying Jesus forgives her for everything. When Nessa told one of the pastors at her church about masturbating while thinking of Jesus, he said there is no condemnation under the blood of Christ, then kissed her on the mouth. She didn’t tell Stephen about that.
One night, Nessa dreamt about heaven. She sat at a farm table covered with bread, cheese, and fruit as Jesus served her wine. Out the window she could see a beautiful vineyard and sprawling green hills. She no longer felt the sinfulness of her sexuality, and she was finally with her beloved. How many nights had she asked Jesus for this? When He sat down next to her, she took His hand and turned to Him, her knee touching His.
“I know this is a dream, but can I stay?” she begged.
“No, Nessa. Your time isn’t finished.”
When she woke up, she went to the bathroom and sat down to pee, resting her chin in her hands. Nessa saw her razor sitting on the bathtub ledge and realized she would have to take heaven by force.
Written by: Natasha Akery
Photograph by: Rob Gregory
Labels:
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Christianity.
evangelism.
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natasha akery.
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The Creative Process
Posted on: July 1, 2013
Five. Four. Three. Two. One. And GO.
Wait, goggles don’t feel right.
And GO.
Wait, wait, wait. Didn’t set my stopwatch.
GO, DAMMIT!
Alright, just like Youtube taught me. Legs stiff, arms extended and forehead barely cresting the water.
One.
Cresting. Gross. It sounds like I’m being birthed. I could go for a good cry right now. Or maybe a spanking.
Two.
What jaghole decided to make open swim from five to eight in the morning? I bet they’re old, like everyone else in here besides me.
Three.
Including this bag of wrinkles in my lane. How are there THIS MANY PEOPLE here right now?
Four.
Alright, chill out. Focus on your breathing. Close your eyes. You’re the only one in the pool. You’re the only one in the pool.
Five.
Fuck! Ouch. Goddamn rope! Am I bleeding? I’m probably bleeding. I should probably stop and make sure I’m not bleeding.
Six.
NO! You will stay in this pool and continue racing this ancient merman! Even if he has no idea he’s in a race.
Seven.
Son of a Speedo! This guy is like the lovechild of Flipper the dolphin and one of the California Raisins! Is he propelling himself with farts or what!?
Eight.
I quit. Racing. Not swimming. Must keep swimming. Must stay fit. Must look good naked.
Nine.
According to Men’s Health, a summer of lap swimming leads to a six-pack. Men’s Health wouldn’t lie. Men’s Health is infallible.
Ten.
Speaking of bibles, I wonder if Jesus was a swimmer? He had GREAT abs.
Eleven.
Maybe he wasn’t walking on water at all?
Twelve.
Maybe his leg kicks were so fierce, he just appeared to be walking on water?
Thirteen.
I wonder if Jesus would’ve been so influential without those abs?
Fourteen.
Would people be so willing to wear him around their neck if he looked more like St. Nick?
Fifteen.
Who has the money for that much precious metal? Rappers. And Baptists.
Sixteen.
What if Jesus wasn’t Jesus at all? What if the Jesus we all know and mostly pretend to love is really just the FACE of Christianity?
Seventeen.
And the real Jesus was like Beyonce’s song writers.
Eighteen.
They create inspiring lyrics about inner-beauty and self-respect, while she performs them in designer outfits and gallons of makeup.
Nineteen.
Real Jesus was probably a hefty gent who ate one-too-many pieces of unleavened bread while rolling through his scrolls.
Twenty.
No matter how compelling his philosophies were, no one could look past the crumbs in his beard.
Twenty-one.
Then one day, while passing a construction site, he spotted a svelte young man telling a joke to a larger audience than Real Jesus could ever even pray for.
Twenty-two.
That’s when he decided to let this sexy carpenter do his preaching for him.
Twenty-three.
Real Jesus started by feeding him a few simple parables, but the underlying messages went right over the crowd’s heads.
Twenty-four.
So they started performing “miracles,” like the time Hot Christ distracted a wedding party with his abs while Real Jesus filled the water pitchers with wine.
Twenty-five.
Or that time when Hot Christ stood on a makeshift surfboard while Real Jesus discretely pushed it across a lake.
Twenty-six.
Or the time when Hot Christ climbed to the top of a mountain and started glowing because Real Jesus reflected the sun on his face with a shiny rock.
Twenty-seven.
That one probably wasn’t even intended to be a miracle. That was just Real Jesus playing a practical joke on his buddy while he was trying to take a leak.
Twenty-eight.
But then things turned sour once Hot Christ let all the hero worship get to his head.
Twenty-nine.
He started believing he truly was the son of God and started writing checks his abs couldn’t cash.
Thirty.
Hot Christ’s preachings went from Real Jesus’ parables to promising everyone eternal life and a blank slate if they committed their lives to him.
Thirty-one.
Real Jesus tried to warn him the authorities were getting a little weary of these radical thoughts, but Hot Christ was already gone.
Thirty-two.
Next thing you know, Hot Christ is getting nailed to a cross and Real Jesus is back to being ignored by everyone in Jerusalem. Especially the ladies.
Thirty-three.
Even Hot Christ’s most avid listeners started forgetting all of Real Jesus’ philosophies.
Thirty-four.
Real Jesus knew his life’s work was decaying like Hot Christ’s body in the cave, so he came up with one final miracle.
Thirty-five.
One morning while no one was watching, which didn’t take long because everyone was kind of over the whole crucifiction thing,
thirty-six,
real Jesus removed Hot Christ from the cave and carried his corpse around town, Weekend At Bernie’s style.
Thirty-seven.
The disciples bought it and quickly wrote down everything they could remember from their time with Hot Christ. And so began the New Testament.
Forty-seven.
Did I just come up with the plot for my first Dan Brown novel, or did I just guarantee myself a warm seat in hell right next to Satan?
Forty-eight.
BOTH! Wait, did I just lose count? Wasn’t I just in the thirties?
Forty-nine.
Son of a BITCH! There’s no way that’s right. I have to go back. Let’s say...
forty-five.
Forty-five sounds about right, right? Is this Karma?
Forty-six.
No, Karma is an Indian thing. What’s the Indian religion again?
Forty-seven.
I want to say it starts with an “H...”
Forty-eight.
HINDUISM! Oh man, talk about a religion you can have some fun with. They do it like gymnasts and all their gods look like Goro from Mortal Kombat.
Forty-nine.
But, that will have to wait till next time. One more big stroke and...
FIFTY!
Jesus, that sucked.
There I go taking the Lord’s name in vain again. Granny always told me I shouldn’t do that. You know who else’s name you shouldn’t say? LORD VOLDEMORT.
Jesus is Voldemort! Do I smell a sequel?
No, that’s just chlorine.
I’ve gotta stop thinking and swimming.
Written By: Mark Killian
Photo By: Christian Goy
Wait, goggles don’t feel right.
And GO.
Wait, wait, wait. Didn’t set my stopwatch.
GO, DAMMIT!
Alright, just like Youtube taught me. Legs stiff, arms extended and forehead barely cresting the water.
One.
Cresting. Gross. It sounds like I’m being birthed. I could go for a good cry right now. Or maybe a spanking.
Two.
What jaghole decided to make open swim from five to eight in the morning? I bet they’re old, like everyone else in here besides me.
Three.
Including this bag of wrinkles in my lane. How are there THIS MANY PEOPLE here right now?
Four.
Alright, chill out. Focus on your breathing. Close your eyes. You’re the only one in the pool. You’re the only one in the pool.
Five.
Fuck! Ouch. Goddamn rope! Am I bleeding? I’m probably bleeding. I should probably stop and make sure I’m not bleeding.
Six.
NO! You will stay in this pool and continue racing this ancient merman! Even if he has no idea he’s in a race.
Seven.
Son of a Speedo! This guy is like the lovechild of Flipper the dolphin and one of the California Raisins! Is he propelling himself with farts or what!?
Eight.
I quit. Racing. Not swimming. Must keep swimming. Must stay fit. Must look good naked.
Nine.
According to Men’s Health, a summer of lap swimming leads to a six-pack. Men’s Health wouldn’t lie. Men’s Health is infallible.
Ten.
Speaking of bibles, I wonder if Jesus was a swimmer? He had GREAT abs.
Eleven.
Maybe he wasn’t walking on water at all?
Twelve.
Maybe his leg kicks were so fierce, he just appeared to be walking on water?
Thirteen.
I wonder if Jesus would’ve been so influential without those abs?
Fourteen.
Would people be so willing to wear him around their neck if he looked more like St. Nick?
Fifteen.
Who has the money for that much precious metal? Rappers. And Baptists.
Sixteen.
What if Jesus wasn’t Jesus at all? What if the Jesus we all know and mostly pretend to love is really just the FACE of Christianity?
Seventeen.
And the real Jesus was like Beyonce’s song writers.
Eighteen.
They create inspiring lyrics about inner-beauty and self-respect, while she performs them in designer outfits and gallons of makeup.
Nineteen.
Real Jesus was probably a hefty gent who ate one-too-many pieces of unleavened bread while rolling through his scrolls.
Twenty.
No matter how compelling his philosophies were, no one could look past the crumbs in his beard.
Twenty-one.
Then one day, while passing a construction site, he spotted a svelte young man telling a joke to a larger audience than Real Jesus could ever even pray for.
Twenty-two.
That’s when he decided to let this sexy carpenter do his preaching for him.
Twenty-three.
Real Jesus started by feeding him a few simple parables, but the underlying messages went right over the crowd’s heads.
Twenty-four.
So they started performing “miracles,” like the time Hot Christ distracted a wedding party with his abs while Real Jesus filled the water pitchers with wine.
Twenty-five.
Or that time when Hot Christ stood on a makeshift surfboard while Real Jesus discretely pushed it across a lake.
Twenty-six.
Or the time when Hot Christ climbed to the top of a mountain and started glowing because Real Jesus reflected the sun on his face with a shiny rock.
Twenty-seven.
That one probably wasn’t even intended to be a miracle. That was just Real Jesus playing a practical joke on his buddy while he was trying to take a leak.
Twenty-eight.
But then things turned sour once Hot Christ let all the hero worship get to his head.
Twenty-nine.
He started believing he truly was the son of God and started writing checks his abs couldn’t cash.
Thirty.
Hot Christ’s preachings went from Real Jesus’ parables to promising everyone eternal life and a blank slate if they committed their lives to him.
Thirty-one.
Real Jesus tried to warn him the authorities were getting a little weary of these radical thoughts, but Hot Christ was already gone.
Thirty-two.
Next thing you know, Hot Christ is getting nailed to a cross and Real Jesus is back to being ignored by everyone in Jerusalem. Especially the ladies.
Thirty-three.
Even Hot Christ’s most avid listeners started forgetting all of Real Jesus’ philosophies.
Thirty-four.
Real Jesus knew his life’s work was decaying like Hot Christ’s body in the cave, so he came up with one final miracle.
Thirty-five.
One morning while no one was watching, which didn’t take long because everyone was kind of over the whole crucifiction thing,
thirty-six,
real Jesus removed Hot Christ from the cave and carried his corpse around town, Weekend At Bernie’s style.
Thirty-seven.
The disciples bought it and quickly wrote down everything they could remember from their time with Hot Christ. And so began the New Testament.
Forty-seven.
Did I just come up with the plot for my first Dan Brown novel, or did I just guarantee myself a warm seat in hell right next to Satan?
Forty-eight.
BOTH! Wait, did I just lose count? Wasn’t I just in the thirties?
Forty-nine.
Son of a BITCH! There’s no way that’s right. I have to go back. Let’s say...
forty-five.
Forty-five sounds about right, right? Is this Karma?
Forty-six.
No, Karma is an Indian thing. What’s the Indian religion again?
Forty-seven.
I want to say it starts with an “H...”
Forty-eight.
HINDUISM! Oh man, talk about a religion you can have some fun with. They do it like gymnasts and all their gods look like Goro from Mortal Kombat.
Forty-nine.
But, that will have to wait till next time. One more big stroke and...
FIFTY!
Jesus, that sucked.
There I go taking the Lord’s name in vain again. Granny always told me I shouldn’t do that. You know who else’s name you shouldn’t say? LORD VOLDEMORT.
Jesus is Voldemort! Do I smell a sequel?
No, that’s just chlorine.
I’ve gotta stop thinking and swimming.
Written By: Mark Killian
Photo By: Christian Goy
Labels:
1:1000.
art.
Beyonce.
creative process.
frustration.
inspiration.
Jesus.
mark killian.
metaphor.
photography.
religion.
short story.
swimming.
swimming pool.
writing
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1:1000
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