Lobsang

A carpet may be spread for anyone:
spread for the Buddha bathed in blood,
and also for the weaver
of the same blood-stained carpet.
- "Every town is a hometown, all people are kin," Sukirtharani

Lobsang was aged thirty-two when I first met him. He was passing through Calcutta, headed southward. He had come down from the northern plains a few weeks ago. He was headed south to visit a hospital where a fellow monk, a friend, was admitted for surgery.

I was waiting for a north-bound suburban train at Sealdah when I wandered into the long-distance platforms out of boredom. I took a seat beside a tea vendor. When sipping on tea a beggar approached me, whom I told forthrightly that I had no money with me. I was unemployed and we were in the same boat.

"Give me the tea then. Or buy me one."

"No, I can't." An eerie sense of guilt went through my spine, recognizable through years of encounters. Passing through the streets of Calcutta, one becomes familiar with these feelings especially when indulging in hedonism in the gaze of the have-nots. The feeling goes away a few minutes later, very similar to any guilt induced by capitalism and inequality.

The beggar went towards Lobsang. Lobsang was seated on the ground. The beggar asked him for money and he handed some over. He asked again, and Lobsang handed over more money. This went on for a while till Lobsang got up and walked away. The beggar came back towards the tea vendor with a grin on his face and looked at me and said, "What would you do with so much money?"

I would later learn my guilt was nothing compared to what bothered Lobsang.

I ran into him the next day at Sudder Street. I was waiting by the crossing beside Blue Sky Café for a friend to arrive. She had texted to tell me that she wasn’t going to be on time, so I started wandering around the street and smoking cigarettes to while away time.

The sky was overcast with a comfortable chill in the air, one that didn’t require more than one layer of clothing. I liked to loiter around Sudder Street and observe people whenever I had a chance. One could find a diverse group of people here, from the middle class looking for a fix or a drink, to tourists waiting to be haggled by another class of Indians. A lot of white and east Asian tourists halted in the cheap hotels targeted for backpackers. Since the hippies first arrived, neighbourhoods such as these in most cities learned to peddle religion, drugs, ethnic trinkets and clothes to the young backpackers seeking adventure, belief, and authenticity.

It didn’t take long for the drug peddlers to start asking me what I was seeking. One of the peddlers told me some new stuff had arrived, which the city hadn't seen before. I told him I had no money. He asked me to spread the word. I responded with a certain nod of the head. When my friend arrived she stood with me on the street and smoked some more while we bathed in the comfortable winter wind.

That's when I saw him again, or so I thought. A Buddhist monk was walking by on the street.

"Oi, bald man. Oi, Buddhist. Need some stuff?" the peddler shouted out to him.

The crowd around the narrow crossroad turned its gaze towards the peddler. He kept shouting and calling out to Lobsang. Lobsang kept his eyes on the ground, not moving from the feet. As Lobsang walked away from the lane towards the main road, the peddler turned around to see the crowd staring at him. The peddler looked all around and started laughing as the crowd dispersed and he took a drunken walk to the curb and sat down.

***

Lobsang ran away from his monastery when he was twenty-nine. He had come to Calcutta to look for certain books when a man had mugged him on the streets in the night. With no money to go back, he reacted. He ran behind the man who stole the money and tackled him on the ground. The man reacted with his elbows but Lobsang hit him in the face a few times till his fist was bloodied. The tussle went on for what felt like a few minutes. When Lobsang got up, he noticed that the man was not moving and his clothes were tattered.

Lobsang went to the nearest police station with his bloodied, torn attire, surrendered and confessed the whole incident. He stayed locked up in the prison for eight months while he waited for his trail to finish. The state-sponsored lawyer made sure he was proven not guilty with a plea of self-defense. The man he had killed, was a repeating offender. It did not take the judge much to persuade.

Since then Lobsang has roamed the streets of Calcutta and Eastern India without any affiliation to a monastery, much like students unaffiliated to the universities, reading and studying on their own. Lobsang wrote about his days in the prison in a national daily. He wrote about how in his life of repentance he had come closer to the common people and in the process acquired greater knowledge. The insularity of the monasteries had never led him to ponder on deeper questions of practical ethics. When was it right or wrong to kill a man?

***

It was when he was published in the daily, which was later syndicated across various websites and social media, I recognized the man I saw on the streets those two times. Lobsang was a man who was much more complicated than he first appeared under the simple clothing. The ochre-colored cloth seemed to me like a vessel to carry the ascetic body and also a costume to hide behind. As the media lapped over him and slowly projected him as a man of wisdom, I started to wonder whether wisdom was too hasty a word to use for anyone.

During an encounter with Lobsang when I accompanied my friend Romila, a documentary director, he looked into the camera and gave elaborate answers to all questions Romila threw at him. During one of the interviews that he was giving for a television network, we followed him into the studio and recorded the interview from behind the studio cameras. His face never flinched when he confessed about the killing. His smiles transitioned effortlessly into a contemplative face. We replayed the videos in slow motion but couldn’t find an iota of guilt on his face. His wandering it appeared had indeed purged his guilt.

When we asked him what motivated him to write in the daily, his eyes looked into one of the cameras for a second and then looked straight into Romila’s eyes and he answered, “I wanted to share the knowledge I accumulated over the years.”

Written by: Debarun Sarkar

Photograph by: Michael Ken

A Change of Plans

Japan is her idea. A way to reconnect. A second honeymoon, even though we never really had a first. Only eighteen when we married, it wasn’t in the budget. Besides, in our situation, we had more pressing matters. A couple of kids having a kid. But then we didn’t. In a way I don’t think we really fell in love until we were comforting each other over the loss.

We didn’t try again for a couple of years. Happy years, the way I remember them. But the next time it happened the sorrow seemed to push us apart instead of bringing us closer together.

She joined the Church after miscarriage number three. She did her best to get me to go with her, but my attendance was spotty, my devotion even more so. It wasn’t the people, they seemed nice enough. I just didn’t find any answers there. Maybe I was asking the wrong questions, but the building felt as hollow and empty as her womb.

I sought solace in a different way. Long hours, weeks spent living out of a suitcase. The punishing grind of sales, rewarded with quarterly bonuses and awards banquets held in smoky barrooms that tend to turn ugly as the liquor flows into the night. My willingness to forfeit a personal life for a professional life does not go unnoticed. The youngest regional director of sales of in company history, I try to placate her, and maybe myself, that it will all be worth it in the end.

And then she proposes Japan.

The trip is organized by a group at her Church. Each year they go somewhere new. Italy. Greece. Israel. And each year her friends return and we listen to their stories and admire their pictures and purchases and she pretends to be so happy for them. They ask us to join them, but we tell them of the plan, our plan, that more hard work now means an earlier and better retirement later. Free and unencumbered, young enough to still enjoy it, we will have it all. But it eats at her. I know it does. So I relent.

We spend our first night in Tokyo. To me, the city is beautiful, a futuristic forest of metal and glass and neon. I understand its tempo, its pulse, the hurried existence of its citizens. I love how the city straddles the edge, teetering between ragged chaos and an ordered, almost military-like structure. I feel safe in its frenzied cocoon.

She does not.

She wants tradition, history. She wants cherry blossoms and wooden temples, tea ceremonies and tranquil gardens. She wants to feel the past. She doesn’t understand that the past is littered with pain and death.

Or maybe she understands it better than me.

The sun is barely up when we drive south and leave Tokyo behind. The trees glisten in the early morning light. When we arrive in Kamakura, the air is already hot and thick. Swarms of mosquitos buzz about, as do the crowds of people at the great Shinto shrine of Tsurugaoka Hachimangu. I find a place to sit in the shade as the rest of our group scales the stairs to the Senior Shrine. I long for the central air conditioning of our room. When they descend, I look at our itinerary. One more stop. The Daibutsu at Kotoku-in.

We round the corner and I see him. He sits nestled in the hills. Humble, yet profound. Open and ready for whatever the universe brings. He is not afraid. He is not happy, or sad, or angry. He just is. And in his shadow, just for a moment, I too, catch of glimmer of what lies beyond the mysteries. It changes everything.

The truth, in all of its simplicity, is laid bare before me. Everything I know is an illusion, the life I have created is nothing but a series of calculated distractions. The fancy clothes, the newest gadgets, the Best in Sales plaques that dot my walls, all are mere band-aids, failed attempts to cover the gaping wounds in my soul. The overtime I put in at work is not a sacrifice to get ahead, rather it is me trying to avoid the unavoidable. I know that now.

I cannot run from suffering, I cannot escape it. It is inevitable.

I see her standing a few feet away, studying the great statue with reverence. It hits me that someday I will lose her, and she will lose me. Instead of terrifying me, I realize that I am okay with this, that I have to be okay with this. That if you are not willing to let your heart be broken, you cannot love. And a life without love is worse than death.

I walk up behind her and put my arms around her. She’s startled by my sudden affection.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

I smile at her.

“Yes,” I say. I pull her closer to me and kiss her. I kiss her like I used to when we were eighteen. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t been this good, in a long, long time.”

“Wow,” she says, and she means it.

Together we stare up at the giant bronze Buddha. I feel an electricity between us that has been long absent.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” she says. “It’s hard to believe that it’s been here for over seven hundred and fifty years.”

I look at his face, calm and serene. I wonder how many others have stood in just this spot, how many others he has shown the truth to, how many others he has saved.

“It’s… It’s magical. I can’t really describe it.”

The tour guide announces our departure. Our group starts to shuffle away, back to the bus, back to the city that suddenly holds no appeal. We turn to go.

“Thank you,” I say, mostly to her, but also to him.

She looks at me.

“For what?”

“For everything. For not giving up on me, on us. For bringing me here.”

She squeezes my arm.

“You’re welcome.”



Written by: Ben Cook
Photograph by: Rob Gregory

Obsession

Saul feels the darkness start in his hands, then the hairs prickle on the left side of his face. The air is thick with the heaviness of some otherworldly thing inhabiting the well behind the house. He walks backward, watching the mouth of the well, expecting something or someone to crawl out.

It does.

It resembles the shape of a human being, but the length of the arms and legs are exaggerated. It is black, and looking at it from this distance makes it seem more like a coal sketch than a physical creature. It pauses on the lip of the well, mouth agape, and Saul can feel it watch him from the hollows of its face that should be holding eyes. He watches its back rise and fall with breath. Saul wants to walk toward it and run from it at the same time.

“Your sensitivity summons me, boy. You’re like a quivering magnet; it could be hazardous if I come much closer.” The being’s voice is a hoarse whisper caught in a hiss.

“What’s your name?” Saul asks.

The being cocks its head back, its mouth a sneering black hole. “Mersef. You may be a boy, but you’re not a dumb one. You ask my name with authority; who taught you how to guard yourself from we who walk the boundary?”

“I read a lot.”

Mersef’s laughter erupts. “It is dangerous to walk the path of knowledge without a guide. You might stumble over a snake you mistook for a stone.”

“I could banish you from the well if I wanted,” Saul says with sudden bravado.

Mersef’s reply is a purr. “Your ignorance is obvious. A wise man, a righteous man - yes - could banish me. The most you can do is hold me at bay, but I can follow. I can inhabit the things around you, the ones you love. I can torment you for the rest of your days, boy.”

Saul swallows, feeling his pulse beat hard between his collar bones.

“Or, I can guide you,” Mersef coos.

The wind picks up as the sun begins to set behind the trees, leaves rustling a gentle warning. Saul hears the creak of the screen door as it opens and the sound of his mother calling him in for dinner.

“Saul, come inside! Let’s eat!”

“Ah, Saul. Now we are better acquainted,” says Mersef, almost giggling.

“Damn it,” Saul says under his breath and then, “K! I’m coming!”

Mersef adjusts itself to resemble a cat seated on its haunches.

“We have power over one another now, Saul. Just enough to stay bound,” the demon says.

Saul shakes his head. “No. You are bound to the well. You can’t leave it unless you’re released, unless you have another place to go. Your threats are empty. Meaningless.”

“But my promise is rich with potential,” Mersef replies. “I can guide you, remember?”

“What could you possibly teach me that I would even want to know? I can learn everything myself.”

Mersef begins to lower itself back into the well. “Ah, but you want to know everything I know, because the rabbis won’t teach you. They keep the power from you, but everything the rabbis know, they learned from us. We are the true source of knowledge, the ultimate source of power for someone like you.”

“What do you mean someone like me?”

Mersef shrugs and turns its face away. “What difference does it make? You can learn everything yourself, you said.”

Panic settles in Saul’s chest and he steps forward, reaching toward the well with his hand. “Wait. I mean it. What do you mean?”

Mersef turns to the boy again and says, “Your tradition and your world disapprove of all the qualities that make you special. You perceive the spirit world. You can walk the line between worlds. You are rare because you are curious and willing to be controlled by the very beings you can control.”

Saul is anxious now, knowing he should go inside. This conversation should end, but he wants to hear more. He has always felt like an outcast at school and at the synagogue, too smart to be relatable. He’s a star on the track team, but no number of medals could earn the respect of his peers. The demon knows a part of Saul that he cannot share with others, not even his mother. Maybe Mersef can make him feel at home in his own skin.

“We are brothers, Saul. I can show you what that connection means, and the power you can wield.” Mersef descends into the well, out of sight and says, “Come to me tomorrow with your decision.”

At the dinner table, Saul is pensive and pushes his peas around with his fork. His mother notices, but doesn’t press, and his father is engulfed with the day’s newspaper. His brothers are playing paper, rock, scissors for the last piece of chicken. Saul helps clean the table and wash the dishes with his mother.

“Do you think I’m special?” he asks.

She turns to face him, holding a dish in one hand and a rag in the other. “Yes, Saul. You are very special.” Her smile suggests concern. “I think you will make a wonderful lawyer someday.”

Saul lies in bed with his hands under his head, staring at the ceiling as his thoughts become lazy and he drifts toward sleep. He dreams of a spirit, luminous and malleable like water. He hears the echo of the rabbi reciting from the book of Bereshit.

“And the spirit of God hovered over the face of the deep…”

Saul watches the spirit hover and glow, but it isn’t bright enough to illuminate the darkness that surrounds it. It seems weak in comparison to Mersef. He wants the adoration, the admiration, the affirmation and words the demon offers.

The vision of the glowing spirit begins to dim as the well comes into focus with Mersef waiting. Saul hears himself whisper into the night.

“Teach me. I’m yours.”

Written by: Natasha Akery
Photograph by: Anthony Delanoix

Prayer Mile

When my mother died, she became my God. Whenever I prayed before, it was always to something or someone I couldn’t quite grasp. Sure, there were titles I’d been taught to use: Lord, Father, Jesus, Holy Spirit. Those names didn’t make the deity easier to picture or approach; they just kept him distant and vague, important and quick to shame. But my mom always talked about God the Father as the epitome of love, and she wanted everyone to know that he’s got so much love for everybody. What I didn’t realize until after she was gone was that if God was the epitome of love, then she was his embodiment. Nobody loved as much as that woman did. I don’t know who God the Father is, but I know my mom. So, when I pray, she’s the one I’m praying to.

There’s this tower at the plant as tall as Babel with a ladder all the way up. I have to sit up there about every week to monitor pressure gauges, make sure we’re not putting out too much yuck. The sun’s usually following me when I climb up and always beats me to the top. There’s a breeze, and the clouds look like cotton candy as day breaks. You probably didn’t know that a new morning has a smell, crisp and clean with hints of earth. I see why those people a long time ago tried to build their way to heaven, because seeing the world stretched out and the horizon wrap around will make you feel brave, like you can do anything. It’ll make you feel like you can get over your mom dying while you held her hand even though you know you never will.

My wife was going through some really terrible stuff a couple years back. Her boss asked her if she needed to take some time off. She said no. She said work was the place to be because if she stayed home, all she’d do is think about all the terrible things and she’d lose her mind. Now, I get what she meant. Having a job that makes you use your hands and your head all day is like a salve, soothing the wound that still exists underneath. The guys at the plant are well-meaning; they want to ask if I’m doing all right and give their condolences. I hate it when they do that because it makes me remember, ripping at me like a bandaid. But I smile and thank them, then get back to filling out an incident report with my head downturned so they can’t see me sniffling.

I signed up for overtime and told my wife it was mandatory. I knew she knew. There’s these huge pots full of molten metal that we’ve got to keep clean. It’s monotonous work, but it was just what I needed. I kept raking the debris out of what looks like the belly of hell, watching the heat purge the impurities. It makes me wonder if hell is just a stop before you get to heaven. Maybe you go there to get clean so God can welcome you. If such a place exists, I doubt my mom had to go, or if she did then it was for like two minutes because maybe she lied once.

There was a spill one day that messed up a flock of geese. They were washing themselves in the puddles like they always do, but it wasn’t water this time. The oil coated their feathers and stung their eyes. We got the right people to take care of them, but I couldn’t think straight. There was one goose lying on her side, breathing slow with her beak open a little. The black liquid coated her feathers, reminding me of the stuff they had to pump out of my mom’s lungs just to keep her going. The tube ran from her mouth into a canister on the wall above her hospital bed, and it would get full so quick. One of the animal rescue workers picked up the goose and told me she’d be all right once they cleaned her up. A doctor said the same thing once about my mom, so the doubt is thick in my chest.

The cancer looked like an oak tree stretching its branches across her lungs. They said it was progressing rapidly, and things weren’t looking good. There’s nothing more emasculating than waiting for someone you love to die. There were people from the church praying for a miracle in the waiting room, but I knew my mom was going to die days ago. I surrendered myself to the brute force of death’s grip on her, and let it embrace both of us as we sat on the sofa. I said everything I needed to say. I told her I loved her when she could still respond. I told her thank you. I told her that she’s the best, and my kids will know her. Seeing the MRI scans made me feel better that I got a chance to do what others don’t, what others probably resist.

It’s a hike from the plant back to the locker rooms. I call it the Prayer Mile. I start and end my days on it, telling my mom about her granddaughters and asking her how I can be a good husband. Sometimes I try to listen, and I don’t hear anything, but she was never one for words. Mom was a hugger. So, when twilight and dusk wrap around me each day, I think about the mornings when we’d snuggle on the couch before getting ready for school. I think about the way she held me on my wedding day, and threw herself on me when I told her we were going to have a baby. I think about that last squeeze of my hand before her spirit left her body, and her light left my life.

Mother in heaven, hallowed be your name.


Written by: Natasha Akery
Photograph by: Samuel Zeller

The Architect

Tamar watches her twin sisters gaze at the horizon as the merchants row them across the harbor toward the port town of Kerr. There is a crisp, salty bite to the winter breeze that blushes their noses and cheeks. This is the first time that Tamar will lead the priestesses to commemorate the winter solstice with gifts of dried sea plants and pearls. She hides her hands from the chill in the folds of her cloak as her head tilts to the side, eyes gazing beyond the blue as the boat rocks like a cradle.

“Are you excited to see the finished fane?” one of the twins, Adah, calls back without turning.

Tamar blinks to attention, remembering that she will meet with the architect they commissioned to build the temple that would serve as their headquarters during their solstice visits.

“Yes. I hope it meets Mother Aviva’s expectations. ”

“Do you think the architect is very old and bald?” the other sister, Zillah, asks.

Tamar’s hush comes out like a hiss as the twins giggle to themselves. The merchants hop into the shallows to pull the boat ashore as the black cliffside towers overhead. Tamar recalls a dream from the night before in which she stood waist deep in the sea and looked up at this very cliff, grasping a silver key in her hand. Her seven sisters stood in the water behind her, waiting as the waves lapped against the small of their backs. Tamar notices the merchant’s hand reaching to help her out of the boat and takes it as the memory of her dream dissolves.

“More comfortable in the water than on land, eh?” asks an older man with a craggy face.

“You should know,” she says, smiling as she steps onto shore.

                                                                                                    ***

Tamar did not expect to see the stained glass windows and the oak altar encircled by benches of shaped wood and stone. Breath stolen, she approaches the center, noticing light falling from above. She tilts back her head to see the window depicting an ornate silver key surrounded by panels of blue and green glass. She remembers her dream, the feel of the key in her palm, and her desire to find it’s owner.

A priestess acolyte approaches, bowing her head before speaking.

“High priestess, this is Liam Eklund.”

Tamar turns around, meeting eyes with a man a little over half a foot taller than herself. His beard is full and betrays his youth.

“Hello, Liam. I am very pleased with your master’s design,” she offers.

The acolyte’s eyes dart toward Liam and a flush spreads across her face and neck, but he is smiling.

“Oh, Tamar. Liam is the master architect, the one Mother Aviva commissioned for the fane,” the younger priestess stammers.

The architect is laughing now.

“It’s really fine. I’m used to it. You’d only know if you noticed the ink on my hands,” he says as he raises them.

Tamar sighs and covers her face for a moment before looking up at him.

“I am sorry, master architect. I only assumed because you are young. I was expecting someone…”

“Old and bald?” Liam interrupts.

“Precisely.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I didn’t expect the high priestess to be so young either. I guess this means I don’t have to be too formal?”

“Formalities are for funerals,” she replies. “Can you tell me about the key? Is that your signature or did we request it?”

Liam rests his hands on his hips and leans back to look up at the skylight.

“Mother Aviva said the image of a key came to her in a dream. When she was searching for architects, she found me because I tend to place it on my work,” he says.

“She had a dream?” Tamar asks, brow raised.

“Yes. She dreamt that her priestesses stood in the sea and one of them held a key. Then, she heard a voice say that love would reveal the truth of our desires.”

Tamar is silent, beginning to sweat beneath her arms.

“Anyway, that’s how she found me. And now I’m here.”

She swallows, hearing the chirp of birds outside beyond the heat of her ears.

“The stars know better than we. I’m very glad to meet you, Liam.”

“Me, too, priestess.”

                                                                                                    ***

The town is quiet and the moon is high as Tamar cracks open the door of the temple and slides in, closing it with a backwards lean. Her eyes are drawn to the altar, to the moonlight that bathes it and the cold silence emanating from the stones. She takes a seat on a bench and grips bunches of her cloak in her hands, thinking of Mother Aviva.

“Love will reveal the truth of our desires,” she whispers, wondering at the meaning.

“Priestess,” Liam murmurs, stepping into the light.

Tamar looks up, startled, and sighs with a laugh.

“Hello, Liam. I guess you couldn’t sleep either?”

The architect rubs the back of his neck with his hand as he takes a seat next to her, then leans forward with elbows on his knees.

“Strange dreams,” he says.

“You and me, both.”

“What did you dream?”

Tamar takes a moment to consider her response, then takes courage as she says, “I’ve been dreaming of your key, Liam. Even before we got here. And in the dream I’m desperate to return it, knowing it is lost and precious.”

“The key represents my mother. She passed after giving birth to my sister, whom I also lost.”

“Your sister did not survive the birth?”

“She did, but she was taken by female relatives. My father did not trust himself to rear her properly. I want to see her, to know her name, but all I remember is the darker patch of skin across her foot.”

Tamar turns her head, heart pounding. Liam also turns as she slides her foot out of her boot and pulls off her stocking, the birthmark just visible in the moonlight.

“Brother, I am here.”

Written by: Natasha Akery

Photograph by: Kayla King

The Shulamite

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

Kingdom Come

I’m way too early, waiting for a group of hipsters I met at church to meet for brunch. And I’m feeling sick to my stomach, like I shouldn’t be here. This restaurant used to be an auto shop. You should have seen the beauties that would be parked out front, the size and shine of the rims, the incredible paint jobs. But then the owner couldn’t afford to stay in the area. He had to close up shop because someone made an offer on the building, someone who wanted to sell expensive tacos. Here I am, about to drink the koolaid and sit with a bunch of assholes who are gonna just take Instagrams of their food after they’ve staged the plate, mimosa, and their vegan clutch just right.

It’s called gentrification. Makes the whole damn thing sound sophisticated. Just a handful of years ago, this part of town was “the hood.” People - white people - didn’t live up here because it was too dangerous, too dark. But then white people started running out of places to live. They had to start moving into the run down houses on the east side. They had to start shopping at the ghetto grocery stores and stopping in the corner stores run by immigrants. It went from dangerous to cool real quick, from dark to light - dark to white.

What happens is the kinda-broke white kids start moving in and they get to know the neighbors. They start to realize that there’s a code, like don’t park in front of someone else’s house even if it’s a public street. Say hello when folks are sitting on their porches lest you be shunned. Don’t pay the transgender prostitutes any mind. They’ve got work to do and you hanging around with your jaw dropped is costing them money. Eventually, the kinda-broke white kids make friends with their black neighbors. And despite themselves, the black neighbors drop their guard and invite them to the block parties.

But eventually, the rich white kids catch on.

They move their tech start-ups to cheaper commercial spaces in what was once the dangerous part of town. They open up their bougie coffee shops and gourmet sandwich dives, and finally the kinda-broke white kids can get a job closer to where they live. But the rent’s going up every year. Organic is showing up at the grocery store, and stay-at-home moms are requesting the baby food they usually buy from Whole Foods. The micro-brewed IPAs are taking up the shelf space once reserved for Icehouse. The six pack of ramen noodles for a dollar are sitting next to some cinnamon-sprinkled pita chips that cost more than a pound of ground beef.

Those kinda-broke white kids start to resent the crokie-wearing, Sperry-footed, Land Rover-driving entrepreneurs, just like the black neighbors used to resent them. And all of a sudden, city government gives a damn about the playground getting a facelift. There’s festivals at the park, and more cops are patrolling the blocks. It’s finally starting to look good around here, but only because white people with more money are showing up. When it was people with less money - and before that, black people with less money - nothing got done. Cops turned a blind eye, unless a kid was busting a sag too low and hustling across the street. Then they had something to keep them entertained.

I’m feeling sick because gentrification isn’t just affecting the neighborhood where I live. It’s infiltrating my faith. There are apps for Jesus, guys. I’ve heard the preachers say that we have to make Christ relevant to the times. We have to use today’s technology to reach the lost. And when I put that check in the offering plate - or rather, make my tithe via PayPal - I can’t help but cringe when I realize it’s going toward a new sound system. I can’t help but imagine my Lord and Savior face-palming himself because he didn’t have a place to lay his head. He didn’t have a place to call home.

But as soon as the crew walks in, I’m all smiles and easing into conversation. I’m recommending the kimchi beef taco and fawning over the trailer a girl shows me of a Christian women’s conference she’s attending. She tells me I should come and shoots me the link via iMessage. The sweat erupts in my armpits when I read the pricetag and realize the cost is over half my rent. I’m trying my hardest to blend in, but I can’t afford their manicures or their perpetual Stitch Fixes. I don’t say enough can’t even’s to keep up. I don’t have an Etsy shop and I’m not internet famous. And I don’t think they care, but just being around them makes me care.

Because I’m the kinda-broke white kid.

The bill almost breaks my bank because someone decided we’ll just all split the bill equally, and three girls felt like each of their mimosas should also come with a bloody mary and some more tapas to share. After brunch, everybody wants to keep hanging out, keep drinking and talking about life and bringing Jesus glory, keep spending money I don’t have. And I have to politely decline for the hundredth time. And they’re starting to catch on. They’ll probably stop asking to hang. And I’ll probably stop asking them to come over.

When I get home, I plop down at my desk and look down at my open Bible. I’ve highlighted so many verses, written so many notes in the margins. I’ve copied so many of the words that Jesus is supposed to have spoken, the words in red, the words that bring life. But I can’t stand to look at it. I can’t stand that I’m being pushed out of my faith’s territory, and that my poor, brown, homeless savior is being replaced by someone whiter, someone richer, someone cooler than a man who died for a kingdom that didn’t come.

Written by: Natasha Akery
Photograph by: Daniel Vidal

Where Are You Going?

“Hey.”

Marshall’s right eye opens to see if the voice came from his bedside or his dreams.

“Hey.”

His ear leads his eye to the privacy curtain on his right.

“Hey.”

“Hello?” Marshall answers.

“There ya are!”

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure, what?”

“That I’m the person you’re looking for?”

“Are you the man attached to that beeping box on the other side of the curtain?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re exactly who I’m looking for!”

Marshall’s eyebrows dive towards his nose, both eyes wide open.

“May I ask why?”

“Course ya can! As a matter of fact, I’ll see your question and raise you one of my own.”

“Which is?”

“Where are you goin’?”

“What?”

“WHERE are you goin’?”

Marshall would pinch himself, if he could move anything beneath his collarbone.

“I am afraid you are mistaken, sir. I am bound to this bed until the moment that beep becomes a prolonged shriek.”

“Then I REALLY hope you know where you’re goin’.”

Marshall’s eyes roll towards the top of their sockets, his brows unfurling like caterpillars climbing his forehead.

“Is this an afterlife conversation?”

“Yeah buddy.”

“Then leave me out of it.”

Marshall doesn’t bother to close his eyes, perfectly aware his request will go ungranted.

“Well who else am I gonna talk to about this?” the stranger asks.

“The night nurse.”

“Come on, now. You know she ain’t ready for this talk. She’s not a day over twenty-five, and fitter than a fiddler on a treadmill.”

“She’s still probably more interested in this conversation than I am?”

“How you figure?”

“That cross that’s always bouncing off her breasts.”

The stranger laughs through his nostrils like he’s stifling a cough.

“You think I’m tryin’ to evangelize you or somethin’, don’t you?”

“Would I be wrong?”

“About as wrong as it is to judge people.”

Marshall squints his eyes and purses his lips, preparing to return fire on this unwelcomed inquisition.

“So, is that a no, because what you just said sounded like scripture?”

“Yes, Mr. Beeps. Your salvation is restin’ squarely on your own two shoulders.”

“Then why did you ask me that question?”

“Curiosity, I guess. Haven’t you ever been in a airport bar, sippin’ a overpriced beer, wonderin’ where the person sittin’ next to you is headin’?

“No.”

“Then what do you do to pass time at an airport?”

“Read.”

“About what?”

“Science.”

“Like Ender’s Game?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Text books. Research papers. NON-fiction.”

“Oh.”

Marshall contemplates giving sleep another try.

“Well hell, now I find you even more interestin’,” the stranger confesses.

Marshall exhales until his lungs are as thin as his necrotic limbs.

“Are you being serious right now?”

“As serious as whatever ailment’s got you laid up on the other side of this curtain.”

“Just my luck.”

“Guess so. Anyway, I’ll ask you again; where are you going?”

Marshall grunts, the jets of air from his nostrils tickling his chin before crashing into the lifeless terrain of his upper chest.

“NOWHERE,” he spat. “I am going nowhere; just like you, just like your ancestors, just like the dinosaurs, and just like every living organism that came before them.”

“Well now that’s just not true, Mr. Beeps.”

“Cite your source.”

“Pardon?”

“Where are you getting your information?”

“My own two eyes.”

“Are you being facetious?”

“I don’t think so?”

“Then what do you mean, your own two eyes?”

“Well, I don’t see no t-rexes walkin around.”

“All right, I apologize. I will be going somewhere. I will be going six feet below the surface of the Earth, three feet to the right of my grandfather, and several hundred feet above a bunch of dinosaurs that died thousands of years before me, just–like–you.”

Marshall counts each second of the stranger’s silence like a boxing referee determining a knockout.

“Nah,” the stranger responds.

“Yes.”

“Nah. That’s not where I’m going.”

“I hate to burst your ignorant bubble, sir, but yes it is.”

“Nah.”

“You can’t just say, nah."

“Sure I can! Just like you can say all that scientific stuff you just said.”

“It’s not the same.”

“How not?”

“Because you’re being a stubborn child. You’re just saying nah because you don’t like the answer. There’s no evidence to support it.”

“You’re right about the not liking your answer stuff, but I can tell you’re smart enough to recognize a grown man’s voice when you hear it.”

“And I can tell you are dumb enough to turn your back on the facts.”

“Now why you gotta get all mean about it? We’re just talkin’.”

“EXACTLY, and I’d rather be sleeping.”

“That’s what that hole next to your grandpappy is for. Humor me for a little longer.”

“Why don’t you humor me for once?”

“How do you suppose I do that?

“Tell me where YOU are going.”

Marshall mentally crosses his arms in total self-assurance.

“Well, to be honest, I don’t know what’ll happen to me once I die anymore than those wigglin’, screamin, and pissin’ little things in the nursery know what’s comin’ to them once they pop out of their mamas’ vaginas, but I like to hear other people’s opinions about it.”

“Well, you’ve heard mine.”

“I sure have.”

“And how do you like it?”

“I don’t.”

“Then I’m sorry for wasting your bar stool.”

“Bar stool?”

Marshall wishes he could throw his hands up in frustration.

“The airport bar metaphor.”

“Oh, right. No way, José Cuervo. You’ve been excellent company.”

“I doubt it.”

“Seems like you do that a lot.”

“Such is science.”

“I suppose so. Anyway, it looks like your plane is fixin to take off.”

Marshall notices the increasing speed of the beeps coming from his heart monitor.

“Fly safe,” says the stranger.

Marshall ignores his well wishes and focuses fully on the rhythm of his heart.

“And remember, every flight lands somewhere,”

The beeps meld into a constant squeal. Marshall squeezes his eyes shut like he’s plunging into a swimming pool. His breathing stops, the sound fades, and he wonders where he’s going.


Written by: Mark Killian
Photograph by: Jaemin Riley

Like There's No Tomorrow

I hold her close, feeling her breathing change gears; downshifting from the revved-up respirations of post-coital bliss all the way down to the content, languid yawns as her body slips into neutral. Utterly exhausted, her legs give a little twitch, kicking off the last of her tension like an unseen blanket. And then, right before going completely limp in my arms, I swear she murmurs something that sounds like “I love you”.

My pulse quickens. I want to shake her, rouse her from her peaceful slumber and find out for sure that her sleepy declaration wasn’t just some sort of auditory illusion or a figment of my overeager imagination. I want to wake her and find out that for once, maybe, just maybe, my love is not unrequited, that she didn’t turn to me out of loneliness, or even worse, out of desperation.

I long for her to open her eyes, those sparkling sapphires that bewitched me and reeled me in from across the crowded room. I want to hear her laugh, a sound so honest, so pure, that it renders me powerless, and to hear the melodic singsong of her voice. And more than anything I desperately yearn to hear the other sounds, the low guttural moans she made as I traced the contours of her body with my tongue, or the hushed whispers she used when she begged, “Fuck me. Fuck me like there’s no tomorrow.”

And I want her to wake because we had a vow, a promise to not waste the precious few hours we have together with something as humdrum as sleep.

But I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to shatter her tranquility. Instead I slip my arm out from under her and slide in a pillow as a surrogate for her to nuzzle against.

I turn on the TV and scan the channels, but nothing is on, and I don’t mean in a how-can-you-watch-this-shit reality TV kind of way. Nothing but test patterns and white snow flash upon the screen. Where the hell are Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw when you need them? They would have kept it going. These new journalists don’t have any heart. Sure, they’ll put their posterior on the line for posterity’s sake, but when the end is nigh and there is no hope for fame or fortune, they cut and run like everybody else.

At least the power is still on. Somewhere out there, someone still has a little pride left and isn’t shirking away from their duty. Or maybe not—who knows, in this digital age it’s probably just some computer running it all, a computer that can’t comprehend the utter destruction that an asteroid with the innocuous name of XC17LR3 (or “Jesus” as my born-again uncle calls it) is going to unleash on good old planet Earth in T minus two hours; give or take fifteen minutes.

I pull on some shorts, slide open the glass door and step out onto the balcony to get a breath of fresh air. I scan the heavens for any sign of the approaching asteroid, but see nothing but clear, blue sky.

                                                                                                   ***

I didn’t believe it at first. Nobody did. The first reports came across as crazy conspiracy theories. In this day and age, internet rumors of a doomsday asteroid don’t make many folks bat so much as an eye. It wasn’t until the European Space Agency made an official announcement that people started paying attention. Even then, some scoffed at the notion. I guess it takes a little while to wrap your head around the fact that everything, from Nebuchadnezzar to Nirvana, Shakespeare to the Shawshank Redemption, all of it, the entirety of human existence, will be gone in a mere three days.

The first day was pure unadulterated chaos. Half of the population of the Earth didn’t have to wait for the asteroid. A few countries, sworn enemies from time immemorial, decided that the impending apocalypse was a good enough reason to go ahead and do a little smiting of their foes. And the suicides—apparently a lot of people decided they would rather go out on their own terms. Those that survived the first twenty four hours divided into three camps; those that huddled with their families, those that flocked to a church, and those that went full tilt boogie, running amok and raging all night at the end-of-the-world parties that were springing up everywhere.

I met her at the Church of the Resurrection. I had wandered in, not out of any sense of belief, but because it turns out I wasn’t cut out for unabashed hedonism, and I needed a respite from the chaos. The building was packed with parishioners, arms linked together, swaying back and forth and singing hymns. Off to the side was a group of people milling around a table full of food. I spotted my uncle snacking on a sandwich and started toward him, until she caught my eye.

She was manning the punch bowl, looking uncomfortable and out of place. She looked in my direction. Those eyes, my god, those eyes were incredible. She flashed a demure smile and quickly looked away. The nausea that had been churning my gut since I accepted the reality of my imminent death gave way to a new queasiness; a fluttering that I hadn’t experienced since I was thirteen. I knew that it was now or never. Literally.

                                                                                                   ***

Her arms snake around my waist and I let out a shout in surprise. She draws me in close, kissing my neck and nibbling on my earlobe.

“I’m so sorry I fell asleep,” she says in that low, seductive whisper. “I won’t let it happen again.”

I turn around to face her. I try to smile but my mouth won’t let me.

“How long was I asleep?” she asks, the playfulness gone from her voice.

“About two hours.”

She buries her face into my chest.

“I love you,” she says, and I know she means it.

“I love you too.”

We turn and look at the sky, still calm and perfectly blue, together.

Written by: Ben Cook
Photograph by: Hannah Chertock

1:1 - Natasha Akery

interviewed by Ben Cook

Over the next few weeks, 1:1000 will take you behind the scenes with our core writing and editorial team. We'll show you more about what makes these writers tick (or maybe twitch).

This week we learn a little more about the ultimate multi-tasker Natasha Akery. She is a wife, mother, blogger, entrepreneur, and musician. Somehow she still finds time to weave some beautifully intricate tales like “The Extractor,” “Taboo,” and “The Wisest of All” for us here at 1:1000.

1:1000: When did you first know that you wanted to be a writer?

NATASHA AKERY: I've been making up and writing stories from the age of eight, but I think I knew when I was a freshman in high school. I'd been working on an exhausting piece of science fiction that exceeded three hundred pages, but never went anywhere. What was important about working on that story was that I needed to work on it every single day after school. The compulsion, the drive - it was intoxicating. I love to write. More so, I love to write about things that scare people and about the worlds that sometimes appear in my head.

1:1000: What projects, writing or otherwise, are you working on right now?

NA: Sometimes, I think I'm working on too much and it really overwhelms me. Currently, I have a faith-based blog where I share some of my unconventional ideas about Christianity. I started it mostly because I really needed to unload all of these fears and thoughts that I'd been bottling up because of growing up in the bible belt. As I've been writing, I've discovered this whole group of progressive, liberal Christians that I never knew existed, which was surprising and encouraging. I've also started a small business called Lumenkind, which serves women struggling with stress-related symptoms, illnesses, and disorders through the practice of yoga and writing. My first workshop is in September and I can't even believe it! My husband and I also have a musical project called Lockout/Tagout, and recently we've realized that we need a renaissance of sorts. I think we're going to spend the next few months writing and experimenting with a different sound.

1:1000: That sounds like an incredibly full plate. Any secrets you can share on how to find balance when living such a hectic life?

NA: Balance is so important for me as a Libra, but I honestly feel off kilter these days. The refrain in my journal entries as of late: "Who am I? What do I want?" I would say what's helped me most is observing a true sabbath: not the go-to-church-on-Sunday kind, but a day when I steer clear of my usual activities and connect with my husband and daughter. I had my first sabbath this past weekend. I turned off my phone and put it away. I didn't open up the computer once. I didn't make a move for the television. I think what pleased me most was my husband's response at the end of the day, that he really enjoyed how connected I was, and it encouraged him to ignore social media as well. So, I'm trying to integrate little sabbaths into my day. I've turned off the notifications on my phone and I try to have a purpose for opening up my laptop. Setting these limitations has helped me foster a deeper connection with my daughter, and I think it's helping my husband feel precious.

1:1000: When do you do most of your writing? Do you have a routine?

NA: As of now, the majority of my writing happens when my daughter Eleanor takes naps. My husband has been sweet enough to make sure I get an uninterrupted 3-hour block of writing on the weekends, which has made a huge difference. Do I have a routine? No, not really. I take what I can get. But I've never been one for routines really, at least, not ones that require I get up before the sun does.

1:1000: Has becoming a mother changed the focus of your writing?

NA: Eleanor has made me an honest writer, and by that I mean she has pushed me to tell the stories I want to tell. For a long time, I was so afraid of sharing what was inside of my head and heart, particularly because I've been immersed in an evangelical Christian context where people are hyper-involved in your "walk with the Lord." I think some of my narcissism comes from that because I've been taught to be paranoid. I've hidden a lot of myself, my creativity, and my convictions because I really didn't want to end up being someone's subject matter for their prayer time. Eleanor is truly my muse. She demands truth with every diaper, tear, and squeal.

1:1000: Besides your family, who or what inspires you?

NA: I'm currently reading a lot about minimalism, which is kind of a bare-bones approach to life. The less clutter and possessions I have, the more room I feel to create. People like Courtney Carver and Leo Babauta inspire me because they have businesses based on minimalism and a passion for helping people. I'm inspired by the transgender community and their battle for equality and social justice. I have a few friends who are transgender, and watching their transition has really opened my eyes to what prejudice looks like and how subtle it can be. I'm inspired by women who tell their stories, particularly of sexual assault, harassment, and abuse. I think a lot of people hear them and think, "Ugh, just get over it." But they keep talking, they keep telling their stories, and it's changing society. As for texts, I could read the Gospel of Mark, the Epistle of James, and the Bhagavad Gita every single day. The Gospel of Mark reveals a very human and mortal Jesus, which I think gets glossed over in Christianity because everybody treats him like a unicorn. The Epistle of James is all about how important it is to be in control of what you say because the tongue is like a wild fire. And the Bhagavad Gita? Just...all the feels. It's about God manifesting as a man and speaking to a prince about life lessons, and it's seriously just the most beautiful thing I've ever read.

1:1000: When working on a story for 1:1000, which comes first, the idea for the story or the photograph?

NA: My most recent story "The Wisest of All" is the first time I looked for a photograph to fit what I wanted to write. Usually, I pick a photograph and insert myself into the image, waiting for something to happen. It's peculiar because I really feel like I'm waiting for someone to show up so I can observe. And I just type as I follow them around the image.

1:1000: Readers have been captivated by your ‘Anna the Extractor’ series. Where did the idea for Anna come from?

NA: Call me clinical, but ‘Anna the Extractor’ is based on personal experiences. I grew up hearing voices, seeing spirits, and sensing presences. Each and every story pulls from an aspect of my life, or a memory. The development of the stories are inspired by research I've done on Jewish exorcism and the gospel accounts of Jesus casting out demons. The most recent installment, "Calling," is actually my mother's memory. She grew up on an island with her grandmother and developed a "spirit sickness," indicating that she was meant to become a shaman. But my mother didn't want to. Later, when I developed certain symptoms and were having supernatural experiences, she shared that memory with me. It's really fascinating. I'm hoping that Anna will eventually be novel-worthy, but we'll see. I don't want to pressure her too much.

1:1000: What are some recent things that blew your mind?

NA: Umm, this is embarrassing, but...I'm a narcissist. I didn't realize it until recently, but it's not the kind of narcissism that you'd expect. I'm not running around wanting people to look at me all the time, but my anxieties and the things I stress about are a clear indicator that I have a self-centered perspective of life. I'm always worried about what people think of me and my decisions. If people don't respond quickly to my text messages or emails, I assume that they're mad at me or don't like me. I quickly abandon projects when they aren't "successful," which is determined usually by someone else's level of success. I'm appalled when a blog post that I thought was brilliant doesn't have many views. Just yesterday, I was discouraged that only 11 women are signed up for my workshop in September and figured I should just forget about continuing with my small business. People have only known about the workshop for two weeks! That's a great number! But I'm constantly battling this child inside of me who is starving for attention and affirmation. So, yeah, narcissism blew my mind.

1:1000: What sage advice do you have for any would-be writers out there?

NA: Don't be afraid. Don't judge what you write. Don't edit while you're writing. What you write isn't stupid, and you're writing only improves if you stop criticizing yourself. Imagine that your inner writer is a child, is you as a child. Parent that child in the way you find most ideal. Encourage her. Motivate her. Ask her engaging questions. Listen to what she has to say. If you keep interrupting her, calling her names, and erasing what she says, she'll shut down. She'll die. The world is so much better if you keep her alive and flourishing.

1:1 - Dot Dannenberg

interviewed by Natasha Akery

Over the next few weeks, 1:1000 will take you behind the scenes with our core writing and editorial team. We'll show you more about what makes these writers tick (or maybe twitch). 

This week we’re interviewing Dot Dannenberg, an English professor with a knack for snark and shade. But don’t let her sharp tongue fool you; she’s sweet as a Georgia peach when she’s had enough shut eye. Let’s meet the writer between such stories as “Product Placement,” “The Good Stuff,” and “One Lucky Bastard.”

1:1000: Your education and work experience reveal a long and committed relationship with words. When did this love affair begin?

DOT DANNENBERG: When I was five, I had a wonderful kindergarten teacher who emphasized a lot of creative writing and sharing--we wrote and illustrated our own stories, then read them aloud in the "Author Chair." That year, one of my stories (about a cowboy who loses his cows) won a county-wide contest. At that point, most kids graduated to video games and sports, but for me, the whole writing thing got more and more out of hand. I got really pushy with my teachers, making them use their bookbinding equipment on all my "novels" (featuring, usually, giraffes in space). By high school, I was monopolizing all my AP Lit teacher's time making her listen to my horrible, vague, Sylvia-Plath-esque poetry during her planning period. I also grew up in what my friend Katie likes to call a "learning family"--my parents always encouraged me to read whatever I wanted. The only rule was "no books at the dinner table." The rest is history.

1:1000: You’ve said more or less in the past that you don’t really consider yourself a writer. So, what compels you to write? 

DD: Oh, I very much DO consider myself a writer! For the longest time, I thought in order to be a writer you had to have a laundry list of publications and do the whole submissions hustle non-stop. I used to beat myself up about not getting up at 5 AM to write and not always obsessing about my characters, like some of my writer friends do. But then I realized a writer is simply a person who writes. And I am a person who writes. I will admit, though, that I am a very deadline-oriented writer. I can get a massive amount done in a very condensed amount of time, but there has to be an end goal in mind.

1:1000: You were a poet first, correct? 

DD: True. Sorry, poetry. I am a giant traitor. I started writing poetry in high school and studied poetry all the way through college. Afterwards, I got my MFA in poetry from Pacific University. I was actually terrified when I was asked to join the 1:1000 team, because I had never written what I considered a successful short story. But I found that flash fiction actually has a lot in common with poetry, structurally. You have a limited amount of space to work with, and you have to use that space as a window into an entire world. Also, poetry and flash fiction both depend upon image. The image takes the place of the backstory, the exposition, and all the blah-blah-blah. I also think poetry and flash fiction have to do the same work in their endings. W.B. Yeats said a poem should "click shut" like a box--I think the best flash fiction also does that. It has to feel complete, despite its length. I can't see the future, so I don't know if I'll ever go back to writing poems. I think, as a writer, I tend to get bored pretty easily. Once I finish a piece, I'm over it and on to the next thing. So right now, fiction is what excites me.

1:1000: In your stories such as “Brothers,” “Be Great” and “Los Niños,” you present cultural perspectives that are almost certainly from direct experience. How do these ideas occur to you? 

DD: A lot of my inspiration comes from my students. I teach English at a career college, and most of my students are from different cultural backgrounds than my own. Through getting to know them and reading their writing, they tell me the most heartbreaking stories about their lives. I don't lift their experiences directly for my own writing--that seems wrong to me, as they have their own voices and the right to tell their own stories. But teaching has taught me how to see the world through their perspectives, and once I'm in that world, it doesn't take long for my own characters to begin to speak. I do have a student who got pregnant in Nicaragua when she was sent there as punishment, just like the protagonist in "Los Niños." But in real life, the girl didn't have an abortion. Her son is in elementary school now, and she's back in the states for good. The inciting image behind "Be Great" actually came from a Facebook post I saw--someone talking about eating food their late grandmother had frozen the season before. For that protagonist, Z, I had one of my students in mind--just his attitude, more than anything, but it's not his story.

1:1000: In addition to multicultural perspectives, you also dabble in evangelical Christian environments with stories like “In the Darkness,” but the events that take place are a little hard to believe to the unfamiliar reader. What’s your motivation with these particular stories? 

DD: I think you've nailed it, actually--I want readers to see that these mindsets and events really do exist out there. I grew up, off and on, in the evangelical church, and it took until I went to college to realize that some of the things I experienced weren't the norm, even for people who grew up Christian. I'm especially fascinated by the way "youth" church was done in the late 90s and early 2000s--the purity culture, street evangelism, the attempt to stamp out secular influence. Many people I meet as an adult are so surprised by my church camp stories--white boys in blackface (really), people throwing their entire CD collections in the lake, pudding wrestling. (True! All of it!) So, in part, I think I write these stories to surprise and delight unfamiliar readers and strike a nerve of nostalgia in people who do remember this crazy stuff. But there's also a layer of complexity that looms anytime you write about religion. I don't really reflect on my time in the church from a place of bitterness, but for a lot of people, there is that baggage. And I like that you can't write about religion, even in criticism, without acknowledging that it still hits on elements of truth--the quest for connection, what happens when we die, how should we approach shame and guilt.

1:1000: So, can we talk about your dog? 

DD: CAN we. My dog's name is Moses. He weighs 95 lbs (he's half Great Pyrenees). He has his own Instagram feed (@thechosendog). Right now, he's lying on my living room rug snoring. Someone once referred to him as my "child," and I realized that actually, he's more like the house grandpa. He doesn't have a job. He sleeps all day. He barks when strangers walk by the property ("get off my lawn!"). He really only wants to eat cookies. Periodically, he complains about going up and down stairs. He is one of the great joys of my life.

1:1000: When you’re not fielding submissions, editing stories, and writing your own for One for One Thousand, what can you be found doing? 

DD: Grading papers. A lot of my life gets eaten up by teaching. I had a professor in college who worried over me becoming a teacher, telling me that teaching eats up all the time for writing. And in part, that's true. But it also fuels the writing. It's a delicate compromise. I like to remind myself that I have the same amount of hours in my day as Beyonce does. I also spend a lot of time listening to audiobooks on the metro and discovering new restaurants with my husband (who would like me to ask readers for support as he embarks on a 30-day frozen yogurt cleanse). And I go shopping a lot. Oops.

1:1000: These days, it seems like “highly sensitive person” is the new “introvert.” As an HSP, do you see that play into your writing style or habits? 

DD: In some ways, it's a natural fit. HSP, for readers who are unfamiliar, in general means I'm very stimulus reactive. Not just emotionally, but also anything sense-related--noises, smells, visuals, whatever. I in part credit my HSP tendencies for making me hyper-aware--I can catch all the small details of the world, then drop them like little jewels into my stories. I also think it's an HSP thing to not play well with others and have a general disregard for the man. As writing is a pretty solitary pursuit (and one that should turn a questioning eye on society), this works out well. The only time I'd say the HSP tendencies don't jive with the writer life is that I really can't get my best work done in coffee shops. THE COFFEE SMELL. THE BAD SATELLITE RADIO PLAYLISTS. OH GOD, MAKE IT STOP. I also get really growly when people try to read over my shoulder when my work is still in draft mode. GO AWAYYYYY.

1:1000: Do you have a muse? 

DD: I think right now I have several. 1. Sleep. If I get enough sleep, I am a manic robot who can do EVERYTHING. And that's inspiring. 2. My student, Tiffany, who shakes my world up every day with her one-liners (The latest: "You know there's a season for people to get pregnant? Everybody has their season. Mine's winter, so this year I know I gotta zip my coat allllll the way up."). 3. Moody movies (especially French art house crap or Noah Baumbach-type films). It’s the triumvirate: energy, reality, cerebral fantasy.

1:1000: What words of advice do you have for your eight-year-old self? 

DD: Stop eating bread right now, and you'll save yourself from 20 years of misery as a fat person. Oh, and also, keep writing! Kickball is totally overrated.

The Living Dead

Beth slammed the bathroom door and thrust her shoulder against the worn sheet of wood. She suctioned her ear to the textured surface and listened for footsteps climbing the stairs. Tears cascaded down her cheeks as water droplets trickled out of the faucet; the one she always forgot to have fixed.

She pressed her back against the door and slid to the ground, watching a bead of moisture lose its grip on the steel spout as she made her way to the floor. The water droplet splattered against the porcelain bowl just before she reached the molded tiles. She snapped out of her hypnosis once she heard sluggish steps scaling the hallway staircase.

Beth covered her ears with her hands and squeezed so tightly, a puff of air ruffled the graying hair covering the back of her neck. Tears rained on her lap as she rocked and hummed, trying to drown out the nearing groans reverberating through the door.

A knock from outside sent chills down Beth’s spine, turning her hums into howls and her rhythmic swaying into violent thrashing. She writhed about until the back of her head collided with the metal knob beside her, leaving a speck of blood clinging to the vertical lock as her limp body slid to the floor.

                                                                                             ***

“What’s wrong with her?” Chris asked as his mom disappeared at the top of the staircase.

“Gee, I don’t know, Chris,” answered Robyn. “Maybe it has something to do with two strangers showing up on her doorstep, insisting they’re her children?”

“We ARE her children.”

“Not in her mind, we aren’t.”

Robyn opened the screen door for Chris and followed him into the foyer.

“But I spoke to her on the phone just last week,” Chris said as they ascended the stairs. “I told her we were coming by today.”

“And I’ve been trying to tell you for months now that she has dementia, but you seem to forget that pretty easily.”

“You don’t know it’s dementia.”

“You’re right, she’s probably just trippin’ balls.”

“Is that some symptom you’re studying? I don’t know what that means?”

“What, there wasn’t a lot of acid dropping going on at divinity school?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“There probably wasn’t much laughter either.”

Chris ended the conversation with a scoff as they reached the top of the stairs.

“Christ, is she humming?” Robyn asked.

“Mom?” Chris said, tapping the door with his knuckles.

“Mom, open up,” Robyn said, followed by a firm strike with the side of her fist.

Chris cupped his hand between the door and his ear and listened for a response. Their eyes widened once they heard the crashing of bone against brass.

“MOM,” Chris yelled, jiggling the handle. “Shoot! It’s locked.”

“Shit,” Robyn muttered as she rifled through her hair for a bobby pin. “Didn’t I tell you this would happen?”

“This isn’t the time for I-told-you-so’s.”

“Only God can judge you, right?”

“Condescending remarks aren’t going to unlock this door.”

Robyn rolled her eyes and removed a pin from her bun. Her brown hair unfurled over her shoulders as she straightened the curved piece of metal and slid it into the narrow hole in the center of the knob. She fidgeted the instrument with surgical precision until the latch clicked.

“God dammit,” Robyn grumbled.

“What? it sounded like it worked.”

“I know, but the door won’t move. She must be leaning on it.”

“Here.”

Chris pushed Robyn aside and rested his shoulder against the door. He pushed off the ground with his leg until a tiny opening started to form.

“FUCK,” Chris shouted. “Call 9-1-1!”

“You said ‘fuck?’” Robyn noted.

She glimpsed through the opening while taking her phone out of her pocket. She spotted the top of her mom’s head lying in a puddle of blood on the bathroom floor.

“FUCK!”

                                                                                             ***

“Good, she’s awake,” Dr. Bachman noted.

“It’s Alzheimer’s, isn’t it?” asked Robyn.

“I’m afraid so,” he replied.

“Happy?” Chris asked.

“Yes, Chris, I’m fucking ecstatic.”

She looked down at her mom to see how she was taking the news. Beth was wearing the same bewildered expression she wore when she answered the door.

“Mrs. Carlisle,” Dr. Bachman interrupted. “According to the brain scans and what your children have told me, it appears you have Stage 4 Alzheimer’s.”

“How many stages are there?” Chris asked.

“Seven,” Robyn answered.

“I was asking the doctor.”

“Which one?”

“You’re not a doctor yet. You’re still in school.”

“I’m in my residency, dick. That means I have an MD.”

Once Robyn stopped talking she could hear her mother sobbing.

“Will you two please step outside for a moment,” Dr. Bachman interjected.

Robyn stormed out of the room without saying another word. Chris gave his mom a kiss on the forehead and followed his sister’s lead.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Robyn continued as soon as her brother appeared in the hallway.

“What?”

“Her lucidity.”

“How can you be so cold about this?”

“Because I know how Alzheimer’s works, Chris. Back in med school we used to call it the Zombie Disease. It could take months or even years, but one of these days, mom will be nothing more than an animated corpse.”

“And then what, we shoot her in the head?”

“No. We take her off medical support and let nature run its course.”

“If we’re not doing everything in our power to save her, we’re killing her.”

“And if we let her become a bed-wetting, pants-shitting, incoherent shell of herself, we’re killing every laugh, every smile and every wonderful moment we’ve ever shared with her. MEMORIES are life after death, Chris; not some fucking gated community in the clouds where she and your dad will reunite and live happily ever after.”

“I don’t appreciate you belittling my life’s work.”

“Yeah? Well now you know how mom feels.”

Robyn’s wall of words broke like a dam holding back a flood of tears. She turned towards the window and stared at her mother until she became blurred beyond recognition.

Written by: Mark Killian
Photograph by: Vrinda Agrawal

Losing It

Because your mother raised you Baptist, buy into your pastor's definition of fate. Believe in the existence of a soul mate and search for her. It’s never too early to find “The One.”

For guidance on this journey maintain perfect attendance at the Sex-Ed classes your church offers. The boys who share your curiosity about how and when God wants you to have intercourse will raise their hands and ask all the questions fumbling in your mind.

“So, when I get married I can do anything I want with my wife?” one will ask, as you imagine all the dirty things you’ve witnessed on late night web-browsing sprees.

“With your wife? Sure,” the pastor will guarantee despite the stunned look on his face.

When another kid asks him if he ever masturbated, he’ll end the class with a prayer begging the Holy Trinity for assistance.

                                                                                                   ***

At sixteen pursue a sweet Christian girl in your classes who’s impressed by your purity ring. She happens to be half Cuban, even though the only traits she inherits from her immigrant mother are her abilities to maintain a metabolism that sends food straight to her ass and to speak so fast that you have trouble keeping up with the words departing from her virgin lips.

Convince yourself you’ll end up with a Latina because the more time you spend swooning over the white girls at school, the less action you’ll get. God knows you’ll never make enough money to impress their fathers.

Develop a friendship before professing your love to her. That way you’ll know what songs to spend hours learning when you pick up the guitar. And she’ll appreciate that you sing her the one she likes to belt out of her window while driving around town on summer nights. Remain patient through the months she spends deciding if she’ll reciprocate your feelings.

During Youth Group discussions, when she defends the biblical condemnation of committing suicide, nod your head in agreement despite thinking life can be fucking depressing. Don’t mention that your father’s alcoholism looks a lot like someone ending his life “before God intends to.”

Ignore the invitations from your closest friends to party at the beach. To get drunk off light beer, get high on cheap weed, and roll around in the sand with girls who have daddy issues.

Instead, write your prudent girlfriend flattering lyrics accompanied by your guitar. Write her four-page letters explaining why you can’t breathe as easily now, because loving her has enlarged your heart so much that there’s hardly any room for your lungs. Or some corny shit like that.

Relish every opportunity to caress her round, soccer-toned ass. After your hand slips underneath her bra to grip her breast, her nipple poking the center of your palm, she’ll never allow you to do so again. Settle for dry-humping on your bed, the TV volume turned up so your mom can’t hear. One day the girl will mention that the friction between your jean-covered privates feels wrong. Because your religion has programmed you to associate pleasure with guilt.

That’ll be the extent of your sexual relationship for the three and a half years you spend admiring the virtue of her intentions.

                                                                                                   ***

In college, the two-hour drive between you will provide the space she needs to grow closer to God and for you to question whether He ever existed.

The Real Estate market will crash. She’ll know you transferred schools to help your parents so they don’t lose the house that represents an inkling of success after being uprooted from your homeland. But they’ll lose it, and she won’t call to ask how you’re doing.

When she does, she’ll say, “I don’t think we’re meant to be together.”

Realize she never loved you. Next time, listen to your mother, who foretold your heartbreak as if she were a prophet.

Go to your best friend’s house and drink your first beer, toasting the girl who wasted too much of your time. To hell with her and the morals she instilled in you.

                                                                                                   ***

Hang out with a good friend from high school who still talks to your ex. Lay a blanket at your favorite beach spot and drink a few brews to build courage. Tell her you always thought she was beautiful and kiss her when she tackles you onto the dunes.

You’ll drink too much on your twentieth birthday and almost hook up with the cute Colombian girl crushing on you. But your conscience will tell you you’re not ready. Her incessant texts after the party, outlining your future together, will prove it would’ve been a mistake.

At twenty-one ask out the cubanita who frequented the Spanish service at your church years ago. After a few dates she’ll sneak you into her house for foreplay, and you’ll wonder if she took that Sex-Ed class with the pastor’s wife.

Attend a drunkfest at your buddy’s pool. Your cubanita, who couldn’t look more like a white girl with her curly blond locks and icy blue eyes, will seduce you at the party and lead you to her car. Apologize when you leave her unsatisfied. She’ll say, “It’s okay,” and kiss you on the cheek before driving away.

Don’t think about your ex, who’s saving herself for marriage and expecting the same from her devout future husband—thereby forbidding your reconciliation. Don’t wonder if sex is the final Right of Passage to becoming a man. A man she would describe as ungodly.

Drown your regret in your father’s firewater. You’ll be unable to decipher what’s making you sick, if it’s the rum or the realization that you lost your virginity to a girl you’ll never love.

Written by: Eric Zurita
Photograph by: Emily Blincoe