Blind Judge

By Nathaniel Moore

God was doing sit-ups when the golden phone began to ring. It was 11:45am EST. Silver pools of sweat all over the master bedroom floor. The golden phone was loud. God was crunching; when this particular line rang, it ruffled several of God's closest clouds, including Tyranny, Tyra, and Taylor. The vibration tore small holes in the lining. God did tens of thousands each month, these strenuous God sit-ups, and the accompanying strained vocals familiar on earth during exercising.

Another loud ring. God sweated lions. A third ring. Huffing majestic. On the fifth, someone answered. One of God's handlers. A pause; a moment. God noticed the golden receiver glistening in the heavens, tin the hands of a friend. God exhaled and grabbed a towel; beads of God's sweat were sopped up in the gentle thread count.

“God, it's for you. Are you in?” Someone said, hand over the mouth piece. “You available?”

And then God spoke, gentle but firm. "Yes...yes, that's good, I see. Right. Really? Well that's great for a six week window. Especially in the summer! Congratulations. Sure go ahead. [PAUSE] I like that one! Very tetrastichous! I mean Tetrastichus. It's a lot of work yes. Well, I want to retire in 400 years but that's not going to happen either!" God laughed. God listened. God listened to the voice on the other end. Something about a poetry contest.

“Which one now? Oh I see. Well that is popular these days. Did they include a S.A.S.E.? Okay. Shortlist their poem, plus three others, lose fourteen in the mail, and outright disqualify the rest. Anything else?” God asked.

“No, that was last night. Squats. Six thousand. Everyday? Are you kidding. No, twice a week tops. Yes, yes, right, sure I'd love a contributor's copy when it's ready. No, thank you.”

God put the phone down. A cloud rolled on its side and began to laugh. A ray of sunlight giggled. God sneezed, catching the nostrils before too much wind expelled.

“That could have been messy.”

“No kidding.” One of God's creatures said.

Writing Lesson

by Lydia Ondrusek

Ivor Miskelson was a hated child.

Like a weed that sucks up repeated attacks of pesticide to become, finally, poisonous itself, he dealt with the rejection of his relatives and peers, raised himself from the garden plot, and became the grotesque focus of all eyes, unplanned impediment to the growth of everything around him.

Ivor Miskelson became a literary critic.

Read To Me, Miskelson’s television show, was a trainwreck. Millions tuned in every week to see if its host could, by a series of increasingly ugly jabs, again reduce a bestselling author to tears. He did not disappoint. Until Jonquil Esterhaus.

He questioned her lifestyle, laughed at her hat. She admitted her changing from writing children’s books to cozy mysteries could cripple the educational life of a generation. Her demeanor remained serene. After reading the teaparty scene from “I’m Afraid The Vicar Is Out,” she even kissed Miskelson during the closing music. Credits rolled with them deep in conversation, holding hands.

Police responded to a call from Esterhaus the next morning to find her in her bedroom, marking galleys. The late Mr. Miskelson sprawled fully dressed across her calico bedspread, dried spittle on his chin and an empty cup that looked like it had held cocoa clutched in stiff fingers.

“He said I was fascinating, that he wanted to see what I was working on next,” Esterhaus said to the detectives as people dealt with the body. She patted the galley of “The Coroner’s Cocoa.”

“So I showed him.”