This play will be performed at Restore:Connect on Saturday, September 26th.

Sister Phillips—female, 60 years old—stands at a kitchen counter, preparing bread dough. An age-diverse chorus sits on folding chairs in a horizontal line across the stage, gently beating their hands on their thighs in a slow rhythm (approximately 30 bpm).

CHORUS (can be all members or just part if it’s easier to divide into time-keepers and speakers. Speakers should be mixed male and female voices):

You’re called to serve the Lord away from home
And leave the friends and children you embrace
To learn to live without you on their own
And see what life is like with empty space

(beat stops)

SISTER PHILLIPS:

(on the phone, measuring ingredients)

Oh, hey Bishop! How are ya?

(pause for response)

(during the pause, one member of the chorus—middle-aged, male—stands. He is the Bishop. He stays silent and does not react but remains standing throughout the conversation)

We’re getting along just fine. The movers are coming on Monday, but that feels far down the list of things to worry about at this point!

(pause for response)

Oh, it’s not that much, really. Tell Stephanie, thank you, but we’ve had such an outpouring of love. I’m up to my eyeballs in helpers!

(chuckles performatively, glances around the empty kitchen not seeing the chorus)

(at the same moment another middle-aged woman walks in and joins the chorus silently)

Oh, while I have you, how many people do you think will be there tomorrow? Andrew and I have been debating. Obviously, our kids are coming to hear their dad’s farewell talk.

(pauses for interruption, chuckles bashfully)

(three women enter and join the chorus—they represent the daughters)

Yes, of course, and mine too. And we’ll have a couple of friends and my sister is coming, but I want to be sure I’ve made enough bread.

(pauses for reaction)

(one woman and a couple enter and join the chorus silently)

Oh, really it’s no trouble! This is my farewell. I’ll give the talk too, but Andrew’s the mission president. I’m just tagging along, really.

(laughs, waits a beat while Bishop laughs)

But I can make the sacrament bread one more time before we go—that’s a fitting farewell for me.

(pauses)

I’ll be sure to make a little more than normal, but let me know if you have an estimate!

(pause)

Mmhmm, thanks Bishop. Buh-bye.

(Bishop sits)

(Chorus starts up the beat again. She kneads in time)

CHORUS:

You’ll learn a language that you do not speak
And love a people that you do not know
You’ll call and email family once a week
And miss the ways your children start to grow

SISTER PHILLIPS:

(pauses her kneading and carefully taps her phone with her knuckle to avoid getting it dirty and starts another call. She picks up the phone delicately with dirty hands, once again balancing it between her cheek and shoulder)

(one of the daughters in the chorus stands. She does not react but remains standing throughout the conversation)

Hi Bethy! Whatcha doing today?

(pause, exaggerated grandma voice)

Oooooo so fun! Hi Teddy! Did you go get a Subway sandwich today? You did? Wow, aren’t you lucky?!

(pause)

Hiiiiiii Marlow, hi sweet girl. Can you say grandma?

(squeals excitedly and laughs, back to her normal voice)

Gosh, she sounds even bigger on the phone. I can’t believe it. Your dad and I were talking about how she’ll be almost five when we get back. I can’t even imagine her as a five-year-old!

(pause for response)

Well, I’m excited to see you all tomorrow. Hey, are you still able to pick up that Costco catering order on your way? It should just be under my name—or maybe dad’s—no, probably mine! It should just be two big boxes of cookies. I just thought it would be nice to have them at the house for anyone who comes.

(pauses. She listens for a while with some facial reactions. She is amused by her daughter’s parenting.)

Anyway, I’ll let you go, but tell those squishies that I’m excited to squish them tomorrow!

Mmhm, buh-bye Bethy.

(Bethy sits.)

(She begins kneading again and the chorus begins keeping time again.)

CHORUS:

You’ll miss your kids each waking day and night
You’ll miss their laughs and loves and arguments
You’ll miss their biggest moments, fears, and fights
Their birthdays, graduations, life events

SISTER PHILLIPS:

Siri, call Laura.

(The beat stops as Laura picks up. Another daughter in the chorus stands. She does not react but remains standing throughout the conversation. Sister Phillips continues kneading but distractedly while she talks)

Hi, Laur. I’m excited to see you! What time do you get in tomorrow?

(pause)

Geez. You’re going to be exhausted at 9am church. Good thing you don’t have to give the talk, I guess.

(chuckles)

What? Oh, I’m just making bread—sorry, I’ve got the phone all pressed up to my face.

(adjusts slightly)

Is that any better?

(pause)

Oh, I don’t mind! It’s how I show the ward I love them. Homemade bread is so much better than the store-bought stuff.

(pause)

Well, sure someone else could do it, but someone else will do it for the next three years, so I’m happy to do it for one more week. Oh, is Mark coming with you?

(pause, she frowns)

We totally understand! We’ll miss him. Geez, that means we won’t see him for a while. I guess we really only get to see you guys once a year or so anyway. Maybe that’ll make three years feel shorter, huh?

(laughs)

Yeah, maybe. Well, we’re excited to see you tomorrow. Give Mark our love. Buh-bye now.

(sighs)

(Laura sits)

(Sister Phillips sets the phone down gingerly with her messy hands. Chorus starts to beat again as she resumes her kneading.)

CHORUS:

The sacrifice we make is deeply flawed
It’s painful for the ones on either side
The very sacrifice that we applaud
Can hurt the ones they love and leave behind

(phone rings)

SISTER PHILLIPS:

Oh!

(she ignores her messy hands and picks up her phone hurriedly. She balances it again and starts kneading enthusiastically)

(Ruth stands, chorus continues beating during the conversation)

Hi Ruthie!!

(pauses)

Yeah, yeah that’s fine! Take your time. I know it’s been hard for you. I’m so glad you called. I’ve been wanting to say that I’m sorry for my reaction. I understand not wanting to drop us at the airport. It’ll be such an emotional time and everyone deals with that in different ways. I should’ve been more respectful of your . . .

(Ruthie in the chorus stamps her foot)

(Sister Phillips stops kneading and chorus stops beating)

Do you have to work tomorrow or . . . ? No, okay. I understand.

(takes a deep breath, resets)

It is . . . it is important to us, though, Ruthie. This isn’t a sacrifice we make lightly . . . the time away from everyone, from you! We’d really like you to be there to support your father and . . . and me too.

(pauses)

I don’t think we need to agree to support each other.

(listens, tears falling but her voice stays steady and calm) I hear you. We’ll miss you. We love you so much, Ruthie. Mmhm buh-bye.

(Chorus stops beating. Sister Phillips puts the phone down and cries.)

(Ruthie stands, folds her chair, and carries it offstage.)

(after some time, the phone rings. Sister Phillips composes herself and answers. Bishop stands.)

SISTER PHILLIPS:

(strained, pretend-happy voice)

Oh, hi Bishop!

(pauses)

Yeah, that’s about what I thought too. I think 350 is a good number, not to flatter myself, just to be safe.

(chuckles sadly)

Thanks, Bishop. We’ll see you tomorrow—well actually, while you’re here . . . The story where Jesus makes the few loaves and fishes into so many. Do you—do you think . . . 

(voice breaks)

. . . could he ever do that with my time?

(chorus resumes beat very softly)

(Sister Phillips continues kneading—maybe listening to the Bishop’s response, maybe lost in thought—for a while)

CHORUS:

But all the bread and fishes in the sea
Will feed them naught until they come to me

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Brynn Staker StClair is a musicologist, poet, and singer who believes music is at its best when it brings people together. She currently leads a program that brings high-quality music instruction to students from a wide range of communities. Whether she’s performing, composing, writing, or teaching, Brynn is passionate about making art meaningful, accessible, and deeply human.

Art by Jean-François Millet (1814–1875).

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Eliza Elizabeth Everly Evermore was my best friend for two months, one week and three days.

Then she told me she was leaving for the forest and she’d never be back.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m moving to the forest with my family.”

“Why?”

“My dad lost his job and my mom said we can make do in the woods better than here in the city so we’re moving.”

I stared at her. She and her family moved here only just barely from Florida. She had orange hair and giant t-shirts that came down to her knees. She drew endless pictures of rainbow colored bears. She said she used to be obsessed with whales but now it was bears. All kinds of bears. She liked the exact same fairy books that I liked, and gave me her oatmeal raisin cookies at lunch. I loved her.

“Do you know how to live in the woods?” I asked.

Eliza shrugged. “We’re getting a tent.”

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My Aunt Judy ate 26 hot dogs at a contest.

It was a hot dog eating contest and before she entered the contest my grandma said, “Judy let’s not do that.”

We were at the kitchen table. Me, Mom, Judy and my grandma. It was almost Christmas so we were supposed to be baking treats for the neighbors but then Judy said, “I have an announcement.”

Judy is not married. She works as an attendant at Maverick gas station part time and gets me free slushees all I want. She’s obsessed with beta fish and she once was on a TV game show but she got out in the first round.

Grandma was looking at a recipe on her phone.

“What’s the announcement?” Mom said.

“I am entering a hot dog eating contest.”

Grandma looked up and without asking any questions, without wondering why there would be a hot dog eating contest in the middle of December, she said, “Judy, let’s not do that.”

“It’s for the children, mother.”

“It’s for the who?”

“The children.”

“What are you talking about,” Grandma said.

“Yeah, what are you talking about,” Mom said.

I ate a handful of chocolate chips and watched.

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I am going to tell you about a kid in my class named Parker.

Parker was trouble.

He threw an eraser so hard at Willow’s belly she had to go to the school nurse; he ate Sara’s birthday doughnuts (the whole box! While we were at recess! Sara was crying her face off! They were Krispy Kremes!), and he told Ms. Long that she had a long bum.

He said it loud. In front of all of us. And she got red and she said, “That is not appropriate,” and he said, “neither is your long bum.”

Everyone laughed and he had to go to the principal’s office.

I decided very early in the year that I was going to stay far far far away from Parker. I was never going to be in his field trip group; I was never going to be at his table for science; I was never going to be on lunch duty with him.

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“When you meet someone, treat them as if they were in serious trouble, and you will be right more than half the time.” —Henry B. Eyring

Take Lotta, for example. Her shirt is dotted with soot where her hair has burned, and even though it hasn’t been an impossible problem (only a few strands are ever burning at a time) she is getting tired of sewing up the small holes and always having to bleach her shirts. 

And she’s one of the lucky ones. Talbot can hardly keep himself in shoes. A foot-fire is certainly a bigger problem than most hair fires, but Talbot is grateful that the fire hasn’t ever migrated up his leg to his calves because even though the burned-rubber smell of his shoe soles is maddening for most people, at least he only needs new shoes once a week instead of new pants every day. In his line of work, shorts aren’t really an option, so a leg fire would cost him a fortune in suit pants.

Once, I thought I had finally found someone who wasn’t on fire at all. Like me, Margaret didn’t look like she was burning. There was no smoke rising from her elbows or ashy stain on her breast. She didn’t even have any of the smells that I have come to associate with burning. (You know the ones, sometimes an early barbeque smell, sometimes the acrid presence of a bug-zapper.) Then I noticed the empty bottles of aloe juice in her garbage, the ice machine on her kitchen counter. 

“I don’t want to give you too much information,” she said quietly, “but let’s just say I have a bit of a bowel fire.” My heart went out to her, and a lot of her uncommon facial expressions started to make sense. “It isn’t as awesome as it sounds,” she continued. “My friends are always going on about how lucky I am, and how skinny I am, and how much they wish they could eat whatever they wanted, but they never stop to think about the pain.” 

That’s what everybody says: the pain, the pain. 

Kennedy and Carlton are siblings. I dated Carlton for a while in college. His eyes: I have never seen fire so blue. Kennedy’s eye-fires were orange, but Carlton had a little pilot light in the back of each eye. You could see them if you looked straight into them from close up, which I tried to do whenever possible. I think I might have loved those eyes more than I loved him, which explains why we didn’t date for long. They were my favorite thing about him, but he hated them for two reasons.

For one, he said, “I know it isn’t, but it really looks like the whole world is burning all the time.” Another was exactly what I expected: the pain, the pain, the pain.

And I’m afraid there’s no polite way to say this, but another one of my exes, Jake, had a fire in his loins. Which caused some, you know, compatibility issues in our relationship. At least, that’s what I tell people. Confidentially, I was probably a bigger problem than he was. I’m still working on my issues. But, rumor has it that if two people with loin fires find each other, those issues don’t really come up. I don’t know if that’s true. I mean, the pain is still real, but I have always hoped he would find someone more compatible than I was. 

I’ve met people with burning in their brains (it’s easy to spot the smoke exiting the ears), burning at the tips of their fingers (they usually can’t hold down desk jobs), burning on their tongues (they’re not as persuasive as you’d think). They all say the same thing: the pain, the pain, the pain.

But they don’t know how hot the fire can be. How I long for a little burning at the back of the knee or behind the eyes. When the fire comes from deep inside the chest, when every beat of the heart serves as a bellows to fan the flames, that’s what real burning is like. I see them, I catalog them, but they don’t see me. They don’t see how the fire is pumped to every extremity, how I lie alone in the dark watching the glow through my skin as the arteries carry the fire to each vein, through the capillaries until every cell is reached. They don’t see how we share fires, how I carry their fire with me, I carry it in my heart: the pain, the pain, the pain.

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Chanel Earl is a writer—mostly of fiction—who currently teaches writing at Brigham Young University.

Art by Keri Dockter.

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CHARACTERS:

ANN - Female. Late 20s. Energetic, lovely, quick to catch when things are off.

FRED - Male. Late 20s. Tall and well built. Compassionate, loving, and calm.

LIZZY - Female. Early 40s. Colorfully dressed, loud, annoying and kind of stuck up.

RON - Male. Mid 40s. Short and stout, middle-aged man. Bearded with a nasally voice.

Scene Opens with the sun rising, breaking in the morning. The light streams through the window at Stage Left. At Center Stage, ANN sleeps peacefully in her bed. There is a vanity table between the bed and the window with a sundress hanging on the chair in front of it. At far Stage Right there is a door leading to the hall of the hotel. Between the door and the bed there is an end table and a couch beside it, and a door next to the bed leading to a bathroom.

We can hear the sound of a running sink from the bathroom and a radio playing a song. The sink turns off and FRED Enters from the bathroom. He turns off the radio then kneels down to ANN’s eye level, stroking her hair.

FRED

(softly) Morning, Beautiful.

ANN remains motionless, pretending to be asleep.

Ann? Ann, are you up?

ANN

No.

FRED tickles and nibbles at ANN. They laugh then settle down as they hold each other.

FRED

How’d you sleep?

ANN

Like a baby. You?

FRED

Alright, a little hard to sleep with all the snoring.

ANN

(Offended) I do not snore!

FRED

Oh, yes you do! You sound like a broken vacuum cleaner.

ANN

Shut up.

FRED makes a snarling snoring noise in ANN’s ear to annoy her.

ANN

Shut up!

ANN gets out of bed playfully hitting FRED. They then hold each other in an embrace.

ANN

I just want to spend all day here.

FRED

Me too? Unfortunately, we can’t, we’re visiting my sister and her husband today.

ANN

Let’s just say we’re sick and not go.

FRED

They’ll know we’re lying.

ANN

Why?

FRED

They said the same thing to me on their honeymoon.

ANN

Good, they’ll know what we mean then.

They both smile, maintaining their embrace for a beat. ANN sighs.

When were we going to meet them?

FRED looks at his watch.

FRED

In ten minutes.

ANN

(Startled) WHAT!?

ANN quickly starts getting ready.

FRED

(Teasing) I thought you said you didn’t want to go.

ANN puts on the sundress.

ANN

Just get ready. We are going to be late!

FRED

They will understand if we are a few minutes late.

ANN

But your sister will never let it go. She still brings up the undercooked turkey from Thanksgiving to this day. I do not intend to give that woman fuel to her fire. Zip me up, will you?

FRED zips up ANN’s sundress. ANN takes out a brush from the drawer and brushes her hair. FRED goes into the bathroom leaving the door open. ANN puts the brush back in the drawer to apply lipstick, then reaches back into the drawer but the brush is gone.

FRED

C’mon, she’s just messing with you. Lizzy’s always been like that, even when we were kids. It’s how we bonded.

ANN

Freddy, have you seen my hairbrush?

FRED

Uh . . . yeah, it’s right here.

FRED Exits the bathroom and hands ANN the brush. He returns to the bathroom.

ANN

(Confused) Oh. Thanks.

ANN brushes her hair. She puts the brush in the drawer to check her eyelashes. She reaches back into the drawer and the brush is gone again.

FRED

If she brings it up, remind her about her hair during the rehearsal dinner. That’ll drive her crazy.

ANN

What the—? What is going on?

FRED

What’s wrong?

ANN

My brush, where did I put it?

FRED

It’s in here. Let me grab it for you.

FRED comes back out of the bathroom with the same brush and hands it to ANN. She looks at the brush curiously as FRED goes back into the bathroom.

ANN

How do you keep doing that?

FRED

Coming out of the bathroom, now fully dressed.

Doing what?

ANN

My brush. I keep putting it away in the drawer but you keep bringing it to me from the bathroom.

FRED

(Awkwardly laughs) Is this some kind of joke you’re pulling on me? Come on, they’ll be here any minute.

ANN

Wait, they’re coming here? I thought we were meeting them for brunch?

FRED

No, that was Tuesday. We said they could come visit us in our hotel room today, remember?

ANN

(Pretending to remember) Uh, right.

ANN begins to clean up the room, making the bed and clearing off the vanity.

FRED

Yeah, they wanted to say goodbye to us before they had to make their flight.

ANN

Yes, of course. When should they be here?

The doorbell rings. FRED comes out of the bathroom.

FRED

I guess that answers that question.

FRED goes to the door, but looks back at ANN before opening it.

Ready?

ANN

Just getting my shoes on.

ANN throws the last of the mess under the bed, then puts her shoes on and joins her husband at the door. FRED who opens the door. RON and LIZZY Enter. They are a joyful yet older couple wearing colorful vacation outfits. LIZZY holds a vase of flowers.

LIZZY

(Sing-songingly) Hellooooo!

FRED

Hey guys, come on in!

They all greet each other with hugs. ANN has a concerned look on her face with an occasional half smile and an attitude as though she had been caught off-guard.

LIZZY

Hello baby brother! How are you two lovebirds?

FRED

Just fine Lizzy, just fine. How was your stay?

LIZZY

Oh, just wonderful? We went on a boat tour, had dinner at the Tiki hut—delicious!—and stayed up late watching the fireworks. Well, at least I did. Someone wanted to add up the bill to the hotel bar.

RON

I thought they were overcharging us.

LIZZY

Ron thinks we get overcharged at every hotel we have ever stayed at.

RON

I refuse to be taken for a ride! That Albuquerque inn billed us for three bottles of champagne. Three!

LIZZY

Oh, would you let it go already, Ron? Ann dear, we got you some flowers. They should go well with your new place.

LIZZY hands the vase to ANN.

Oh! You guys were going to show us your photo album from the wedding!

FRED

That’s right! Ann, could you grab it, Beautiful? Why don’t you guys have a seat and we will look through it together?

LIZZY and RON sit on the couch and continue to argue. ANN places the vase on the end table and pulls the photo album from underneath the bed, still having a concerned look on her face and occasionally looking over at LIZZY and RON. FRED notices and walks over to ANN.

FRED

(Softly) Are you alright, Beautiful?

ANN

Freddy, who are these people?

FRED

What are you talking about? It’s my sister Lizzy and her husband Ron.

ANN

Frederick, I have never seen those two in my life.

FRED

What? What do you mean you’ve never seen them before? We saw them earlier this week. You’ve known them for years.

ANN

No, I’ve known Lizzy and Ron for years. I don’t know these people.

FRED

Ann, I don’t know what is going on with you today.

ANN

I’m telling you, that is not your sister! Don’t you believe me?

FRED

Look, Ann honey, just sit down and go through the album with them. You’ll feel more comfortable if you just sit and talk with them.

ANN

But Fred—

FRED grabs the photo album and the chair by the vanity, sets it up next to the couch and gives the album to LIZZY.

FRED

Here you go, Lizzy. (to ANN) Come on. Just sit for a minute and they’ll come to you.

ANN cautiously sits beside LIZZY as she flips through the book.

LIZZY

(Looking through the album) Oh, these are beautiful. Don’t they look beautiful Ron? What a handsome couple. Not sure I would have gone with that veil. I mean, it looks great on you though dear.

ANN

Yeah. Hey, let’s find a picture with all of us in it!

LIZZY

All of us?

ANN

Yeah, it’ll be fun to see what we all looked like together.

ANN takes the album and begins looking through the pages.

RON

Um, Ann? We weren’t at your wedding.

ANN

(pause) What?

LIZZY

We didn’t come to your wedding, Ann. That’s why we wanted to look through the photo album.

ANN

But, the rehearsal dinner. You were at the rehearsal dinner.

RON

Ann, we didn’t meet you and Fred until after your wedding.

ANN holds the photo album to her chest, stands and backs away slowly from them.

FRED

Ann, what has gotten into you?

ANN

I told you! I told you they weren’t who you thought they were!

ANN runs to FRED’s side, trying to get away from RON and LIZZY.

FRED

Well, who are they then?

ANN

I don’t know, but that is not your sister! They told me they didn’t even know who we were until after our wedding!

LIZZY

Freddy, what is going on?

ANN

How did you know I call him Freddy? How do you know us? WHO ARE YOU!?

FRED

Ann, it’s Paul and Janice. Our neighbors. We’ve lived next to them for over a year.

ANN

What? Fred I don’t understand, we haven’t even moved into our new house yet.

FRED

Ann, we are in that house.

ANN freezes. She walks over to the window and opens it. We hear the sounds of children playing and cars passing by. ANN watches in a daze.

LIZZY

Maybe it’s best if we go.

FRED

Yeah, I am so sorry about this.

FRED opens the door for them and RON and LIZZY walk out.

RON

Don’t worry about it, we’ll come over another time.

FRED

Alright, we’ll see you later, I guess.

LIZZY

Sounds good. (to ANN) Goodbye, Ann! (ANN doesn’t respond. To FRED) We hope she feels better soon.

LIZZY and RON Exit with FRED closing the door behind them.

FRED

Do you wanna tell me what that was all about?

ANN

(Still in a daze) I recognize this street. I’ve lived here for . . . (ANN begins to break down in tears as she sits on the bed.) What is wrong with me?

FRED runs over to comfort her.

FRED

Hey hey hey, nothing is wrong. You’re OK. You’re safe. You’re just having a rough day is all. What can I do?

ANN

(Sniffles) Water. I need some water.

FRED

Alright, I’ll get you some water, Beautiful. Just take a breath and I’ll be right back.

FRED goes into the bathroom and we hear the water running. ANN sits for a moment staring out at the window. She gets up and begins to walk towards it. FRED reenters with a glass of water.

FRED

Alright, I’ve got your—STOP!!!

FRED runs over to the window, closes it and locks it.

ANN

What are you doing?

FRED

Don’t scare me like that! You know you’re not supposed to open the windows.

ANN

Freddy, I don’t know what has gotten into you. I think I need some fresh air.

FRED

Freddy?

ANN walks over to the front door, but it is locked as well.

ANN

Why is the door locked?

FRED

Don’t ask me that. You know why.

ANN

Unlock this door!

FRED

Calm down. Everything is OK.

ANN

Open this door, NOW!!

FRED

Alright, I will once you take these.

FRED pulls out a pill bottle from his pocket.

ANN

What is that?

FRED

Just trust me, it’ll help you.

ANN

(beat) It’s you, isn’t it. You’re doing this. All of this! It all started with you!

FRED

OK, now you’re scaring me.

ANN

Make it stop.

FRED

Make what stop?

ANN

MAKE IT STOP!!

FRED

OK, OK, just calm down.

ANN

DO NOT TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! I WANT TO GET OUT!

(ANN bangs on the door)

HELP ME! HELP ME!

FRED grabs ANN as delicately as he can and guides her to sit on the bed while ANN helplessly struggles against him.

FRED

OK, I’m going to get you some help. Just please, please take the pill. Trust me it will help you.

FRED hands her the cup of water and a pill. ANN takes a pill.

ANN

(Betrayed) Who are you? What are you doing to me?!

FRED

I’ll be right back, just please stay there.

FRED Exits. ANN looks down at the pill and water, then throws them on the floor. ANN goes over to the window which is still locked and tries to budge it open. She hears voices coming from outside her door. She runs over to her flower vase, picks it up and holds it like a weapon right behind the door. The door handle jiggles. FRED reenters not seeing ANN creep up behind him.

FRED

Hello? Oh no. Where did she go?

ANN hits FRED over the head with the vase, causing its contents to spill out. FRED grabs his head in pain.

FRED

AAHHH!!

ANN

Stay away from me, you hear me? Stay away!

FRED

Ow! Please put the vase down.

ANN

I said stay away!

FRED

Please put the vase down, you are going to hurt yourself.

ANN

I don’t know what is going on. Why are you doing this to me, Freddy? Why are you keeping me here?

FRED

Did you just call me Freddy again?/

ANN

Answer me!/

FRED

You don’t understand/ Please just listen/

ANN

Tell me what’s going on/ No you listen/

FRED

MOM!

ANN freezes. All is silent.

ANN

What did you call me?

FRED

It’s me, Mom. It’s Jacob. Don’t you recognize me?

ANN puts down the vase and grabs FRED’s face with two hands, looking into his eyes.

ANN

Freddy?

FRED

Dad died eight years ago, then I took you to live here. I come to visit you every week. Remember?

ANN looks around in bewilderment. She sits at the edge of her bed.

FRED

Mom?

ANN

Looking back at FRED. Trying to recognize him.

J-Jacob?

FRED

Pausing, then forcing a smile as he sits beside her.

Yes, Mom. It’s me.

ANN

You’re . . . my son? (Realizing the blood on his head) Oh no, you’re bleeding.

FRED

(Grabbing his head and realizing he is bleeding a bit) I uh . . . just tripped and hit your vase. I’m sorry about that. I’m such a klutz.

ANN

No you didn’t I—

ANN stops, giving up on trying to make sense of things. LIZZY and RON Enter the room, now wearing scrubs.

RON

Is everything alright? We heard a commotion.

ANN walks over to where she dropped her photo album and holds it close as she sits back down on the bed. LIZZY clears up the mess on the floor.

FRED

We’re OK now. She’s just having a bad day.

RON

Are the doors locked?

FRED

Yes, thank goodness. But she did hit me with the vase.

LIZZY

We have a first aid kit downstairs.

ANN

Ron? Lizzy?

FRED

No, these are just—Just . . . old friends. They’re your friends.

ANN

Oh.

LIZZY

Do we know if she’s taken her meds yet?

FRED

No. I tried giving them to her earlier but she wouldn’t take them.

RON

OK. What’s best for her now is to rest. Did you remember to affirm what she says?

FRED

No, I should have. I’m still not used to this.

RON

It’s OK. Just remember to affirm her reality, whatever that might be. If you don’t she’s going to keep lashing out like this.

FRED

You’re right. I’ll try.

LIZZY

We’ll step out so you can help her get to bed. We’ll be outside if you need anything.

LIZZY finishes cleaning. RON Exits.

ANN

(Looking through her photo album, tearing up) Oh Freddy, you looked so handsome.

FRED

(Sitting beside her) You looked even better.

ANN

Freddy? Oh, Freddy dear, it is so good to see you. (She hugs him) Oh never leave me again!

FRED

(Affirming her reality) I’m not going anywhere. (He hugs her back) Listen, I need you to do something for me, OK?

ANN

What is it, dear?

FRED

I need you to get some sleep.

ANN

No, please don’t leave me!

FRED

I won’t. But I need you to sleep now. Can you do that for me?

ANN

OK.

FRED

Great. Let’s get you comfortable then.

FRED takes her shoes off then tucks her into bed.

ANN

Can you stay with me until I fall asleep?

FRED

I’ll stay as long as I can.

ANN begins to get tired and doze off.

ANN

I love you.

FRED

I love you too, Beautiful.

FRED kisses her head, sitting beside her as she drifts off. The song from the beginning plays faintly in the background.

ANN

Do you hear that, Freddy? It’s our song. Remember it?

FRED

Of course I do. How could I forget?

THE END.

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Garrett is an actor and playwright currently working in Utah. He recently graduated from BYU where he studied creative writing and theatre arts. He has been working as an actor and playwright for over ten years, performing for theatre companies like the Parker Theatre and the Ruth.

Art by Edvard Munch (1863–1944).

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Scene: A middle-aged couple are driving in their ever-so-practical, midsize SUV to a weekend getaway from their kids. WHITNEY is driving. She’s on edge. HUGH is not sure how he ended up sitting in the passenger seat while his wife white-knuckles her way through what is otherwise a serene country road. The mood in the car is . . . uncomfortable. (WHITNEY’s driving may have something to do with that.)

HUGH

. . . So . . . Notice how the engine runs smoother now . . .? I got the oil changed before we left . . . so it would run smooth for you. . . . Remind me why you’re so eager to drive, again?

WHITNEY

(tightly wound) If you drive you’ll pick the music and I’ll fall asleep. Which I’m usually grateful for. But not today.

HUGH

. . . We’re not listening to any music now . . . 

WHITNEY

I don’t want music.

HUGH

. . .

WHITNEY

. . .

HUGH

. . . It’s going to be a long drive, isn’t—

WHITNEY

We need to talk.

HUGH

—it. . . Should have known this weekend was a set-up.

WHITNEY

Excuse me?

HUGH

In our fourteen years of marriage every romantic getaway has been my idea. The first time you recommend one . . . should have known: set-up.

WHITNEY

And what, exactly, is this supposed to be a set-up for?

HUGH

Not romance . . .

WHITNEY

You don’t know that.

HUGH

Your hackles are raised.

WHITNEY

I don’t have hackles. (HUGH reaches for her hackles—which are definitely raised) Hugh!

HUGH

See? Hackles. (WHITNEY swats his hand away) Forgive me for trying to touch my wife . . . 

WHITNEY

Hugh, this is important.

HUGH

Yeah. I’m listening. (but not really)

WHITNEY

I think we should have another baby.

HUGH

Not this again!

WHITNEY

Yes, this again.

HUGH

. . . Set up! —Did you just lock the doors?

WHITNEY

We’re having this conversation whether you want it or not.

HUGH

(a tense beat) Three kids, Whitney. That’s the plan. That’s what we agreed to. Three. Three kids, three years apart, after graduate school. We’ve done that. We’ve multiplied, we’ve replenished. Mission Accomplished. Bring on the aircraft carrier, roll out the banner, fly the fighter jets. We’re done. You’re done. You said so yourself. “I’m so glad I don’t have to do that again.” Your exact words after Bradley was born.

WHITNEY

I lied.

HUGH

You were in earnest. I have the video on my phone if you’d like to see it.

WHITNEY

I didn’t know I was lying at the time.

HUGH

That’s just your hormones making you forget.

WHITNEY

This isn’t hormones.

HUGH

Everything’s hormones for you lately. You have a most egalitarian endocrine system: equal-opportunity misery for all.

WHITNEY

Hugh!

HUGH

The beautiful thing is, it’s the twenty-first century outside; we have ways of controlling these things.

WHITNEY

I had the doctor take my IUD out this morning.

HUGH

(a pregnant pause) Set up!

WHITNEY

If you’d just engage in a reasonable conversation with me, I wouldn’t have to—

HUGH

I am the only one being reasonable here.

WHITNEY

I think God’s trying to tell us something.

HUGH

Did he tell you to sabotage your birth control?

WHITNEY

It’s not sabotage if I tell you about it.

HUGH

After the fact.

WHITNEY

But before the act. Eh? Eh . . . ? (the joke doesn’t land, also HUGH’s hackles might be raised) . . . I brought back-up methods, just in case.

HUGH

Oh goody . . .

WHITNEY

I tried talking to you before we left, but you haven’t exactly been in the listening mood.

HUGH

I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.

WHITNEY

Everything’s stress for you lately.

HUGH

Including our stress-free, get-away weekend, apparently. (a pause) So, what is God trying to tell you? Because he’s made our family plenty clear to me.

WHITNEY

Ah yes. Your vision.

HUGH

I saw our children before they were born. All three of them, playing in the creek at the cabin. They looked just like the picture you took last summer.

WHITNEY

I know. It was a beautiful vision . . . It still is. Three gap-toothed kids, alternating boys and girls, alternating hair color . . . I didn’t come into our marriage with a pre-planned family courtesy of some Young Women’s lesson, so when you woke me up that night on our honeymoon, I was happy to share your vision. Happy to be assured there would be a family in our future. That we didn’t have to worry about it at that moment because God would take care of it . . . And then you started planning . . . We didn’t have to figure everything out by the end of our honeymoon you know.

HUGH

We were laying the foundation for our marriage; setting our house in order so we could enjoy our future together.

WHITNEY

We could have enjoyed that moment together. (a pause) And four years later—as per the plan—out the children came, just as you’d foreseen. Boy, girl, boy. Dark, light, dark . . . You want to know something? With each pregnancy, I secretly hoped our children would come out different.

HUGH

. . . Wh . . . why?

WHITNEY

I don’t know. Maybe subconsciously I knew I’d want more children . . . eventually. Maybe I just . . . didn’t want to be limited by your vision.

HUGH

You should have said something. A long time ago.

WHITNEY

I didn’t know that’s what those feelings meant at the time.

HUGH

Then how do you know what your feelings mean now?! Have you prayed about this?

WHITNEY

Of course!

HUGH

And . . . ? What’s the answer?

WHITNEY

. . . No answer . . . Just the same ever-present emptiness in my heart, followed by the same boiler-plate message: “God loves you, and you need to work this out for yourself.”

HUGH

So, God’s not telling us to have another baby.

WHITNEY

Well wouldn’t it be easier if he did!

HUGH

I’m very content with our family the way it is.

WHITNEY

I’m not.

HUGH

Whatever your discontent, a baby isn’t going to fix it. Babies don’t solve . . . marital problems . . . You want to know why your heart is empty? Because our marriage is empty. When’s the last time you reached for me? Or at least, didn’t flinch when I touched you?

WHITNEY

. . . Hugh, I—

HUGH

I know I haven’t been in the listening mood lately, but I’m listening now. And I want to ask you, humbly . . . what it is—really—that you want from me . . . that you’re not getting . . .

WHITNEY

. . . A baby . . . !

HUGH

You’re not thinking clearly!

WHITNEY

Why is it so hard for you to believe me?! Because God hasn’t shown you in advance what another child will look like for our family? Well, he hasn’t shown me either. It’s called faith, Hugh.

HUGH

Faith in what, Whitney? God, or yourself?

WHITNEY

I’m sorry, God doesn’t come right out and talk to me—or show me visions—so the only thing I have to work with is myself. Maybe that’s the real test. What you do when the only judgement you have to rely on is your own.

HUGH

I trust my contentment.

WHITNEY

Maybe it’s not good for Man to be content.

HUGH

Is that the secret Relief Society motto? “Comfort the weary, strengthen the weak, and never let the men be content.”

WHITNEY

You act like I have a personal vendetta against your happiness.

HUGH

Don’t you? (a frustrated pause) You’re not being rational.

WHITNEY

Well maybe a baby shouldn’t be a rational decision!

HUGH

Is that what God is trying to tell us?

WHITNEY

I think, maybe, yes.

HUGH

This isn’t something you can maybe.

WHITNEY

Maybe it is! Maybe that’s the point. Maybe we need more maybe in our lives. (a pause) I sometimes wonder if there isn’t a beauty to living together normally and letting the children come.

HUGH

We dismissed that notion fourteen years ago.

WHITNEY

After fourteen years of emptiness, maybe we should reconsider it. Haven’t you ever wondered what it’s like to make love, I mean actually—make—love, and not know the outcome in advance? To just be in the passion of that moment and give it over to God?

A pause. —Maybe—HUGH is reconsidering. . .

HUGH

. . . How many children you planning to let come?

WHITNEY

At our age? (shrugs)

HUGH

No. No. No, no, no. This is a stupid plan. This is . . . stupid.

WHITNEY

This isn’t a plan at all. Were you even listening?!

HUGH

—Yes!— That’s how I know it’s a stupid plan. Because I was listening!

WHITNEY screeches the car to a halt.

WHITNEY

Get out!

HUGH

—No.—

WHITNEY

I said, get out!

HUGH

Make me.

WHITNEY

Get. Out.

HUGH

No.

WHITNEY

Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out!

HUGH

(amused, but trying not to show it) I can’t, the doors are locked.

WHITNEY

(unamused, unlocks the doors) There. Now go.

HUGH

Hmmm, no.

Infuriated, WHITNEY exits the car, opens the passenger door, and tries to pull HUGH out. It’s a losing proposition for WHITNEY, which only further amuses and infuriates the respective parties. At the height of this amusing and infuriating display, a semi-truck blares its horn, rattling the car as it narrowly passes by. HUGH pulls WHITNEY to safety just in time.

HUGH

(holding WHITNEY tight, rattled) That was close.

WHITNEY

(letting HUGH hold her) It just came from nowhere.

Their embrace sparks a romantic moment. Maybe even a reconciliation. The romance . . . escalates.

HUGH

Wanna move this to the back seat?

WHITNEY

Eww. On top of the Goldfish crumbs?

HUGH

Alright. We’ll do it here.

WHITNEY

(giggling) Hugh! We can finish this up at the cabin. It’s not that far.

HUGH

No, no. The Deus ex Mack Truck has intervened on your behalf. This is your moment. Seize it before I start thinking clearly.

WHITNEY realizes she’s about to get what she wants. And that may be the most terrifying thing.

She reaches for HUGH.

(END OF PLAY)

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Amy Banta is an emerging playwright from Holladay, UT. She studied economics at BYU, worked twelve years in the military-industrial complex, and is now attempting to raise three children—all of which temper her playwriting with a healthy dose of cynicism and heart.

Art by Emil Doepler.

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In a ward history, it is traditional to note what occurred, rather than what did not occur. However, seeing as the summer of 2026 was the first time in twelve years without any mishaps, I believe it should be noted. At the young men and young women’s camps, there were no ER visits, no bears, no food poisoning, no official warnings by the state police, and no wanton loss of tent or bicycle. Is it possible that this is because no member of the Hastings family attended either camp in any capacity?

As the ward historian, it is not within my purview to speculate on either correlation or causation.

(I must admit, though, that I do wonder why the Hastings are always given positions of responsibility when they are so prone to wreaking havoc.)

Unfortunately, mishaps would soon begin again for our ward—and they began in force in September 2026, with a broken church bell.

But first, a little context. At the very end of March, Church headquarters announced that beginning in September, the church schedule would be changing. During second hour, instead of attending either Sunday School or a gendered class (Young Men’s, Young Women’s, Relief Society, or elders quorum), everyone would attend both. There would be five minutes to get from sacrament meeting to Sunday School, exactly twenty-five minutes in Sunday School, a precise five-minute passing time, then twenty-five minutes in the final class.

When this change was announced, it threw members of our ward into crisis. The next Sunday was testimony meeting, and in between testimonies of Jesus and testimonies of Michigan’s NCAA Final Four victory with tangential gospel connections, multiple people shared their stress about the transition. Brother Bott stood up and said that if Rip Van Winkle went to sleep twenty years ago and woke up today, he wouldn’t recognize the Church, what with sleeveless garments, changes to the temple ceremony, and high priests having to meet with the elders quorum (something he is still bitter about, having been ordained a high priest one week after the change and so never getting access to an exclusive Sunday meeting). Sister Byers said she wasn’t sure we would have time for in-depth discussions in Sunday School if we only had twenty-five minutes. Then Sister Hastings stood up and said that we should actually just go back to the three-hour church schedule, which got a chorus of groans—as a ward, we might struggle with change, but everyone embraced two-hour church.

After a few more pulpit expressions of stress, Bishop shared several Facebook posts from members of the other ward that meets in our building—the Rutleg 1st Ward. On the multi-ward Facebook page, their ward complained that the September schedule change would be difficult because of the transitions. (They asked, “Have you ever seen a 35-year-old woman get from the chapel to the Relief Society room in 5 minutes?” Honestly, it’s a fair question.) As always, all it takes to unify our ward is mentioning the 1st Ward. As the 2nd Ward, we unanimously decided that we would set an example for the 1st Ward in sustaining the prophet and magnifying the new schedule. Also, Primary had been doing this for years—if four-year-olds can do it, how hard could it be?

Unfortunately, this involved putting new wine in old bottles (an expression that is not Word of Wisdom–friendly, but was said by Jesus, so is allowed).

Take, for example, the average Sunday in Young Women’s. Sacrament meeting inevitably finishes late, at 10:05. The young women start trickling in at about 10:12. The first leader arrives at 10:15. By 10:17, the young women are there. By 10:22, all the Young Women leaders become unlost (including Sister Hastings, who is an advisor but due to the food poisoning incidents is no longer allowed at girl’s camp). Then there’s finding someone to pray, choosing a song, and voting on whether it’s a cappella or the untunable piano. Sometimes an expedition is sent to the chapel for hymn books. They pass around the question box, get blankets, and repeat the theme twice (in English and Spanish). There are also announcements—if you don’t announce the weekly activity verbally, with an excited tone of voice, no one comes, despite endless reminder texts. By then it’s 10:45 a.m., leaving fifteen minutes for a lesson. I’ve heard—though I have not been able to confirm it through independent sources—that once they didn’t manage to start the lesson until 10:53 a.m. Unfortunately, this cannot be blamed entirely on Sister Hastings.

Needless to say, twenty-five minutes per class meant we had to train. And train we did. In addition to watching the Church’s videos and doing the prescribed fifth Sunday lesson, we held firesides and did a practice run on the last Saturday in August. We were completely prepared.

However, we forgot about Brother Underwood.

When Brother Underwood isn’t busy arguing that the local Protestant megachurch is the great and abominable church, he serves as the ward librarian and bell ringer. Bell ringer should be a simple calling: You press a button five minutes before church is over and a buzz rings throughout the building, signaling that it is time to think about closing prayers and lunch. At least, that’s what’s supposed to happen.

Sometimes he plays the bell like a foghorn for an excruciating thirty seconds. Other times, he taps a doctrinal mastery scripture in Morse code. Once, when the stake president was teaching a fifth Sunday lesson, Brother Underwood did six five-second blasts, followed by thirty seconds of silence (the stake president, lulled away into carnal security, started talking again), a twenty-second peal, four seconds of silence, then ten quick taps.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that some callings should not be magnified.

There is wild speculation in the ward as to why he chooses to do this.

Is this a call for help? some folks whisper. Or worse, a call for attention?

Sister Hastings takes the bell-ringing as a personal affront. (However, Brother Underwood began ringing the bell long before the Hastings moved here from Ohio.) Once, Sister Hastings confronted Brother Underwood about his bell-ringing, complaining that it is disruptive. He shot back that her kids are way more disruptive than the bells have ever been. As ward historian, I should not take sides on these things, but I fear I must side with Brother Underwood: As a whole, the Hasting clan is much more disruptive than Brother Underwood.

While others speculate about the cause of the incessant bell-ringing, I know the truth. There are people like the Hastings who are always given great responsibilities. And then there are people like Brother Underwood who only receive callings requiring very little responsibility, callings that would not be missed if everyone just stopped doing them. Now, most people have short stints in these callings, but some people get stuck in this track. It becomes a sort of label: We don’t trust you to do anything else, or we think other people would do a better job than you at anything that’s actually important, so you get to spend an eternity as the bell ringer, the emergency preparedness specialist, or the ward historian.

Yes, I am well aware that I am on this track. I have now been the ward historian for twelve years—I’m on my third bishopric. I also know that no one in the ward reads these yearly histories. I post a link to them on the multi-ward Facebook page every year, and four years ago, my son (who really should get around to having children of his own) helped me set up tracking on the link, so I know that on average, two people read it per year. One of them is my sister. But the yearly histories are also sent to Church headquarters and probably put in a vault somewhere—hopefully the bomb-shelter one for family history that can withstand anything. I have to believe that someday, someone will benefit from the history of the Rutleg 2nd Ward, so I write the very best, well-researched, impartial accounts that I can.

Because of the skills I have developed as the ward historian, unlike everyone else, who just speculates on Brother Underwood’s motivations, I actually asked him.

For Brother Underwood, at first ringing the bells creatively was a way to dare the bishopric to release him and give him another calling. But then he started to enjoy it. He made the decision, as I have, that if ringing bells is what others have decided he can contribute to building up the kingdom, then gosh darn it, he will ring those bells.

Honestly, my heart swells as I write these words. But now, back to 2026.

Despite Brother Underwood’s flagrant ten-year pattern of calling magnification, none of us considered him in our 2026 planning.

On our first Sunday with the new schedule, he rang the bell at 10:05, signaling that Sunday School should start. Unfortunately, the loud, buzzing, piercing bell came during the middle of Brother Bott’s opening prayer in the adult Sunday School class, and Brother Bott lost his balance, knocking over (and shattering) a dozen glass bottles full of various materials which Sister Byers had brought for an object lesson.

At 10:25, Brother Underwood held the bell button down for the next five minutes to make sure that we all vacated Sunday School by 10:30. Many people vacated the building.

During the final class, he rang the bell at the start but not near the end (we think Bishop distracted him). To make up for it, after church he played “Come, Come Ye Saints,” though it’s hard to be sure because the church bell only has one note.

Apparently, Sunday went much better for the Rutleg 1st Ward, despite their March murmurings and the fact that they didn’t practice at all.

As a fellow church member who is kept away from callings of responsibility, I’ve always felt a little defensive of Brother Underwood. However, his behavior on this particular Sunday was too much for even me, and I officially joined Team Stop Ringing the Church Bell.

The next week, we arrived at church to discover that our prayers had been answered: The bell was broken. Clearly, it was a miracle wrought from on high. Second hour went beautifully, with the exception of Brother Underwood weeping noisily in the hallway. I stood next to him for a moment, but I didn’t know what to say or do to help him feel better. I ended up giving him a bag of fruit snacks which I keep in my purse in case I run into any noisy toddlers. He accepted the bag, but it didn’t seem to help him feel better. I suppose there’s a reason I have never been called as the compassionate service leader.

On week three, the bell was still broken, but Brother Underwood decided that even if he could not perform the letter of his calling, he could still perform the spirit of it.

He visited every single class and interrupted the teachers to declare (sometimes with a lengthy speech) that there were five minutes left. The catch: Brother Underwood can only be in one room at a time, yet he insisted that there were five minutes left whether the teacher actually had two minutes or ten minutes. Time began to have no meaning, and some of us glimpsed the experience of living on Kolob when Earth is rolled together as a scroll.

After church, Sister Hastings declared, “I think I miss the church bell.”

We all mumbled our agreement.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have broken it,” she added.

I think we should all appreciate the fact that we can once again blame the Hastings (and, by extension, their home state of Ohio) for all of our problems.

It’s been months, and we still don’t have a working church bell. Brother Underwood visits every class at random times, declaring that there are five minutes left. Most teachers have learned to cut him off, thank him, and shoo him out the door so the interruption takes twenty seconds instead of a minute.

My favorite week, though, was when I subbed for the four-year-old Primary class.

(Yes, they do let me sub in Primary. I am one of the only prospective substitutes who has actually completed the child and youth protection training, and since teachers are always absent, they are forced to ask me for help. I’m hoping that someday they’ll actually ask me to teach a lesson rather than just be the second living, breathing adult in the classroom.)

Anyways, I was subbing the four-year-old Primary class. It was about three minutes until church would be over, and the kids were scribbling with crayons on paper. And then, Brother Underwood entered the room.

Before he could say anything, the youngest Hasting kid yelled, at the top of his lungs, “FIVE MINUTES LEFT!”

Brother Underwood smiled—a full, heartfelt smile. He left without a single word.

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Katherine Cowley is the Mary Higgins Clark Award nominated author of The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet. She has also published two other novels and numerous short stories, as well as the nonfiction book Write with Jane Austen: Masterclasses with the Master Storyteller. She lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan with her husband and three daughters.

Art by an anonymous American (1935–1942).

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Eve hadn’t dreamed in Eden. But in the years since leaving Eden, she had gotten used to the strange sensation of waking up to the last wisps of a dream, soon forgotten.

This dream, however, felt different. She found herself in a dark and dreary waste, awash in greys, the edges of her senses soft and smokey. She perceived no ground, as if she stood on water. It was disorienting, but most dreams are if you really start analyzing them.

She started walking. Surely something must exist here, or this was going to be a very boring dream. She just had to start moving to find it. Whatever passes for time in dreams went by. Eve perceived it as an eternity. It felt like she was walking in figure eights, nothing to use as a way marker. Until she came across a large rock.

Eve considered walking past it. It wasn’t a particularly exciting rock. But it was the only thing of substance she had come across (if a dream rock can be referred to as having substance). So, she sat on the rock. Just as she was beginning to feel restless, she saw a light, growing larger as it came towards her. The light took the form of a person. An Angel.

The Angel—Eve felt a moment of familiarity as though from another life—sat down on the rock beside her. “You look tired, Eve.”

Eve thought maybe it wasn’t so much that she was tired, but perhaps that she had entirely forgotten what it felt like to be well-rested. Her muscles ached, her body was heavy. Her skin felt tight, stretched thin over her bones. Her mouth felt like she had swallowed a mouthful of sand. She was so thirsty. Thirsty for so many things. Her exhaustion felt like a tidal wave washing over her, crushing her. She wondered if she could ever rise again.

Eve meant to tell the Angel that she was fine. She would just rest for a moment on this rock, and then she would keep moving. But instead, she said, “I don’t know if I made the right choice in Eden.”

She could barely remember Eden anymore. It felt like the kind of fuzzy dream that slipped through her fingers like sand upon waking. She did remember long evenings spent talking with Adam, walking along a lakeshore. The water, a perfect temperature, lapping her bare feet. She remembered slow, warm, unhurried mornings. If she had the option now, she would return to the soft gentle womb of Eden and sleep, perhaps forever.

In response the Angel stood, drawing Eve up with her. With her hands joined with the Angel’s, Eve felt lighter, like her legs could once more bear the weight of this mortal body. Smoke pooled and billowed at their feet. “Come,” the Angel said. “If you are willing, I will show you what your choice created.”

Eve hesitated. Did she want to see? Eve took a fortifying deep breath. She was willing. With the Angel’s hand in hers, Eve stepped forward through the smoke.

Eve squinted in the blinding light of the sun revealed beyond the smoke that had surrounded them. Too bright after the dimness of the dark and dreary waste. The nonexistent dream ground beneath her feet was replaced by something hard, unnaturally flat. The Angel pulled her to the side just before someone ran into Eve. She gaped. People were everywhere.

The Angel gently pulled her to a flat, straight, wooden surface. “A bench,” the Angel explained. “I’m rather fond of them. More comfortable than your rock.” Eve barely registered the bench. The people filled her view.

They moved like a herd in constant motion, all seeming to go in opposite directions. Children darted past her, their feet not bare like Eve’s, but wrapped in colorful fabric. People moved with great haste, dressed in cloth so fine and bright it might have been spun from water and sand. Lights flashed like lightning. Everywhere she looked there was noise, color, and movement. She drowned in the sound of a thousand conversations, laughter, shouting, startling sounds she couldn’t recognize or name.

Eve’s breath quickened. The press of people and unnamed things felt crushing. She wanted to bury her face in Adam’s chest. Wanted him to name things for her, as he once had.

Even as Eve felt overwhelmed by everything, she also began to notice the familiar. She saw her daughter’s face in a baby who watched her from his mother’s arms. As the baby stared at her, Eve couldn’t help but smile, eliciting a wide, gummy grin from the baby before they disappeared in the crowd. She saw Cain and Abel in a pair of young boys who ran past laughing, jostling each other.

“Is there nowhere quiet?” Eve asked.

The Angel smiled. “Come.”

The Angel stood from the bench, startling a flock of birds, and for a moment Eve felt as though she were enveloped in feathers and wings, and she shut her eyes. When nothing touched her, she opened them again. She was surrounded by walls and hushed silence. Eve could hear the soft murmur of voices and the occasional shadow of movement in a doorway, but this room was empty of people. It was empty of everything except a few benches and images on the walls. Eve moved slowly, wary of the strange reverence in the air. The images portrayed landscapes, people in fine clothing, strange shapes, colors she had never seen before.

She stopped in front of one image that drew her in. A woman’s face, pale and soft, a wry smile, a fruit in her hand, held out as though enticing Eve. A serpent curled around the tree behind her, watching her with a strangely human, smug, knowing grin.

“It’s you,” the Angel said, startling Eve.

“Surely not. It looks nothing like me,” Eve replied with a frown, squinting at the painting.

Turning around, Eve fell back from another painting, startled. It depicted a young man tied to a tree, pierced with wounds, bleeding. Soothing landscapes, faint echoes of Eden, had given way to images of violence and blood, pained faces, blood spilt like that of sacrificial lambs.

“I need some air,” she said with a gasp, and the Angel gestured through an archway.

Eve stumbled through and they were once more outside. The air here was dry and heavy, as though no one here dared to breathe. The children here ran barefoot. Tents billowed and flapped in the wind. Dust and smoke stung Eve’s eyes. The wind carried the sound of crying. Here, like in the paintings, blood was spilt. Were those bodies? Eve couldn’t bear to look closer.

From a tent she heard hacking coughs. Eve looked around her, but she could see no water or comfort she could give. Eve hadn’t thought anyone in the world could feel as tired as she did. But she watched a mother who, with trembling hands, crouched by a cookfire. She broke bread and gave the larger piece to her child. The child’s ribs pressed against her skin like the bones of a baby bird.

“Is this the end of the world?” Eve asked the Angel.

“Not yet.”

“I did not choose this,” she whispered. “I cannot imagine how any child of mine would choose this.”

The Angel looked at her with sad, knowing eyes. Eve didn’t like that look. As though the Angel saw something in her future that would cause her to utter those words again.

She turned away, unable to meet the Angel’s eyes. Instead, her eyes met those of a child who was watching her. Eve crouched down to her height. The child had wide dark eyes, bright with curiosity. Eyes that reminded Eve of Adam. The child reached out her hand, and in her palm sat a small flower. Eve accepted her offering with a smile and was given a shy one in return. A voice called from one of the tents and the child turned and ran off.

The Angel touched Eve’s shoulder and quietly said, “Come.”

She breathed in the silence when they returned to the dark and dreary waste. Returned to the rock. The soft grey darkness was a relief to her eyes. They stung with unshed tears and ached as though they had worked too hard taking everything in. She dropped onto the rock. The Angel remained standing.

“What am I supposed to do with this knowledge?” Eve asked. She felt exhausted, not just in body, but in mind.

The Angel shrugged. “You wake up. Or I suppose you can just sit here on this rock.”

The rock was tempting. Eve could pretend there weren’t any expectations of her here. No world out there with millions of children still waiting to be born. Eve closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was silent here. No demands. The Angel was a warm, steady presence.

Eve’s buttocks began to ache. She shifted. Fidgeted. Her feet felt restless. The rock wasn’t really all that comfortable. Her mind began to wander. Adam would be wondering where she was. She would miss him sitting here. With a soft sigh, Eve opened her eyes and awoke. A small flower was clutched in her hand.

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This piece, “Eve Dreams,” appeared in Wayfare issue 7.

Michelle Graabek-Wallace is a Danish-born historian and writer interested in women’s history, lived faith, and personal voice. She aims to contribute to a Latter-day Saint literary tradition, exploring the ways ordinary lives carry enduring stories and insight, rooted in her Danish heritage.

Art by Ella Anderson (@ellart234).

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The Kid first noticed the men in London. Every morning for a week, they sat on a bench across the street from our hotel on the Strand. Sometimes they read the Illustrated or another paper, feigning nonchalance as they waited for us to leave. They wore tailored frock coats, dark suits, and bowler hats. I thought they looked like typical Londoners, but the Kid had a knack for spotting trouble. It was a gift of the spirit.

Right away I knew the men were Chandler’s. Joseph had always worried—privately, at least—that Chandler would try to take back the mummies and scrolls. He told me once that Chandler had returned to Kirtland a few days after the sale, his clothes disheveled and his hair matted with grime and sweat. The scrolls, he raved, had bewitched his soul with what he called their “immortal promise.” He begged Joseph—pleaded with him—to sell them back, but by then, Joseph had already studied some of the strange characters on the papyrus and sensed the depth of their secrets. He turned Chandler away, not unkindly, and then made sure the antiquities were never far from those he trusted.

At first, the Kid was nervous about being followed. He wasn’t afraid of the men, not with Ephraim and Manasseh holstered at his hips. His draw was faster than a steam engine and carried twice the punch. I always thought that any man who tried to get the jump on him—in a dark alley, say, or in the privy—would be choking on lead before they had breath enough to say Cleopatra. No, his nervousness—his fear, really—was for me. When Jeremiah and Kumen agreed to let me take this mission, they insisted that I bring the Kid along. My divine resilience had never fooled him, after all. He knew Chandler’s stooges could not hurt me, not physically. But I was still a tender old man with a fierce disdain for guns. And I was certainly no Sampson, despite my change. I needed the Kid’s muscle—and probably his grit—to do what needed to be done. (Or what we thought needed to be done.) But mostly I needed the Kid’s heart. He worried about me because he knew my limits. And since I loved him like a son, he would do anything to protect my soul.

“Listen, boss,” the Kid said one evening, “maybe them varmints can’t make you bleed, but they sure as thunder can make you wish you could.” As he said this, his hand reached unconsciously for Ephraim’s pearly grip. The pistol’s innate chill startled him, and he flashed me a sheepish grin.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “Worry about the mission. Getting the antiquities to Egypt is all that matters right now.” I clapped him on the shoulder and prayed he didn’t sense how rattled I felt.

On what turned out to be our last afternoon in London, we lunched at our hotel and walked a mile to the British Museum. As expected, we saw Chandler’s men perched on their bench, this time reading The Guardian. I braced myself as we passed them. The Kid had the antiquities slung across his shoulder in a long carpet bag, and for a moment, I thought the men would finally make their move. But the stooges kept their eyes on their newspapers, and we were a quarter mile from them when they stood to follow us.

At the museum, the Kid wandered the Egyptian galleries while I met with one Samuel Birch in a small office nearby. Dusty artifacts cluttered every corner of the room, and it was with difficulty that Birch made space for me and the carpet bag. He was a bald, bookish man with a gray beard and an unremarkable stature. When he met me outside his office, he had seemed distracted and impatient for our meeting to be over. But his demeanor changed once I set the carpet bag down on a repurposed surgical table and unfastened its buckles. A broad smile appeared behind his whiskers, and his eyes, which had first seemed dark and brooding beneath a heavy brow, lit up with evident delight and curiosity. He approached the surgical table and assisted me in removing each of the mummies from the bag. There were a total of four, each one rather small, and I could tell by the scholar’s furrowed brow and quietly clucking tongue that he was disappointed by their dilapidated state.

“When the mummies were purchased some thirty years ago,” I explained, “the owner had been eager to learn all he could about them. They came with two papyrus scrolls. I have those here as well—all but a few fragments.”

Birch nodded his head vaguely and then rolled one of the mummies onto its side. “The owner was an American exhibitor?” he asked, examining the mummy’s back.

“Not exactly,” I said. “He was a religious leader . . . a prophet.”

“Let me guess,” Birch said. “He thought he had purchased Joseph of Egypt—or maybe Joseph’s pharaoh.”

“Well,” I said, “not exactly . . .”

Birch laughed. “Not exactly!” He set the mummy down and rested his hands on the table. “Mister . . .”

“Timothy,” I said.

“Mister Timothy, these mummies are simply not that old.” He crossed to the other side of the table and ran a delicate hand through his beard. “Yes, they are ancient by our woefully narrow perspective,” he said, “but they are nearer in age to our Lord and Saviour than to Joseph or Moses.”

“Sir,” I said, “I’m wondering if you could help me know where in Egypt they came from.”

Birch shrugged. “May I see the scrolls?”

“Yes,” I said, retrieving a sack made from rubberized cloth. “I’m afraid they’re in a worse state than the mummies.”

Birch placed the sack on the table. “Do you know who sold these antiquities to your prophet?”

“A man named Michael Chandler,” I said. “He acquired them from someone named Lebolo.”

“Antonio Lebolo,” Birch said. “The Italian tomb raider.”

“You know him?”

“I know of him,” Birch said. “He was one of Napoleon’s men.”

“Is he still alive?” I asked.

“No,” Birch said. “He’s been dead for decades. But if he’s the man who excavated—”

Alarm flashed across Birch’s eyes as a loud noise from the galleries interrupted him. “Excuse me,” he said, taking a few timid steps toward the door. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Another loud noise—this time a thud—shook the room. The door swung open and the Kid rushed inside, Ephraim in hand. “Boss,” he shouted, “we gotta ride!”

Birch gasped as the Kid bounded recklessly through the room, desperately searching for another way out. Coming upon a stack of pottery, the Kid smiled wryly and shoved it hard with his shoulder. Pots and jars, almost as old as recorded time, shattered on the hardwood floor, revealing a soot-stained window. “C’mon, boss,” he cried. He flipped Ephraim into the air, caught it by the barrel, and hammered the window out with the butt.

I tipped my hat at Birch. “I’m sorry, professor,” I said. I reached for the scrolls, but a violent rattling of the doorknob froze me in place. “Gosh all Friday,” I said.

Crouching like a wrestler, I turned just as the office door burst open. Two of Chandler’s men—I recognized them from the street—stormed into the room with pocket Colts aimed at the Kid. Without hesitation, I lunged at the shorter of the men. A blinding flash of orange flame erupted before my eyes, and I felt a pair of lead balls glance painlessly off my skin. The men looked startled, so I pushed Shorty out of the room and then swiveled to face the other. He pulled a knife from his belt and appeared ready to attack. A long purple scar ran down his cheek.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” said the Kid. He had Ephraim aimed at Scarface while Manasseh drew a bead on Shorty. “Boss here don’t believe in shooting irons, but I sure as thunder do.”

Scarface holstered his Colt, but he held his knife steady. The Kid laughed.

“Boss ain’t afraid of a little knife,” he said, “but go ahead, varmint. I’ve changed my mind.”

Scarface looked at the Kid and then at Shorty. He knew he was outmaneuvered.

“Alright, Boss,” said the Kid. “Let’s get a move on it.”

In an instant, I had the mummies and scrolls in the carpetbag. With some effort, I hefted the bag onto my shoulder and grabbed Birch by his coat sleeve. “Where did Lebolo find the mummies?” I said.

Birch’s eyes were wide with fear. “Thebes,” he whispered. “Luxor. The Valley of the Nobles.”

I nodded and hurried to the window. “May you keep the commandments and prosper in the land,” I called out to Birch. “And sorry for the mess.”

We took a steamer from Dover to Calais and caught a train to Marseilles. On the way, I told the Kid what Birch had said about the mummies. I already knew they weren’t as old as Moses or Joseph of Egypt. A German antiquary in New York City had confirmed their age—and, to some extent, their contents—not long after I recovered them in Chicago. But I had been struck by his wording—“nearer in age to our Lord and Saviour.” It was a description that suited me as well.

“Ain’t it ironic,” said the Kid. “Old boy lives and breathes the ancient world, but when a living, breathing antiquity walks into his office, he don’t realize it.”

“You make me sound like a mummy.”

“Y’know what I mean,” said the Kid. “Some people think they know everything, but we’re all just scratchin’ the surface of what there is to know.”

“It reminds me of something the Prophet once told me,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Back in 1842, when he was hiding from the law, I stayed with him for a few days on an island in the Mississippi. He spent most of the time asking me questions about what it was like to be me. He could spend hours asking questions and just—learning.”

“My pa said he was a good talker.”

“He was,” I said, “but if he thought you knew something he didn’t, he wouldn’t let you go until he’d learned all he could from you. And that’s sort of what we were talking about that day on the island. He said the Angel Moroni had warned him to be wary of those who were ‘exceedingly anxious’ to show off their learning.”

“Like the good professor we just met?”

“Maybe, but that’s not really my point,” I said. “The Prophet told me that bit of counsel was always the hardest for him to follow. He was something of a showoff himself. He loved telling what he knew. In some ways, it was part of what made him larger-than-life.”

“I would’ve liked to have met him,” said the Kid.

“He was an incredible man,” I said, “and these mummies frustrated him.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t think he ever got from them as much as he wanted. The hieroglyphics mystified him more than he let on. It’s remarkable that we got as much of Abraham’s record as we did. Joseph wanted to get more, but you know how God works.”

“Yessir,” said the Kid, “God is one mysterious hombre.”

In Marseilles, we booked passage on a steamer to Alexandria for the following morning and then checked into a nearby hotel. The Kid was hungry, so we set out to “grab some grub.” The docks teemed that evening with people from every corner of the globe. As we walked along the Old Port, the street was a babel of French, Italian, German, Greek, and Arabic. The Kid was entranced by the exotic array of clothing and hairdos around him.

“Boss,” he said. “Some of these people look like Jesus.”

“Not when I saw him,” I said, “but I know what you mean.”

We found a café on a narrow street east of the port. It served a watery soup with overcooked vegetables and pale meat. A hard chunk of bread accompanied the soup, and when I put the two together, I had a surprisingly decent meal. As always, the Kid ate three times as much as I did. Neither of us said much. We knew what we had to do. In the morning, we’d begin our voyage across the Mediterranean , stopping here and there until we reached Alexandria one week later. We’d then catch a train to Cairo, where we’d book passage on a Nile steamer bound for Luxor. Once there, we’d purchase some excavating tools, travel to the Valley of the Nobles, and return the antiquities to the sand.

We hoped to do all of this without interference from Chandler, of course, but we knew we’d probably cross paths with them in Alexandria or Cairo.

On our walk back to the hotel, the Kid began whistling, a sure tell that he sensed danger. His pace quickened and he turned down one side street and then another. We were being followed.

“Here,” he said, handing me the carpetbag of mummies. I slung the bag over my shoulder as he drew Ephraim and Manasseh from their holsters.

“Scarface and Shorty?” I whispered.

“Them and two of their friends.”

“Should we split up?”

“Not yet, Boss,” he said. “’Sides, you couldn’t run with that bag on your shoulder.”

The Kid led us through a maze of streets and alleys. After a while, I was sure we’d lost our pursuers, but the Kid kept going, always looking back at me to make sure the mummies and I were safe. He did not utter a word the whole time, not until he turned onto a crowded gaslit street lined with seedy cafés and houses of ill repute.

“We might’ve lost ‘em,” he said.

“Might’ve?”

He shrugged, a little embarrassed. “Well, I just haven’t seen ‘em in ten minutes.”

We walked down the street and tried to blend in with the gamblers, whores, and streetcorner mystics. “You hungry?” the Kid asked. He stopped in front of a dim café called Le Lépreux Aveugle.

“We just ate,” I said.

The Kid rubbed his stomach. “I don’t know, Boss. That soup wasn’t as filling as I thought.” He grinned weakly at me, and right away I knew he was stalling. Did he think Chandler’s men were waiting for us back at the hotel? Or was he sensing some new trouble coming our way?

“You know what?” I said. “We got the mummies and the scrolls. Let’s just hide somewhere here in the city, hunker down until morning.”

The Kid chuckled and slapped me on the shoulder. “Boss,” he said, “you read my mind!”

We found a quiet alley north of the port, ducked inside, and stretched out for the night. The Kid had left his bedroll at the hotel, so I lent him my coat to keep him warm. As always, I kept watch.

As the Kid snoozed, I remembered how I found him encamped with General Connor at the south end of Cache Valley. He was a feral sixteen-year-old then, but his mastery of horses and guns had caught the general’s eye and made him an ideal scout for the United States cavalry. His father had been a missionary alongside Addison Pratt in the Society Islands. His mother was Otaheiti royalty, making him an outcast when he came to the United States. For a time, he rode with Porter Rockwell, who nicknamed him the Liahona Kid for his uncanny sense of direction. I believe Rockwell introduced him to Connor and the cavalry. But the cavalry was no place for a boy that age, no matter how good he was with a gun, and so I did what I’d been doing for centuries: I intervened.

From where I sat in the alley, I could see a sliver of cross street. Now and then, someone stumbled into view, bottle in hand. I tried not to judge, but over the years I had seen alcohol poison too many lives. The Kid himself had picked up the bottle in Connor’s camp, and it was only with great effort and God’s good grace that he embraced full sobriety.

These musings carried me through several uneventful hours. Around three o’clock, though, I noticed the outline of a man at the entrance of the alley. At first, I thought little of it. But then he struck a match to light a cigarette, and the small flame illuminated a purple scar along his cheek.

Moving slowly, I placed a hand over the Kid’s mouth. He awoke instantly and met my gaze. “Scarface,” I whispered.

The Kid sat up and noiselessly drew Ephraim from his holster. Raising a single finger to his lips, he moved into a crouching position and cocked the pistol. The steel click of the hammer split the silence, causing the slightest of movements in Scarface’s silhouette. The stooge took a long drag on his cigarette, tossed it to the ground, and stepped out of sight.

“Stay here,” the Kid whispered. He unholstered Manasseh and held it out to me. “Take this.”

I looked down at the gun. Even in the dark alley, the cold steel glimmered in the Kid’s hand. “No, thanks,” I said. “I don’t need it.”

“Just take it, boss,” the Kid said, his eyes pleading. “Take it for me.” He pressed the gun into my hand and disappeared into the night.

Five minutes passed and then ten. Manasseh sat awkward and heavy in my coat pocket. I tolerated the Kid’s guns because he respected their power, knew how and when to use them, and did not have my immunity to death. I belonged to a world before the firearm, and I had seen its cruel ballistic efficiency tip the scales in favor of cruel men who had no qualms about slaughtering people who looked like me. Of course, the history of the world was a history of weapons, and maybe I blamed the gun for more than it deserved.

But where was the Kid? I wanted to go after him, but leaving the alley would only put the mummies and scrolls at risk. The best thing to do was wait.

After forty minutes, I heard footsteps. Clutching the carpetbag, I retreated deeper into the darkness, forbidding myself to hope. The footsteps grew louder and then stopped. I heard a whisper: “Timothy?”

Ever since my bodily change, I had lost the ability to feel the purely physical manifestations of fear. Yet that loss had heightened my spirit’s capacity for experiencing terror and dread. Gone were the tremors, the knocking knees, the cold sweats. In their place, buried deep in my mind, was a persistent, soul-piercing scream. And I had no choice but to hold it back as best I could.

A man appeared at the entrance of the alley. Through the darkness I could see his emaciated body was doubled over with age or injury. He leaned on a cane and held what looked to be the Kid’s battered slouch hat.

“Timothy?” he said into the darkness. “Yes, I know your name. I know all about you.”

Manasseh felt like lead in my pocket. “Where’s the Kid?” I barked.

“All in good time,” he said. “My name is Dr. Michael Chandler. I’m not a real doctor, mind you, but you already know that.”

“The Kid!”

“You have some items that belong to me, and I want them back.”

“Over my dead body.”

Chandler laughed. “Oh,” he said, “we both know that’s impossible!”

“Then maybe over yours,” I growled.

“Threats mean nothing coming from a saint,” Chandler said, “so let me make this simple. My men have your mongrel friend, and they will kill him unless you give me back my property.”

“They aren’t yours,” I said. “They never have been.”

“They have always been mine!” Chandler sneered. “They will be mine forever.”

“You’re mad,” I said.

“No, I am old and sick,” he said. “I am dying.”

In the darkness, Chandler appeared to steady himself on his cane. Joseph’s words flashed across my mind: immortal promise. “You think these mummies will cure you,” I said.

“Not the mummies,” said Chandler, “the scrolls. They hold the secrets of immortality and eternal life. Your prophet told me so himself.”

“You misunderstood him,” I said. “The scrolls aren’t magic.”

“Oh, but they are,” said Chandler. “You’re the living proof, or so my men tell me.”

I wanted to laugh. So that was it, the source of his obsession. He had twisted Joseph’s words, spun them around in his addled mind until he believed something on the scrolls—some magical spell or glyph—could make him live forever. Then he found out about my imperviousness to physical harm, and he jumped to the obvious conclusion. Never mind that he was wrong.

“Let me see the Kid,” I said. “I need to know he’s alive.”

“As you wish,” said Chandler. In a moment, Scarface and Shorty wrestled the Kid into view. Chandler approached them and lit a match, briefly illuminating the Kid’s bloodied and beaten face. A checkered scarf gagged his mouth. Shorty held a knife to his jugular.

“He put up quite the fight,” Chandler said. “It took all of my men to subdue him.”

“Let me talk to him,” I said.

“No.”

“This has nothing to do with him.”

“As long as you have my property, it does.”

My mind raced with possibilities. The antiquities had no real value anymore. Joseph had wrung all he needed from them, and they had served their purpose well. They weren’t magic. They had no special properties. They were curiosities, nothing more. I could hand them over to Chandler, save the Kid’s life, and perhaps the work would be no worse for it. Chandler would live a few more years and die in frustration and disappointment. The mummies would pass to someone new, someone less delusional. Maybe they might end up in a museum or a private collection.

But I had a mission. Missions were my sole reason for life.

Gripping the carpet bag, I stepped toward Chandler.

“Smart man,” he said.

“In the name of God,” I said, “release that man.”

That instant, two men pounced on me from the shadows. One seized the carpet bag and tried to wrench it from my hand. The other kicked me hard in the back, dropping me to my knees. He wrapped a muscular arm around my throat and began to squeeze. With my free hand, I reached blindly behind my shoulder until my fingers found his eye sockets. Digging in, I yanked his head forward, twisting my wrist with all the force I could muster. The man screamed and loosened his hold on my neck, giving me just enough freedom of movement to release my grip on his face and elbow him hard in the sternum. The man groaned and crumbled to the street, clutching his chest. I then turned and seized the carpetbag with both hands, mustering all my strength for a mighty tug-of-war with the second goon.

But even after all these years, these cycles of painlessness and predictability, the universe handed me a ruthless surprise. I heard a gunshot.

My first thought, unpardonable in its hope, was that somehow the Kid had wrestled a hand away from his captors, drawn Ephraim, and fired off a shot. But when I turned to look at him—to celebrate with him—I saw Scarface and Shorty lowering his slumped body to the ground. Standing beside them was Chandler, his quivering hand enveloped in arabesques of sulphur and smoke. Confusion spread through me like poison, and I released the carpetbag. Only then did I see Ephraim in Michael Chandler’s decrepit hand.

I rushed to the Kid’s side, scattering Scarface and Shorty. Blood poured from a visceral bloom on his abdomen. I searched for a pulse at his throat, but my mind refused to focus. For the first time in centuries, I felt something I thought I had banished from my heart: rage. It telegraphed though my body in sharp, bitter pulses until all at once I reached into my coat pocket for Manasseh.

Placing a finger on the trigger, I spun around and aimed the pistol at Chandler’s wiry back. He had tossed Ephraim to the ground, and already he and his goons were retreating with the carpet bag. They were still close enough to pick off, one by one, and I felt an alarming—and not unwelcome—power surge through me. Chandler provided an easy target. His spindly legs jangled like broken branches in the wind.

I wasn’t the best shot. I wasn’t the Kid. But my hand was steady. It was always steady. I felt godlike.

“Boss! No!” The airless words, barely audible, cut to my soul. I looked down and saw the Kid reaching for me with a bruised hand. His eyes slit open and met mine. “Don’t hand it to them, boss. That ain’t you.”

“Kid!” I crouched beside him and gathered him in my arms. But it was too late. He was dead.

“Adieu,” I said, closing his eyes. “May you keep the commandments and prosper in the land.”

I recovered the mummies and scrolls from a Swiss sanitarium two years later. Chandler had died there on his last penny, his dream of Egyptian immortality never more than the echo of a death rattle. The antiquities were collecting dust in a storage room, and a clerk there was happy to let me haul them away. To my surprise, they were still in the Kid’s carpet bag. It was almost as if the past two years had never happened, as if the Kid really had died in vain.

I took the long way to Egypt. I crossed the Alps and wandered down the Balkan Peninsula to Istanbul. From there I crossed Asia Minor to Syria and Palestine, stopping briefly in Jerusalem. The Holy City was as dusty and ruined as ever, yet I was alarmed by the number of American and European tourists crowding its streets. One day, while passing through a dense marketplace, I thought I saw the Kid among a group of Americans in fine traveling clothes. He wore a slouch hat, just like the Kid’s, and when he passed by me, he touched a finger to the brim and nodded. I nearly called out his name, but I knew better. He was not the Liahona Kid.

I arrived in Cairo one month later and booked passage to Luxor on a steamer. The quarters I shared with a few other men were clean and accommodating. My bunkmates were mostly adventurers in search of glory and golden antiquities. They traveled with a few bags, simple excavating tools, and maps of the old Egyptian burial grounds. Every night, we sat on deck, entertaining each other with stories of exotic travel and wonder. I rarely did more than listen, although I occasionally contributed an anecdote to remain in their good graces. They were a godless and profane group of men, but I found, to my surprise, that I enjoyed their company. After so much time on my own, I did not want to be alone.

On the night I buried the antiquities, I camped on a hill overlooking the windswept Valley of the Nobles. From where I stood, I could see the fires and hear the murmured conversations of other camps, none of which worried me in the least. With Chandler’s passing, everyone who coveted the mummies and scrolls was dead. I could have buried the antiquities in any old hole between here and the Alps and no one would have known or cared. My allegiance to my call was the only reason I bothered. That, and I felt I owed it to the Kid to finish what we started. To be honest, I had ceased to care about the antiquities once they’d taken the life of my sidekick and friend.

I dug for half the night in an obscure corner of the valley. Not needing rest or water, I made quick progress. I had long since decided to bury the mummies and scrolls in the carpet bag. It made a good sarcophagus, and to be honest, I had no desire to see its contents again. It seemed unfair, after all, that these worthless treasures would receive a burial far better than the one the Kid had received. His body had spent three days in a Marseilles morgue before being dumped with other unclaimed bodies into a pauper’s grave. I had wanted better for the Kid, but I’d kept my distance and done what was best for the mission. The Kid would’ve understood.

When my burying hole was sufficiently deep, I looked up at the starry firmament and thought of Joseph’s Abraham, the young patriarch in flight. It was a profound piece of scripture, and I think the Prophet took a secret pride in it, despite the trouble it gave him. Like Abraham, he was always looking at the sky, searching for signs of better and brighter worlds.

One line from the translation had always resonated with me: eternity was our covering and our rock and our salvation. When my brothers and I changed, we were promised an eternity free from pain and sorrow save it be for the sins of the world. That covering had been a rock and a salvation for us in so many ways. Yet none of us had realized at the time how drenched in sin one world could be. Nor did we know how much everyday pains and sorrows had buffered us from the searing hell of godly pain and godly sorrow. How sore you know not, how exquisite you know not, yea, how hard to bear you know not. If we had heard these words the way Joseph had heard them, we all might have chosen a different path.

Knowing I needed out of the physical and spiritual hole I had dug for myself, I offered a short dedicatory prayer and placed the carpet bag at my feet. I then climbed out of the hole and sat down beside it. Nearby was a large haversack with some clothing and equipment. I pulled it toward me and retrieved a heavy linen package, which I unwrapped slowly and solemnly. Inside were Ephraim and Manasseh, the last relics of my young friend.

“So long, Kid,” I said. “Keep these dead Egyptian varmints safe for me.”

I dropped the pistols into the hole and heard a dull metallic thud as they landed on the carpet bag. The sound was strangely comforting, even peaceful. And I had not felt peace—real peace—in such a long time.

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Scott Hales is a writer, historian, and literary critic living in Eagle Mountain, Utah. He is the author and illustrator of the graphic novel The Garden of Enid: Adventures of a Weird Mormon Girl (Greg Kofford Books, 2016, 2017), Hemingway in Paradise and Other Mormon Poems (Mormon Lit Lab, 2022), and Sacred Scar: Poems (Greg Kofford Books, 2026). When he isn’t writing, he’s running. When he isn’t running, he’s thinking about it. He and his wife, Sarah, have five children.

Art by Carl Wuttke (1849–1927), Edward Lear (1812–1888), Elihu Vedder (1836–1923), and Louis-Joseph Anthonissen (1849–1913).

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Wayfare magazine announces its third annual short play competition!

We are seeking original short plays that speak to faith and spirituality.

• Short: This call is specifically for short, 10-minute plays (around 10 pages of script).

• Original: Your voice and your story are important to our community! We love seeing new and diverse voices from a variety of cultures and faith traditions, and we love to be surprised by both story and form.

• Spiritual: Wayfare was founded by members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we welcome stories rooted in that tradition, though not necessarily in subject or focus. We also aim to address spirituality in a way that can also be appreciated across broad religious traditions. As our thirteenth Article of Faith says, “If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report, or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.”
  
  Note: “Spiritual” does not necessarily mean “devotional.” We want plays that engage with spirituality in new and interesting ways, and that work to inspire by some subtle or unexpected means.

Some examples of previous finalists:

• Fireflies: https://www.wayfaremagazine.org/p/fireflies

• Once I was a Laurel Advisor: https://www.wayfaremagazine.org/p/once-i-was-a-laurel-advisor

• A Burning in the Bosom: https://www.wayfaremagazine.org/p/a-burning-in-the-bosom

Prizes

1^st: $100, 2^nd: $50, 3^rd: $50. The first prize winner will also have the chance to have their play performed in a public reading.

Reading Period and Judging

This form will close to submissions at 11:59 pm on August 1st, 2026. Winners will be notified by the end of August, and the winning submissions will be published in the month of September.

Guidelines:

• Format: Please submit your play as a Google Doc with permissions set to “anyone with the link can view.”

• Playwrights may submit up to three short plays.

• Simultaneous submissions are OK.

• We will accept plays that have been previously published and/or performed in small, limited venues.

• Judging will be blind at all stages. Playwrights should remove identifying information from their submissions.

• Plays must be original.

• Plays must not be AI-generated in part or in whole.

SUBMISSION FORM

Jeanine Bee is the fiction editor for Wayfare magazine.

Art by Honoré Daumier.

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Yellow light slips beyond the tops of the mountains like butter falling out of a tipped pan. Yellow leaves clot the glade where my father aims his rifle, its barrel grazing the branches, the flat bodies of the leaves flapping to and fro in the autumn wind around him. Yellow eyes—my father’s—reflect the fading shades of evening, the whites of his eyes waxing from cotton to dandelion as he winks at me, turns his head, and fixes his gaze through the optical sights.

The flash of fire is yellow. The puffs of wheat grass are yellow, their shucked bodies filtering through the air as the 6-point buck rumples to the ground. My father lowers the gun from his shoulder, steps over to me, and pinches the yellow ends of my pigtails between his fingers as he says “we did it, Lissy, we did it!”

When really it was him, he did it.

Placing the gun back inside its case, my father tugs the material together, the metallic zipper-teeth shining golden. He opens the back hatch of the truck, puts the gun away and removes a leather pouch marked with yellowed masking tape: “CARVING KNIVES”. There’s a softness in my father’s amber-colored eyes when he says “sweetheart, you don’t have to watch if you don’t want to.”

Yellow are the daisy flowers growing on the creek bank a quarter mile down, their little faces bobbing as I brush the petals with my fingertips and wait for my father to finish his bloody business. Yellow flowers won’t last long here, with the world tilting towards winter, the season soon to meet its cool grave. Yellow labels will be placed on the plastic-wrapped pieces of venison my father will package late tonight, slicing through the wee hours at the kitchen counter as he slices through piles of meat. Grocery bags with yellow smiley faces will be filled with the meat cuts, and we’ll take them to the farmer’s market with our portable cooler, each piece priced by the pound. My father will let me handle the customer’s cash because I like to place the coins and bills in neat stacks and piles inside our citron tender box. On yellow legal pads, my father will keep track of the meat sales, carrying the ones, adding up the cash, and we’ll now have enough for my school fees. Yellow stoplights will cushion our way home, and my father will obey them, slowing to a standstill as the colors shift to red, the light of it bathing him in crimson wrinkles. Yellowing pages, this is my father’s life, the book of him crinkling with the use of thumbs and time, even as my pages are white with new-bound glue and fresh-pressed ink. I wonder if I will have a child someday, their hair honey-colored like mine, their eyes amber like their grandfather’s, and I wonder what I will kill and gut and package so that they might have a good life, too.

My father calls “I’m done with the gutting!”

Yellow bile rises in my throat as I get to my feet, brush off my knees, and walk up the creek by the golden glow of my flashlight, sick with the knowledge that my father will never need me the way that I need him. I cannot pay him back. I can only pay it forward.

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Mikayla “Mik” Johnson is the winner of the 2024 Utah Original Writing Competition Short Story Collection. Her work has been published in The Colorado Review, Door is a Jar, Segullah, and others. Find her on Instagram @mikjohnsonwrites

Art by Franz Marc (1880–1916).

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The woman kneels in the sharp grass at the water’s edge and gently sets a handwoven basket into the cold current. A forbidden child sleeps inside. The mother has defied Pharaoh for as long as possible. She can no longer hide her son; he has outgrown her protection. Jochebed checks once more to ensure no water is entering the vessel she has prepared with pitch and straw, the meager resources of a Hebrew slave. The basket is tight, secure. She glances around to make sure she is undetected by the soldiers who guard this part of the Nile. She looks in at her boy, and the ache deep inside starts to rise. God has guided her to do the very thing Pharaoh decreed—throw her Hebrew son into the water. How will he survive the dangers, the currents, the evils lurking beneath? Where will the water carry him? She forces herself to push past her fears and begins to close the basket. For the last time, she reaches in and gently brushes the boy’s hair from his forehead. At her touch, she sees again, with savage clarity, the vision.

It first came just after her baby crowned, after Jochebed pushed into the sacrificial fire of childbirth instead of pulling back. Puha, the midwife, breathed in wonder and whispered, “The child is still within the veil.” As Puha’s hands gently opened the sac to draw out the child, water gushed forth, and with the flood, divine sight:

The color blue-green, everywhere. A deafening sound—the roaring of water. A fierce current, unyielding and inescapable, driving a small vessel toward a foreordained destiny. Separation. Confusion. Followed by dominance. Position. Wealth. Jochebed, trembling, knows it is the child’s destiny. Water, everywhere. Power, immense. Rejection. Meekness. Pain. And finally: A burning tree that does not consume. Glory. God . . .

The vision fades. Jochebed has seen, like the prophetess Sarah, Mother of Israel, that her son is destined for greatness. She knows, somehow, that the water that was meant to destroy will deliver him. It is this assurance from God that has given her the strength and the wisdom to prepare this vessel—this ark—that will carry him safely through the water. And yet, Jochebed hesitates. She watches over her son a little longer. She basks in his loveliness, trying to memorize his small features. The child is heavenly, possessing a beauty uncommon even among the Egyptians. Her son is strong yet vulnerable, only months old. Her certainty about casting him into the water has begun to fade when Miriam’s voice brings her back.

“Mother. Mother!”

Jochebed spies her daughter’s face across the river, hidden in the reeds. Miriam, her eldest child, who awoke that morning with the idea that she was quick and small enough to hide undetected and watch where the water would carry her brother, is now frantically pointing. Jochebed glances around and sees an Egyptian soldier coming toward her. Quickly, she secures the top with a leather strap, pushes the basket into the Nile, and stands up. She has agonized about this moment for months, and it is over in an instant. She grabs her water pots, turns, and waves her arm to draw the soldier’s attention away from the water. It works. He has not seen the basket floating downstream. Unconcerned, he follows as she walks back to the settlement.

With each step, as the distance grows between Jochebed and her children, her faith and resolve threaten to break. Will they survive beyond her reach? Did she use enough pitch? Will Miriam know what to say if she is caught? With mounting fears, she parts her lips and prays. Please, God, let the water guide and not destroy. Please, let Miriam, so quick and wise, witness her brother’s deliverance.

Deliverance. The word wraps around her like a shawl. Jochebed begins to hum the words of a song the elders of Israel have sung for decades about the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. She can hear the deep, harmonious voices of the sons of God, bringing peace to her soul:

Who is he? The Deliverer. The Mighty Deliverer. Who delivered Abraham an heir—the first of a nation as numerous as the stars in heaven, causing life to bloom in the barren desert of Sarah’s womb.

Who is he? The Deliverer. The Mighty Deliverer. Who delivered Isaac from the altar of sacrifice to test both him and Abraham, and provided a ram in the thicket.

Who is he? The Deliverer. The Mighty Deliverer. Who delivered Jacob from famine and brought his beloved son, Joseph, long thought dead, back to him again.

O, Who is he? Who is the God of Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob? He is the God of Deliverance—the God of Miracles. And he will deliver Israel once more.

As Jochebed finishes the song, she stops on a hill close to home. At last, she dares to look back toward the river, wondering where her son has been carried, hoping Miriam has seen. She watches and waits, needing deliverance. Then, in the distance, she sees Miriam running. As she draws closer, Jochebed sees that her face is streaked with tears. Her legs buckle beneath her. What if?

Kneeling, she hears Miriam shouting, laughing. Miriam’s tears are tears of joy! She throws her arms around her mother and explains that the waters carried the basket to Pharaoh’s sister, who heard the baby crying and had compassion on him. He was too beautiful! She believes her gods have brought him to her. She will raise him, but she needs a wet nurse. “I told her I would bring someone. Come, Mother! Come quickly.”

Jochebed takes Miriam’s hand, and as they race back to the river, her mind repeats the words of the ancient song again: Who is he? The Deliverer. The Deliverer! The Mighty Deliverer.

Miriam leads Jochebed to the porch of Pharaoh’s sister. The baby continues to wail. It is a strange sound. She has never heard him cry so loudly. He would surely have been detected and killed by the soldiers if he had cried that loudly at home. Pharaoh’s sister places the child in Jochebed’s arms. “Feed my son. I will pay you for your time.” Jochebed nods. The two women, tall and handsome, see each other eye to eye, and they know the other knows—this boy must survive. Their gods have revealed it to both of them.

“His name will be Moses,” Pharaoh’s sister finally says. “Because I drew him out of the water.”

But you were not the first, thinks Jochebed, who remembers Puha, who drew him out of her womb.

Later that night, as Jochebed breastfeeds Moses, basking in the wonder of deliverance, she quietly sings the ancient songs. Her eyes grow heavy. She sleeps but dreams:

The roaring sound of rushing waters. Great walls of sea rising high on either side—a highway in the deep. Water pulling back; dry ground. The Hebrews running. Pharaoh’s chariots closing in. A man standing at the water’s edge, arms outstretched, holding a branch of the burning tree high in the air. It is Moses. The water that was meant to destroy will save. His eyes are full of fire—the power of God coursing through him. Moses! Moses has become a living ark, carrying an entire nation through the water, a vessel of God to deliver his people from extinction. Moses—the one who draws out.

Jochebed awakes, trembling. She has seen again, like the prophetess Sarah, that her son’s deliverance is the deliverance of many. Moses is great beyond her understanding. She remembers the first vision and knows that his path to this future moment will lead him through great loneliness, rejection, and pain. She aches to shield him from it all, when a quiet assurance, like before, washes over her, and she knows his family will walk with him, Aaron and Miriam. The rest is unclear.

The baby stirs in her arms, rooting. As she puts him to her breast, feeling him eagerly draw out her milk, Jochebed looks into his angelic face with awe. Who is he? The Deliverer. The Mighty Deliverer.

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Charlotte Eaves Winder has a degree in English Teaching from BYU and is working on a Master’s in Creative Writing from Harvard Extension School. She has taught LDS seminary and institute and enjoys spending time with her family, reading, and gardening.

Art by Winslow Homer (1836–1910).

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I.

It was almost too easy to go from twelve brothers to eleven, thought Judah, son of Leah.

Step One: Take Joseph to the pit.

The pit was at the bottom of the mountain, next to the long trading road. When ten of the brothers had first arrived with their flocks a week ago, the pit had been an annoyance. They’d had to station Zebulun, Judah’s younger brother, at its side to prevent the baby goats from falling in. But now that Father had sent Joseph—their little seventeen-year-old half-brother—to “supervise them,” the pit was an opportunity.

Step Two: Remove Joseph’s coat—the coat of many colors, crafted with the finest fabric that Canaan and its traders had to offer.

Sad fact: Father only really loved two of his children, the sons he’d had by his favorite wife, Rachel. So Joseph and Benjamin—numbers eleven and twelve in the pecking order—got treated better than the rest of them, especially after their mother died. Benjamin was too little to be annoying about it, but Joseph liked to lord it over them. “Look at this beautiful coat Father gave me,” Joseph would brag, spinning in circles so its colors twirled around him, while Judah—the fourth oldest son—trudged around in limp hand-me-downs. But at least after today, Judah would still have his coat, while Joseph would not.

Step Three: Throw Joseph into the pit.

Judah tried to not feel too guilty upon hearing Joseph’s yelp of pain when he hit the bottom. He peered down into the pit. It didn’t appear that Joseph had broken any bones in the fall, which was good. Not that a few broken bones would matter—they planned to let him die here, after all.

Step Four: Kill a baby goat.

They had baby goats in abundance, which made this particularly easy, though it made Judah a little sad that his brothers insisted on one of the baby goats from his flock. They ripped up Joseph’s coat and spread the goat’s blood on it. Poor goat—didn’t even live to see its first birthday.

Step Five: Go home and be a happy band of eleven brothers instead of twelve.

The fifth step ended up being a problem: Reuben’s flocks had wandered off on the other side of the mountain, so he had to find them. Reuben told them to start toward home without him, but Judah and the other brothers were really hungry. It made sense to eat lunch before they left.

Their meal—roasted baby goat—was a little spoiled by Joseph’s cries from the pit, repeated phrases like, “This isn’t funny anymore!” and “I’m sorry for telling you about my dreams, but that doesn’t mean they’re not going to happen.” This shifted to “Please, just let me out.” There was also “Dad’s going to be so upset” and “What would your mothers say?”

Good riddance, that’s what their mothers would say. At least that’s what Judah liked to think.

However, as they started eating dessert—dried dates on crackers, Joseph’s favorite—Judah began to reconsider. Before they had thrown Joseph in the pit, they had considered outright killing him, but Reuben had convinced them that murder was bad and that the pit would be a much more elegant solution to their problems. But really, was this actually any better from a moral standpoint? True, starvation or dehydration would be the immediate cause of Joseph’s death, but it would still count as murder. The Cain and Abel story made it pretty clear that God had a major problem with killing your own brother. Joseph was only their half-brother, but even if they only got half of Cain’s punishment, it would still be pretty bad.

“I was thinking,” said Judah, “that instead of letting Joseph die, we could sell him.”

“That’s not the plan,” growled Dan, Bilhah’s oldest.

As Judah looked around at his eight other brothers sitting around the lunch circle, he realized that if he was not careful, he could end up in the pit with Joseph.

“Yes, we had a plan,” said Judah. “But do we really want our brother’s blood on our hands? Who knows what God would do to punish us. If we sell Joseph—say to some traders—then we achieve the same result, but without any murder. And Joseph would probably fetch a good price. He’s young and strong and healthy.”

It took some additional persuasion, but Judah managed to convince them.

Then Simeon asked the million-shekel question. “Where are we going to find slave traders?”

As they debated, they saw a dust cloud in the distance.

It was a caravan of Midianite slave traders.

Truly, this was almost too easy.

II.

The hard part was getting Joseph out of the pit. It took the better part of an hour, and way too much rope. Judah acquired several new callouses and a rope burn on his arm.

The other hard part was the look of betrayal on Joseph’s face as they handed him over to the traders.

III.

As dusk fell, Reuben returned with his sheep.

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” he observed.

“Just thought we should wait for you, big brother,” said Judah. Judah had always looked up to Reuben—not only was Reuben the oldest of all twelve brothers, but they also shared the same mother.

“Thanks,” said Reuben, and then, lantern in hand, he walked casually over to the pit and peered down.

Reuben turned around, aghast. “What have you done with Joseph?”

None of the brothers said anything.

“What have you done?” Reuben repeated. And this time, his eyes landed on Judah.

“We, uh, well, we sold him to the Midianites,” said Judah. “As a slave.”

Reuben let out an awful wail, and he started ripping—yes, ripping—his clothes. Seams split, fabric tore. In a few moments, apparel that had taken Reuben’s wife weeks to weave and sew turned to rags.

“How can I return to my father without the child?” Reuben asked.

As a group, they lowered their eyes to the dirt.

Reuben was right. Even at seventeen, Joseph was still a child.

“Mark my words,” said Reuben. “His blood will be on our hands.”

Judah pushed at some grass with his foot. He’d felt very righteous, selling Joseph instead of letting him die. But Reuben had planned to actually save Joseph, and now that was impossible.

IV.

They presented Joseph’s coat to Father, telling their story: On their way back from shepherding, they had found these fragments. Fearing, they had collected them. “Did these belong to Joseph?” they asked.

Father picked up the pieces one at a time, pressing them against his face as he wept.

“Yes, these belong to my son. He has been torn apart by wild beasts.”

Father did not speak again for three weeks. Judah’s mom, Leah, alternated between tears and rage. She looked at them—Judah and his five full brothers—as if they were to blame.

It’s true, thought Judah. We are the wild beasts. We tore Joseph apart.

V.

Not long after, Judah married. His wife was a Canaanite named Shuah. Judah decided that he would not be like his father, marrying multiple women to whom he felt varying degrees of fondness. No, he would devote himself fully to Shuah, giving her his whole heart.

And then his heart expanded when Shuah bore children—first Er, then Onan, then Shelah.

One afternoon, Er and Onan played on the floor of their tent. A warm breeze tousled Shuah’s hair as she held baby Shelah.

These four, thought Judah. They mean everything to me.

Shuah seemed to sense his thoughts, as she always did.

“I can’t imagine losing any of them,” she said. “How your father must feel, to lose a son. No wonder he is still broken by your brother’s death.”

Judah joined his sons on the floor, helping them play with their carved wooden goats. Perhaps, thought Judah, Joseph is still alive, working somewhere for the Midianites. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps I have not done the unimaginable.

VI.

Sometimes, when visiting Canaanite cities, Judah saw slaves. Judah always looked for Joseph’s face. He would sell his best livestock to bring his brother back.

But he never found Joseph.

Once, in Shechem, Judah watched in horror as a slave died. Whip lashes covered the man’s back. His ribs were visible beneath his skin, his face sallow. He was young, but he looked old.

So often—so very often—the slaves were mistreated. They expended their lives in bursts. Flames of potential put out so quickly, so soon.

Why do I pretend that Joseph could still be alive? thought Judah. We all know he is dead.

And Judah awaited the punishment that would come from God, as swift and as sure as a desert storm.

VII.

Er’s death was not Judah’s fault. Er was a grown man and had made his own choices. The signs were clear: God had struck down Er for his personal wickedness.

But as Judah wept by his son’s body, he could not help but wonder: What could I have done differently? Is there more I could have taught? Could I have been a better example?

Maybe not, Judah concluded. Maybe not after what I did to Joseph.

Judah’s loss was an endless pit. If you threw in a stone, it would fall for minutes, hours, days, and it might never reach the bottom.

But Er’s death was not the end. Er left a young widow, Tamar, and since Er had not given Tamar seed, Judah’s second son, Onan, was obligated to do so.

Onan acted as if he would do his duty to Tamar, but did not.

He too was struck down by God.

Once again, Judah wept at the body of his son.

Why would God do such a thing?

Just yesterday evening, Onan’s eyes had sparkled by the light of a lantern as he told a funny story about goats scaring a camel. And now his skin was cold, his eyes unseeing.

Why? Judah asked God, but he heard no response. After all, what could one hear from the bottom of a pit? Just your own labored breathing. Just your own unheard yells for help.

It was not fair, but Judah had poured out unfairness on his own brother, so he could not complain.

The next week, Tamar came to Judah, uncertain. If she had seed, she would have a permanent place in the household. Judah felt for her, but Judah did not want to give Shelah to her. Shelah was the only son he had left.

“Shelah is not of age,” said Judah. “Go, return to your father’s house and live as a widow until the time comes.”

Tamar was not happy with the arrangement, but Judah could not help but blame her for the loss of his sons. He did not want to see her every day in his household.

Besides, he did not know if he actually planned to force Shelah to do his duty to Tamar.

What if God struck down Shelah as well?

Judah could not survive another loss.

VIII.

Another loss.

This time his darling wife Shuah.

Shuah, Judah’s everything and all.

Gone.

IX.

Was it immoral to indulge in an afternoon with a harlot?

Yes.

Did it dull the pain of his losses?

No.

If Judah was going to visit a harlot, should he have gone home and gotten the baby goat for payment first, rather than giving up his staff, his signet, and his bracelets as a pledge?

Yes. But if he had done that, it would have given him time to think and he would never have gone through with it.

Was it a problem that now he couldn’t find the harlot to pay her?

Yes.

Was it a problem that everyone said that this harlot did not exist?

Yes.

Did he know what the harlot looked like?

Of course not. She’d kept her face covered with a harlot’s veil.

Did he need his staff, his signet, and his bracelets back?

Also yes. It had been three months, and only God knew if he’d ever get them back at this point.

It was a bad situation all around, and then Judah heard about the scandal.

His daughter-in-law, Tamar, was pregnant. Out of wedlock. It was a shame to the entire extended family. And since she was officially part of his household, it was his problem.

Now, per the law, it was up to Judah to have his daughter-in-law burnt.

He was not looking forward to this. He liked Tamar. She was a good girl, and a good wife to Er, even though Er had been a bad husband.

“Bring her to me,” said Judah with a sigh. “And she will be burnt.”

They brought Tamar to him. The burning couldn’t happen immediately—they needed to have a conversation first. He’d prepared what he planned to say, questions and admonishments, farewells and justifications. But immediately Tamar forced everything off script.

With a defiance he did not expect of a Canaanite woman, Tamar jutted up her chin and thrust forward a large cloth-wrapped bundle.

“I’m sure you want to know who the father is,” she said. “Well, you can see for yourself. The man gave me his signet, his staff, and his bracelets. Do you happen to know who they belong to?”

Dread sinking in his stomach, Judah opened the bundle and found his missing items.

The situation was suddenly much more awkward. Not meeting Tamar’s eyes, Judah twiddled with one of his bracelets. He suspected God was watching from the heavens, laughing at the cosmic irony.

Judah tried to find something to say, but struggled.

He certainly couldn’t burn Tamar when it was his own fault. He’d have to tell everyone that he was the father. His brothers would mock him for weeks, and his own father—well, there would be disappointment and disapproval. Hopefully this didn’t become part of the permanent family record, but with his father’s emphasis on record keeping . . . well, it probably would. People would be talking about this for decades, maybe even centuries.

On the positive side, at least he had his missing items back.

After a few minutes, he finally managed a single word.

“Why?”

“Shelah has been of age for an entire year, yet you did not send for me. My marriage contract was clear about what you and your sons owe me: posterity. A place in your household. The ability to worship your God and be part of your family.”

“I put you in a precarious situation by sending you to your parents,” admitted Judah.

“Yes,” Tamar agreed. “I decided that if you were not going to act to fulfill the contract, I would see it fulfilled.”

“You have been more righteous than I have,” said Judah wryly.

In good news, his action was no longer immoral. However, the intentions of his heart—which an all-seeing God could see—had been.

Judah picked up his signet and slid it onto his finger. “Well, welcome back to the family.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Assuming the baby is born healthy and strong, will you consider my contribution of seed sufficient for our contract?”

“Yes,” said Tamar, her cheeks reddening. “I am not interested in doing that with you ever again.”

Judah felt his own cheeks burn. “Good. Good. Well, that’s settled then.”

Six months later, Tamar gave birth not to a single child, but to twin boys. Judah and Tamar named them Pharez and Zarah.

Once again, Judah’s heart grew. He loved his infant sons with everything he possessed.

They did not replace the sons he had lost, and in no way did Tamar replace his dear Shuah. He still felt the pain and the sorrow. But a bit of light made its way to the bottom of the pit. Maybe God saw Judah with some kindness, after all.

X.

Never before had Judah known hunger.

Worse than the gnawing in his own stomach was watching the pains of his adult son, Shelah, his just-barely-walking sons, Pharez and Zarah, and his daughter-in-law Tamar.

He gave most of the remaining food to Tamar, for if she did not eat, how could she give their sons suck?

Months passed, but still the famine continued.

Perhaps this is our punishment for what we did to Joseph, thought Judah. All of us brothers, slowly starving together.

Word came that there was food in Egypt, and his father instructed Judah and nine of his brothers to travel and purchase supplies for their families. Father would not send Benjamin—“Something could harm him!”—though he was willing to risk any of the rest of them. Decades ago, Judah would have begrudged his father this favoritism, but now that Judah had lost his wife and two sons, he thought he understood.

Still, Judah hesitated to take the trip. Pharez and Zarah were still so very small.

“Go,” Tamar told Judah. “I will take care of things while you are gone.”

And so Judah went. As they made the long journey, Judah wondered why God would help the Egyptians through the famine, but not his covenant people in Canaan.

Their arrival in Egypt was like any arrival in a strange land where one did not speak the language: confusions, misdirections, misunderstandings, and the overwhelm of new sights and people and sounds. Also, Egyptian men and women wore very little clothing compared to the Canaanites. But even if they were light on clothing, none of the Egyptians appeared to be light on food.

An Egyptian guard seemed to follow them through the city, but there was not much they could do about that. Judah remembered that his great-grandfather, Abraham, had had run-ins with the Egyptians. Hopefully Egypt did not have a long memory.

Eventually, Judah and his brothers learned that in addition to a pharaoh, Egypt had a governor. Anyone wishing to purchase Egyptian grain had to make the request directly to him.

They stood in line outside of a palace for several hours, waiting. The ten brothers stayed relatively silent—many people watched them now. Judah studied the strange carvings outside the building—carvings of animals, of gods, and of men. There was nothing like this grandeur or artistry in any of the cities he had visited, and his family’s tents—well, sometimes it was best not to make comparisons.

Then, when it was finally their turn, they were let in to a large entrance hall, with pillars that felt as tall as mountains.

They approached the elaborately carved throne where the governor sat. His face was chiseled like the statues in the city, his skin was a golden bronze, and he wore an elaborate headdress made of fabric and gold. This was a man who, on a whim, could save or skewer them.

When they were about twenty feet before the governor, a man at the side of the room hissed in Hebrew, “Kneel if you value your life.” Judah was impressed that they had their interpreters ready for anyone—these Egyptians were observant and prepared.

Judah and his brothers kneeled on the hard stone—not just an ordinary kneel, but with their faces touching the ground. There was a slight residue of sand from the shoes of those who had petitioned previously, and it itched at Judah’s nose. But if he had to prostrate himself before a foreign ruler to gain food for those he loved, he would do it.

“Do not raise your faces, unless you are instructed to do so,” instructed the translator.

Sandals thumped against the stone. The governor had descended and now walked in a slow circle around them.

He said something in Egyptian, gruffly.

“Where are you from?” asked the interpreter.

“We come from Canaan, Lord, to buy food for our family,” said Reuben.

The interpreter translated Reuben’s words.

“I don’t believe it.” The translator matched the governor’s gruffness. “You are spies, come to see the nakedness of our land, to analyze our fortifications, to bring your own ruler down upon us.”

“No, we are not spies. We are brothers,” said Simeon.

“Ten brothers?” said the governor. “That seems unlikely. Have you other family?”

Even with the pause for translation, the governor seemed shrewd. He was the type of person who could draw everything from you, see all of your lies, see all of Egypt at once.

“We have a father, of course,” said Reuben.

“You are all grown. Your father must be quite old. Is he still alive?” This the governor asked with a bit less harshness.

“Yes, alive and well,” said Reuben. “But hungry.”

“I still do not believe you,” said the governor. “Ten brothers—it would be an unlucky number. A man would be better to have more or less, but not ten.”

“We are ten before you,” volunteered Judah, speaking into the earth. “But we are twelve brothers. One was lost, many years ago. The youngest stays with our father.”

The governor laughed. “What an unconvincing lie.” And then he raised his voice, and it seemed to shake not just the building, but all of Egypt. “I was right—you are spies.”

“We tell the truth, my lord,” said Simeon.

“Then prove your story. One of you can go and fetch your youngest brother. Only then will I believe you.”

The ten brothers stole glances at each other. Their father would never let Benjamin go.

“We can’t do that,” said Simeon.

Before they knew it, they were swarmed by Egyptian guards and thrown into prison.

Conditions in the prison were better than they could have been. They shared a large room. They were fed well, and given plenty of water to drink. But it was still a prison. And there was always someone watching and listening.

Judah talked a little with his brothers, and he prayed with them, but most of the time, he thought of his family. His wife Shuah. His lost sons. The three sons that remained. Tamar. His mother Leah. His father. His half-brother Benjamin. He tried to remember his brother Joseph’s face, but it flitted from his memory, replaced by images of Egyptians: the guards, the prison warden, the translator, the governor.

Why can I not even remember my brother’s face?

After three days they were brought again before the governor. They still knelt, but this time the interpreter instructed them to raise their faces so the governor could see them.

“I am a God-fearing man,” said the governor through his interpreter, his voice measured. “If you tell the truth, then your families are hungry. I will allow you to purchase food for a time. I will send back nine of you, with the food, and keep one of you here. Then, you will return with your youngest brother. That is how you will prove that you are not spies. That is how you will get more food.”

The brothers looked at each other. Nine of them returning to Canaan was much better than only one. But would their father agree to send back Benjamin?

“Or, if you are spies, by the word of Pharaoh you shall die,” said the governor casually, as if he were discussing the night’s dinner. “You may discuss with each other and make your decision.”

The governor sat on his throne and sent the interpreter away, giving them a bit of privacy.

“We must accept the governor’s offer,” said Simeon. “We have no other choice.”

They all agreed.

“One of us doesn’t get to go home,” said Judah, thinking of his children.

No one volunteered for further imprisonment in Egypt. “We brought this on ourselves,” one brother said. “This is our fault,” the others agreed. “God’s justice, for how we treated Joseph.” “He pled with us from the pit, and we did not listen.” “We should never have done it.”

“I told you we shouldn’t harm the boy,” said Reuben. “Now God holds his blood against us.”

The governor left, and Judah worried that something even worse would befall them.

A few minutes later, the governor returned with his interpreter. “Have you chosen a brother to remain?”

They shook their heads.

“Then I will do so.”

The governor’s eyes lingered on Judah’s for a moment, but then he pointed at Simeon.

“You. I will keep you.”

Judah was flooded with relief that he had not been chosen, followed shortly by guilt at his relief. His brother—his full brother—would remain trapped in Egypt so the rest of them could go free.

Things got worse after they began their journey home. At the first inn, they discovered their money in their bags of food. The governor was already suspicious, and now they had paid him nothing for their food.

When they made it back to Canaan, their families shouted with joy at their wealth of grain. But then they learned of Simeon’s fate.

Simeon’s wife and children were inconsolable. Judah and Simeon’s mother, Leah, collapsed on the ground, tearing out her hair.

Father wept bitterly. “Now I have lost two of my sons. I am undone.”

Judah had only seen his father this broken once before: when he had lost Joseph.

Maybe the rest of the brothers mattered, after all.

XI.

“Please, Father, we’re dying,” said Shelah. Judah’s grown son—the only remaining son who had been born by his dear Shuah—could barely stand, barely walk.

“There’s nothing I can do,” said Judah. “If we return to Egypt without Benjamin, the governor will kill us. And my father will not let Benjamin go, no matter what arguments my brothers make.”

Tamar tried to console their children—their children who were now almost three—holding them both in her lap, but they would not be consoled.

“We believe in you, Judah,” said Tamar over their children’s wails. “Turn to God, and He will provide a way.”

Yet Judah had already prayed. Judah already knew what it seemed God wanted him to do.

“What if God expects too much?” asked Judah, raising his voice above the din. “What if the cost is too high?”

The young boys quieted for a moment.

Tamar spoke into the stillness. “Then you must decide who you are, and who you want to be.”

XII.

As they made the weary journey to Egypt, Judah watched over Benjamin the same way you would watch a toddler who at any moment might both find and fall off a cliff. There were so many dangers on the road: bandits and slave traders. And so many more dangers in Egypt.

Benjamin seemed unaware of the danger. Or maybe just unafraid. He was grown, and had children of his own, but still their father treated him like a child. They all did, in a way.

Could Judah actually give up everything for Benjamin? For his half-brother?

He had given up a brother to get rid of an annoyance in his life. It had been so easy. And it had not made his life any better.

Now, Judah had promised his father his own life for that of Benjamin. Judah had committed that Benjamin would return home, even if he had to sacrifice his own life to make it possible.

Judah was afraid he could not do it, that he would not do it, should the need arise. And so he worried and watched, watched and worried.

As soon as they entered the borders of Egypt, they were joined by Egyptian guards, and as soon as they entered the borders of the city, they were greeted by the same interpreter as before, with a message from the governor inviting them to eat dinner at his home.

It sounded more like an invitation to a private slaughter than to a feast. But they were in no position to turn it down.

As they waited in the governor’s mansion, Judah stayed as close to Benjamin as he could. They had brought double the coin, gifts from Canaan, and Benjamin. But would it be enough?

After a long time, Simeon was led in. They each embraced him.

“How were you treated?” asked Judah.

“I can’t complain,” said Simeon, then looked at the ground. “I started to think that you wouldn’t come for me.”

“Of course we came,” said Judah. But it had been a near thing. If they hadn’t come, Simeon would have died in prison. Of course, he still might—they all could die.

Finally, the governor entered. They prostrated themselves on the floor.

“Stand,” said the governor through his interpreter. “You are my guests, in my home, and I want you to feel welcome.”

He led them into a room where they were to eat. In any other circumstance, Judah would have felt welcome: the cushions, the food, the gold goblets, the music.

But all Judah could feel was a trap closing tight, especially when the governor asked after their father, especially as the governor talked and talked to Benjamin, and especially as the Egyptians gave Benjamin a double portion of the meal.

The question was this: had the governor set the trap, or had God?

Judah only managed to eat a few bites.

Finally, dinner ended. Finally, they negotiated for more food for their families. Finally, the governor’s servants loaded them with supplies for their families. Finally, they left the city. Only then did Judah breathe easily.

But then, a sound.

Soldiers.

They were surrounded.

Accused of stealing the governor’s goblet.

“If one of us brothers stole the goblet,” they said, “then that brother will die. And the rest of us will serve the governor as his servants.” For surely none of them would have done such a thing, not with so much at stake.

The steward opened their sacks, one by one, starting with the oldest and moving to the youngest. With each sack, Judah’s dread increased.

And then, Benjamin’s sack.

At the top: the goblet.

Benjamin’s face was overcome by surprise and horror.

Judah ripped his clothes, Reuben ripped his clothes—they all ripped their clothes, for if any moment deserved it, it was this one.

They returned to the house of the governor and fell, as one, on the ground before him.

“What have you done to me?” asked the governor through the translator, his anger like the crack of thunder. “I, who have done only good to you.”

Judah raised his head, stood, and stepped forward.

Now that the moment had come, he had no hesitation. He was doing this for Benjamin. He was doing this for his father. For his sons. For Tamar. He was doing this for himself—so he could be at peace with his soul. He was doing this for Joseph, what he should have done many years ago.

“There’s nothing we can say or do to fix this,” said Judah. “There’s nothing we can do to clear our names. For this is the judgment of God, for our past sins. And so we will be thy servants, to atone for all our wrongs. But please, whatever you decide to do, don’t kill Benjamin.”

It took a minute, but the interpreter translated Judah’s words.

“You’re right,” said the governor. “Why inflict death? Servants are much more useful than dead men.” The governor let his eyes wander across them, before resting again on Judah. “But why should you suffer for the acts of your brother? I will take only the youngest, he who has wronged me. The rest of you can go home to your father.”

Ignoring the guards, ignoring the peril, Judah stepped closer to the governor. “Please, my lord. I know you have all the power of Pharaoh, but I must ask more of you.”

The governor was silent, and Judah took his silence as permission.

And so, at first slowly, but then in a rush, Judah told their story, the story of their family. Their father and his four wives; the twelve brothers; how their father had favored Joseph and Benjamin; how, in jealousy, they had turned against Joseph.

“Because of our actions, that brother was lost. He must be dead now. And that is our fault—our great sin. Because of us, Benjamin is all our father has left of his wife Rachel. Our father’s life is entwined with his, wrapped together like two strands of a single rope. If Benjamin does not return, then he will die. I know it to be true.

“But we need the food—our families are starving. So I promised my father that if it came to it, I would give my life for Benjamin’s, so that Benjamin could return. And that is what I do today.”

Judah knelt before the governor, bowing his head. This is who I am, he thought. Not my past mistakes. Not my regrets and failings. But this: A man who would climb into the pit for his brother.

“Please, my lord,” said Judah. “I plead of you. Take me as a servant instead. Let Benjamin go back with the others to my father, so my father may live.”

There was silence after the interpreter finished with Judah’s words. With a gesture, the governor sent away the interpreter, and the steward, and the guards, and all the others, until only the governor and the eleven brothers remained.

The governor began to cry.

Judah looked back at his brothers, but they seemed as confused as him.

“I am Joseph,” the governor said in perfect Hebrew.

Judah shook his head. The governor spoke in Hebrew, but Judah could not understand him.

“I am your brother Joseph,” said the governor. “You sold me to the Midianites, and they brought me to Egypt. I am your brother.”

Judah blinked rapidly. Joseph? Could it be? It was impossible.

Yet as Judah looked past the bronzed skin and the Egyptian clothing, he could see his brother’s face. He looked like Benjamin, but older and with deep creases in his face, tired eyes, and a scar beneath his ear. Oh, the suffering that Joseph must have seen.

“Don’t be upset,” said Joseph. “Don’t be sad. Don’t be angry with yourselves any longer for selling me as a slave. It was God who sent me here, to Egypt, so that I could save your lives. You’ve seen two years of famine, but there will be five more, and without me, being here, in this position, all of our families would die.

“This is God’s great deliverance. God sent me here. God made me like a father to Pharaoh. God made me lord of Pharaoh’s house and a ruler throughout the land.”

Could it be possible? wondered Judah. Could God have taken our evil—such a great evil—and turned it into a force for good?

“Brother, my brother,” whispered Benjamin, stepping forward.

Joseph and Benjamin embraced, their tears running down each other like rain in the promised land.

When they stepped apart, Joseph wiped tears from his eyes. “I want you to send for our father, and all your families. All of you must come, and I will nourish you in Egypt.”

“Thank you,” said Benjamin. “Thank you.” And all the brothers added their thanks. If Joseph meant it, they were saved.

Joseph embraced one brother after another, until Judah was the only one left.

Judah wanted to embrace Joseph, but he was afraid. The last time he had touched Joseph was decades before, when he had gripped Joseph’s arms and pulled him from the pit. But Judah had not steadied Joseph; he had not wiped the dirt from his face; he had not offered him water. Instead, Judah had shoved Joseph into the arms of the Midianites.

“No matter how much I apologize,” said Judah, “it will never be enough.”

“Judah, my dear Judah,” said Joseph, and then Joseph pulled him close.

In Joseph’s embrace, Judah felt no animosity. He felt no anger, no bitterness, no resentment. He felt only love from his brother.

How could this be possible?

As they stood, their arms tight around each other, Judah’s tears mixed with Joseph’s. And as they stood there, in a land far from their own, the walls of the pit crumbled, collapsing until they stood on solid ground.

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Katherine Cowley is the Mary Higgins Clark Award nominated author of The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet. She has also published two other novels and numerous short stories and essays. Her LDS-themed works have appeared in Irreantum, Segullah, Dialogue, the Mormon Lit Blitz, and Wayfare. She lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan with her husband and three daughters.

Art by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner.

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The daylight clawing down through the branches was slowly dying. In its place, a growing breeze scraped through the trees, too cold for this time of year.

Aasim Beaver sat on his haunches, his wide tail tapping the ground. This new wind didn’t carry the smell of cedars or date palms. It smelled of danger and darkness.

It smelled of death.

His tail tapped faster. They should all be in their homes, preparing for whatever was coming. Not gathered like fools discussing the health of local mushroom colonies or squabbling over territories. But Nahar loved these little gatherings, and now that she was pregnant, he wouldn’t let her come alone. He would protect his family at all costs.

He could not fail again.

Nahar rested her tail gently, but firmly, atop his to still it and urged his gaze back to the gnarled stump in the center of the crowd of animals. A wizened brown hare with a half-severed ear ended his rant with a thump of his hind leg, then hopped off the stump.

A mongoose—this season’s community chair-mammal, according to Nahar—scurried atop the stump in his place.

“Thank you,” she squeaked, “for that important reminder that scent markers make good neighbors. Remember to mark what’s yours and respect what’s not.” A tendril of icy air rushed past her, and she shivered. “If there’s no further business—”

“What of my parents?” a deep voice asked from beyond the circle of gathered creatures. Two sharp, ridged horns pierced the lengthening shadows as an adolescent gazelle stepped forward.

“That’s the boy I told you about,” Nahar whispered to Aasim. “He called on the council last week for help finding his parents. They disappeared one night and haven’t returned. He’s busy caring for his younger sisters, poor dear. Otherwise he’d go looking himself.”

The mongoose wouldn’t meet the gazelle’s eyes. “Yes, um . . . you see . . .”

“Won’t be no search,” the wizened hare grumbled. All ears flicked toward him. The mongoose shot him a disapproving look, which he met with a defiant thump.

“Boy’s grown. He don’t need hoof holdin’. He needs the truth.” He turned to the gazelle. “Wolves got your folks. That’s the sorry truth. Makes no sense riskin’ our lives to look for bones. It’s best you move on.”

The gazelle reared and struck his hooves into the forest floor as his voice charged through the night. “It wasn’t wolves!”

Aasim grabbed Nahar’s paw to pull her away. He wouldn’t risk her being around if a fight broke out.

Directly overhead, a branch snapped. Every creature stilled, eyes and ears searching, assessing.

More branches shuddered, drawing closer. Aasim tugged at Nahar, but she resisted and pointed at a giant heron hopping down towards the clearing. “It’s only Traveler.”

Nahar often mentioned the news-bringing bird, claiming he was harmless. Aasim didn’t trust outsiders, however. Especially those with snake-like necks and beaks as sharp as human spears.

The heron perched on the lowest branch, looming over them. “The boy is right. Wolves are not behind these disappearances.”

“These?” The mongoose quivered atop the stump. “There have been more?”

Traveler bobbed his head. “Two water buffalo a day’s flight from here, brother and sister. And a pair of owls, too. There’s never blood, no sign of struggle, no saying good-bye.”

“What happened to them?” the gazelle asked.

“Not what. Who.” The heron leapt from his branch to the center of their gathering and lowered his voice. “The Double-Snatcher.”

All the animals cowered slightly. The heron stalked his way around his audience on spindly legs, wings spreading dramatically as he spoke.

“He doesn’t hunt. He doesn’t trap. He doesn’t use anything except . . . magic!” A stick shot up, clutched in his talons. Those closest to him flinched. He smiled as he tucked the thin branch under his wing and continued prowling. “His staff has the power to snatch control of your very mind. Under his spell, you’ll leave all that you love to slither, walk, or fly straight to him. And what does he do once you arrive?”

Not even Aasim breathed during the suspended silence.

“He feeds you to a ravenous beast!” The heron snapped his beak at an unsuspecting hedgehog and reveled in the resulting squeaks and startled squeals. “In all my travels, I’ve never seen its likeness. A true leviathan of the land that could cross your river in a single stride.” Nahar huddled closer to Aasim as the heron continued. “It crouches on its many legs outside a human colony, demanding to be fed. Beneath its row of unnatural eyes is a gaping mouth that never shuts. The beast swallows animals whole and doesn’t bother spitting out the bones.”

Beside Aasim, Nahar trembled. The last of the sunlight drained from the forest, and the heron’s beady eyes glinted in the shadowy night. This bird clearly enjoyed the power his stories had, and Aasim was done letting Nahar be terrorized by them. He pulled her away, and she came without protest.

As they headed for the river, she crept beside him, searching the shadows on either side of their path.

“It was only a full-moon tale,” he assured her. “The kind you tell young kits so they’ll stay close to the lodge. There is no mind-snatching man.”

“But Traveler saw him.”

“Traveler saw a gullible audience. He’s a performer. Don’t let him get under your fur.”

“The gazelles did disappear though. And there wasn’t any blood.”

“No blood where they were last seen,” he corrected. “They wandered from the safety of their home, and I’m sure wherever they were caught, there were signs of wolves or humans.” He eyed her seriously. “Regular, non-magic humans that our lodge protects us from.”

They emerged from the meager shelter of the trees, and the icy wind raked across them unrestrained. It clawed the normally smooth surface of their dammed-off pond, disfiguring the reflected face of the full-moon into a ragged skull.

Aasim shivered. The wind would only get stronger as the night wore on. The Double-Snatcher might not be real, but the danger of this storm was.

Nahar paused at the water’s edge. Her paws fretted over each other. Aasim stilled them with his own and raised his voice to be heard over the rising gusts. “I will keep you safe.” He stared meaningfully at her belly. “All of you.”

She nodded, then slid into the pond, letting its inky waters consume her.

Aasim followed her down to the watery entrance and up into the tunnel that led to the dry chambers of their lodge. They’d come home just in time. Beyond the vent hole at the top of their main chamber, the wind rushed faster and faster as if trying to escape something close on its heels.

Outside, wind-whipped debris pelted the wood and mud walls of their lodge. “They’ll hold,” Aasim said, nestling beside Nahar.

He reassured himself of everything he’d done to make this new lodge thicker and stronger than their last, yet this wind was like none he’d ever seen. It gnashed and tore at their roof. Chunks of mud ripped free around the vent hole, and the tightly woven sticks across the opening began to rattle. Nahar buried her head against him, whimpering.

The wind howled, vicious and hungry, devouring pieces of their home above them. All Aasim could do was hold Nahar and fight back memories of teeth and growls and other howls—of frantic cries and blood-stained dirt and scattered tufts of newborn fur.

The wind attacked for hours. When it left, their roof bore a gaping wound, and the vast uncertainty of the night bled in. Thick clouds now dammed the once moonlit sky.

Aasim sniffed tentatively. The air was heavy with the smell of coming rain. “We won’t have long to make repairs. A day or two at most. I need to get started.”

“Now?” Nahar followed him to the exit tunnel. “It’s too dark. You haven’t slept.”

“I’ll sleep once I know the lodge is fixed and you’ll be safe.”

“Let me help.”

Aasim rested his paw on her swollen belly. “The kits need you to rest. The sun will rise in a few hours, and I’ll have worked up an appetite by then. I’ll come home, and we’ll eat together.”

“I could make cattail soup,” she offered.

“I don’t want you leaving the lodge.” He motioned to their stockpile of tubers. “We have plenty to eat already.”

The water level in the exit tunnel looked lower than before; their pond was slowly draining. Part of the dam must have been weakened as well. That would have to be his first repair.

“If I’m not back by breakfast, I will be by midday,” he said. “No matter what, promise me you won’t leave the lodge?”

She nodded, and he slid into the watery black.

Aasim had been right about the dam; the wind had left a bite in it, and the draining water was slowly eroding and enlarging the hole. He patched it easily enough with mud and branches, careful not to thump too loudly—Nahar needed her rest.

Repairs weren’t enough, though. If the clouds overhead proved as vicious as the wind that brought them, the rain might raise the river. He needed to make their dam taller, stronger. He had to keep Nahar safe.

Aasim made his way into the forest, the branches overhead nothing more than dark scratches against an already black world. He moved as quietly as he could, straining in the dark for the right size tree.

He found one that might work, and paced around it. It was thicker than he needed but perhaps he could use it to reinforce—

To his right, the underbrush rustled. Aasim froze, fur bristled. His heart thumped louder than his tail ever had, but he couldn’t see anything. Nothing smelled out of place.

When nothing attacked, Aasim began gnawing the tree. He ignored the prickling at the base of his fur every time he heard the forest shift. If he was going to reinforce the whole length of the dam and make it even higher, he would need a lot of trees. He didn’t have time to waste on fear.

The sun had been trapped behind the wall of clouds for hours before Aasim patted the last bit of mud atop the fortified dam. He’d spent all night and morning felling trees, floating them downriver, and fixing them in place. Thankfully, Nahar had slept through it all. He couldn’t let her sleep any longer though.

“I’ve stabilized the pond,” he called from atop his massive dam. “I’ll gather the branches to fix the roof if you want to start preparing the tubers. I’ll do the repairs after we eat.”

Only the rushing of the river replied.

His voice should have carried through the torn roof. She should have heard him, even in the sleeping chamber. Fear gnawed his belly, but he shook it off like water. They’d had a traumatic night. Nahar was probably too deeply asleep.

Aasim walked across the top of the dam to the riverbank. She was fine. She’d promised to stay in the lodge, and there’d been no signs of predators. If she was still sleeping, he should let her keep sleeping.

And he would. After he checked on her.

He dove into the pond and swam up the tunnel to the main chamber, now flooded with the dim gray of day. He wouldn’t even have to wake her. One quick peek to make sure she was fine, and then he’d—

The sleeping chamber was empty.

“Nahar?”

He checked the back tunnel and rechecked the main chamber and sleeping chamber.

Empty.

Empty.

Empty.

He scurried down the tunnel and back onto shore. “Nahar!”

He called her over and over, louder and longer until his voice was raw.

She never called back.

He ran downriver toward the cattails. Maybe she’d gone to gather ingredients, even though he’d told her not too.

The cattails were empty, though. Deep down, he’d known they would be. Something as simple as soup would never make Nahar break her promise.

But the Double-Snatcher might.

The thought snaked its way into his mind, and he tried to fight it back. There had to be a logical explanation. Magic and mind-snatching weren’t real. The Double-Snatcher couldn’t be real. Even if he was, he took creatures two at a time. Nahar had been alone.

Aasim followed the river downstream, sniffing for clues and calling her name. Impossibly, the wall of clouds in the sky thickened and darkened with more and more clouds until it seemed it would burst. Aasim reached the scent mound marking the end of their territory without so much as a trace of her. However, he hadn’t caught scent of a predator either. That was good. She was probably upriver somewhere. He’d cross to the other bank and work his way toward their upper boundary.

He was halfway across the river when a wail rose above the water’s rumbling. The cry was farther downstream, but there was no mistaking it—a beaver was in distress.

He launched himself downstream, swimming with the current as fast as he could, ignoring his neighbor’s scent mounds as he entered their territory. The cries and moans grew louder, separating into two distinct voices. Neither were Nahar’s.

Around the bend, an impressive lodge rose into view. It had fared the storm better than his own.

“Berosh!” a male beaver called above the distraught wails of the female beside him. “Berosh!”

Aasim exited the river just above their pond. The male stepped protectively in front of the female, slapped his broad tail on the water, and bared his sharp, orange incisors.

“I don’t mean to trespass.” Aasim kept himself at a safe distance, front paws in the air. “I heard crying.”

“Our son.” The female stifled her sobs. “We were all sleeping in the lodge, but when we woke this morning, he was gone. It’s been hours.”

“He’s two,” the father said reluctantly. “It is possible he went searching for a wife and place of his own.”

His wife slapped her tail atop his. “You know he’d never leave without saying good-bye!”

Aasim steadied himself on all fours as the earth started to spin around him like a whirlpool. Two beavers mysteriously gone. No signs of blood.

“Have you seen or heard anything?” the mother asked.

“No.” Aasim’s voice came out as weak as his limbs. “My wife . . .”

“She saw something?”

He shook his head. “She’s missing too.”

The mother wailed anew—a loud, soul-scraping sound—and the urge to join her nearly consumed Aasim. But either Nahar was fine, or she needed his help. Either way, crying wouldn’t do any good. He met the father’s eyes. “I’ll keep an eye out for your son.”

The father nodded with a look that promised to do the same for Nahar, but there was no hope in his eyes, only the familiar sorrow of a father now childless—a sorrow Aasim wasn’t ready to face again.

Nahar and their unborn kits had to be okay.

He had to keep hoping.

He had to find Traveler.

She’ll be dead before you get there.

That’s what the heron had said—once his laughter died—when Aasim asked where to find the Double-Snatcher. He’d finally given Aasim directions though.

A day’s flight with the sun to your left.

Aasim didn’t know how many days of walking equaled one day of flying, but so far it was more than five—if he was going in the right direction. It was hard to keep something on your left that you couldn’t even see. Gray clouds smothered the world around him. They should have burst days ago but continued to darken. The air was heavy enough to drown in. Beneath him, the earth was hard and cracked with only a few stubborn shrubs daring to grow amongst the dirt and rocks.

By the time he’d found the heron and gotten directions, Nahar had already been gone half a day. He’d run for hours, hoping to catch up. Running became walking. Walking became dragging. At times he thought he caught her scent—the increased humidity should have made it easy. But it was so faint and fleeting, he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it. Now his legs threatened to collapse like chewed trees, and he stopped to rest again.

The further from the lodge he trekked, the more foolish he felt. Did he really believe a magic human had snatched control of Nahar’s mind? What if she’d only wandered to the other side of the forest, perhaps to help those orphaned gazelles? What if she came home to find him gone?

Aasim had done his best to avoid any sign of animal life for fear of predators, but if the Double-Snatcher was real and anywhere nearby, the animals of the area would surely know.

In the distance, the tops of hills peeked over the horizon. If he pushed himself, he could get there in a few hours. The elevated view would help him scout out an area most likely to have local animal life, and if whoever he found hadn’t heard of the Double-Snatcher, he’d go home.

The idea to turn back ate at him as he dragged himself forward, but what else could he do? He would give his life for Nahar, but what if he died here, chasing a full-moon fable and she was somewhere else, scared and alone? What if every step he took was one step further away from her?

The hills loomed larger, speckled with what looked like rocks. No, not rocks. Tree stumps. Not a single tree remained standing on the hills.

Only one thing in all of nature destroyed a forest in that way.

Aasim ran with renewed energy. He reached a hill the height of four grown trees and wove between its stumps until he crested the top. A tangled mass of human buildings sprawled into view.

And at the base of the hill crouched the beast.

Aasim ducked behind a stump and peered cautiously around it. Traveler’s description had been right, but the beast was even worse than Aasim had imagined. Multiple straight legs angled away unnaturally from the beast’s wide belly. Its hide was the color of bark-stripped trees, and it had no tail or nose. On what he’d assumed was its flank but must have been its face, a row of black, sharp-cornered eyes stared unblinking above a gaping, cavernous mouth with its wide brown tongue protruding to the ground.

Humans bustled beside the beast, their thin colorful skins flapping in the gradually growing wind. Aasim counted six of them, all adding strange human items to growing piles. Human scent mounds, perhaps? To keep the beast from entering the city?

There were animals too—snakes, camels, owls. A pair of lions made the nearby herd of sheep bleat nervously, their collective sound the only one that reached Aasim atop the hill. The lions didn’t look interested however, and as a seventh human appeared from behind the beast, Aasim saw why.

The man was tall with a patch of long gray fur beneath his face, and in his paw was a crooked staff. He pointed it at the lions, then the beast. The humid air grew cold as Aasim watched the lions stroll onto the tongue of the beast and disappear in the abyss of its mouth.

The Double-Snatcher pointed his staff at one of the humans’ growing mounds. Two brown shapes emerged from behind it, their flat wide tails unmistakable even at this distance.

Nahar!

Aasim’s heart leapt to his throat. Nahar headed for the beast with a younger beaver at her side. Aasim darted toward her, but the hill sloped treacherously under his already weak legs. She stepped onto the tongue. His sides heaved with every breath. He wouldn’t reach her in time.

“Nahar!” he cried, his voice still too far to be heard. “Nahar!”

She kept walking up into the waiting mouth of the beast until it swallowed her completely.

Aasim skidded to a stop halfway down the hill. His eyes clamped shut, unable to bear the sight of a world without Nahar.

He had failed her. She and their unborn kits were gone.

He thumped his tail against the earth. He thumped again, harder. He continued thumping until he was railing against the ground as if he could transfer his pain to it. The cold despair within him melted as the heat of his wrath took hold. His eyes snapped open.

He wouldn’t go home. There was no home without Nahar. He had to avenge her and his children that would never be. He would chew through the Double-Snatcher’s staff and destroy the source of his power; no more families would be torn apart this way. Then he would attack the humans. He would bite and scratch as many as he could until he joined Nahar in death.

Aasim resumed his downward path with the focused calm of purpose. The humans continued building their mounds near the mouth of the beast. He’d have to sneak around its backside and attack the Double-Snatcher and his staff from behind.

The Double-Snatcher pointed his staff at the camels, and they plodded toward their doom. As they climbed the tongue, a human exited the mouth and—

Aasim froze. There was an eighth human, and it was in the beast’s mouth. More than that, it had come out of the beast’s mouth. Aasim’s heart threatened to burst from his chest. If it had survived, maybe Nahar had too.

Aasim crept forward, studying the strange beast more intently. It lay so still, it didn’t even seem to breathe.

He gasped. He’d been too far to see it before, but this close, it was obvious. It was no beast with wood-colored skin. It was a lodge. A massive wooden lodge supported not by legs but thick logs braced against the earth. What he’d assumed were eyes must have been ventilation holes.

Its design was impractical. If anything happened to those few supports, the whole structure would topple. He could exploit that weakness and chew through the logs, but Nahar was still inside. He couldn’t risk hurting her.

The last of the animals made their way into the lodge, and the humans began carrying items from their mounds into the lodge as well. The Double-Snatcher laid his staff against a rock and hefted a part of a mound himself. Aasim would still attack the staff first. He couldn’t risk being mind-snatched if he wanted to free Nahar.

He slunk forward, staying hidden behind stumps until he made a dash for the backside of the lodge. He crept under the support logs to the far end of the structure and peered around its corner. The Double-Snatcher’s staff lay abandoned on the rock. Aasim would only have one shot at this.

Once all the humans had their paws full of mound pieces and were facing toward the entrance of the lodge, he ran to the back of the rock and pulled the staff behind it. The rock wasn’t large enough to conceal the full length of the wood, but the staff was no thicker than his paw. It would take less than a minute to weaken it enough to snap. He sank his incisors into the middle of the staff and stripped piece after piece, whittling the wood thinner each time.

A chittering human approached the rock. It must have spotted the staff’s exposed end, which jostled as he worked. Aasim bit the middle one last time, then bent back one end of the staff with his paws while his tail held down the other.

The staff splintered with a satisfying crack, and the human squealed as it finally spotted him.

Aasim dodged between the human and the rock and ran for the lodge entrance. Chittering erupted among the other humans as he wove between them, pushing his tired muscles to their limits. On the ramp, he startled one human so much it fell, spilling everything it had carried. The human guarding the lodge’s entrance ran to help, and Aasim scurried past it into the darkness.

A menagerie of smells overwhelmed him. Every animal he’d ever known and plenty he’d never fathomed stared at him from behind wood-barred walls, each trapped in their own small chamber. They brayed, roared, and bellowed as he ran past, screaming Nahar’s name.

“Aasim!” Nahar’s voice trilled with relief.

He bounded towards the far end of the lodge where her tiny paws reached between the wooden branches caging her in and skidded to a stop when he reached her. The young male beaver behind her must’ve been Berosh.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe now.” He bit through four thin branches with one bite each and reached inside for Nahar.

She didn’t move.

“We’re supposed to be here, Aasim.”

She didn’t seem the least bit afraid, which terrified him. He’d destroyed the staff. It should have destroyed the power controlling her.

“That’s what the Double-Snatcher made you believe,” he said.

“It wasn’t the Double-Snatcher.” Nahar took his paw in hers, and a peaceful smile washed over her. “It was Kastor and Ramad.”

They’d rarely spoken of their children since the attack, and the sound of their names stripped him from the inside out. He had to force the words out of a hollow space deep within. “Kastor and Ramad are dead.”

“I know. Their spirits came to me.” Her continued smile hurt him even more than speaking their names had. “They told me they were alright but danger was coming for us, and I needed to follow them right away. I wanted to wait for you, but they promised you’d follow. They led me here and told me I could trust the humans. And they were right. The humans didn’t hurt us.”

A group of humans entered the lodge, and Aasim ducked into Nahar’s chamber. He lowered his voice. “You only saw what the Double-Snatcher wanted you to see. That’s what happens when you’re mind-snatched, Nahar. Maybe they haven’t hurt you yet, but look around.” He gripped one of the remaining branches of the cage wall. “It’s a trap.”

“It was really them,” she said. “I felt so much peace.”

“If it was really them, why wouldn’t they appear to me, too?”

She cocked her head, looking confused. “They didn’t?”

“No.”

For the first time, he seemed to have broken through her delusion. She scanned the cage around her, and it looked like she was finally seeing reason. When her eyes met his, they held a calm resolve. “I don’t know why they didn’t visit you, but I do know you came.” She squeezed his paw. “Just like they said.”

He pulled his paw free. “I didn’t come because they said something. I came because you’re in danger. Because after frantically scouring the river for clues, I learned that he”—he pointed to Berosh—“had also disappeared, and I feared the heron had been right.”

“My grandmother’s spirit came to me,” Berosh said. “She told me to follow her right away because my future family needed me more than my current one. She promised my parents would be okay.”

“They’re not okay!” Aasim said. “They’re weeping and searching and worried out of their fur.”

He poked his head through the cage opening. The humans were rebuilding their mounds in the center of the lodge. He turned back to Nahar and Berosh. “The humans only have a few more loads to carry before their mounds are fully transferred. We have to go now, while they still have their paws full. It’s our best chance of escape.”

“I know what I saw.” Nahar retreated to the far corner of the chamber and lay down beside Berosh. “I’m not leaving. This is where the kits and I will be safe.”

The ground beneath Aasim threatened to tear away like their roof in the storm. He’d come all this way, and she wouldn’t let him save her.

“Please, Nahar,” he begged. “None of it was real.”

“You said the same about the Double-Snatcher.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

Human chittering blended into the cacophony of animal sounds. Aasim checked the entrance. All eight humans were inside, and only some carried items. The mounds were fully transferred.

They had to run. Now. His tail thumped on the floor faster and faster. How could he get her to see the truth?

Gentle pressure stilled his tail. Nahar stood beside him. She reached up and smoothed the fur on his cheek. “I would never want you to feel trapped.” She looked at the open door, then back at him. “It’s okay if you need to go.”

He didn’t know what the humans had planned, but he knew he’d keep her and the kits safe or die trying. He stared at their one chance of escape, not moving as two humans hauled the long wooden ramp into the lodge. The meager light of the outside world was slowly eclipsed by the closing doors until the lodge was lit solely by the dim bars of gray sneaking in through the ventilation holes above.

Nahar squeezed his paw, her voice hopeful. “You believe me then?”

“No.” He turned to her. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t stay.”

She rested her head against him, and he held her close while the humans secured a log across the door. Sharp pings attacked the roof, and every creature in the lodge fell silent as the pings swelled into a thundering roar that flooded the air.

The rain had begun.

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Originally published in Irreantum 20, no. 3 (2023).

Whitney Owens Hemsath writes short stories, poems, novels, and more, with works for both children and adults. She writes regularly for LDSLiving.com and is the author of Types, Shadows, and Casseroles: Finding Christ in Your Daily Life—a 2025 LDSPMA Praiseworthy Award winner. She holds a BA in screenwriting and has had her work included in university curriculum. When she’s not writing, she enjoys doing Zumba and 3D printing new items for her business Fiction & Filament.

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Theric Jepson is one of our favorite fiction writers. We hope you will enjoy his wit and insight in this personal narrative.

The post-op instructions tell me I should be able to go about my normal routines tomorrow. They also say I should be able to return to work in two days. And that more vigorous activity will be possible in a week. Sex is allowed in five days if I feel up to it. The five-inch-thick layer of gauze can come off in two days. I should be able to lift a bag of groceries in three or four. Exercise in a week or two. The full range of human possibility, save one, should return in a couple weeks. If not, call my doctor.

So, to return to that first sentence, the post-op instructions presuppose that my normal routine is lying in bed with a bag of frozen peas on my crotch. It would be more accurate to call that my aspirational routine.

Having one’s genitals dyed orange with iodine, then swathed in blue towels and clamped with metal clamps for maximum visibility and access is one of those things that, when the time arrives, you find you can do. The enormous, burly woman who preps me is generous, dousing my nethers with a gallon or so of stain. We have much to chat about, as I am a high school English teacher and she loved her high school English classes, reading all of Romeo and Juliet the night the first scene was assigned, buying her own copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The doctor, in his turn, loved Gatsby. He started buying and reading Fitzgerald and had exhausted the complete works before leaving high school.

This is good because the only topics I can think to chat about are a bit too literal. I do learn new words like lumen (not the flashlight word but the inside-anatomical-tubes word) and intraabdominal (not the kind of surgery I’m doing today—mine’s merely intrascrotal), but sometimes the thrill of new vocabulary ain’t enough.

In a way, it’s a lot like visiting the dentist. My wife, Lynsey, and I find dentistry relaxing. Lie back, eyes closed, chatting optional, a professional scraping away. Sure, sometimes it’s uncomfortable, but grabbing onto my pants legs or clenching my toes suffices to get me through. I’m not sure how Lynsey copes. Maybe she falls back onto hypnobirthing—it worked in labor, after all. In this room, however (which is much like a hygienist’s nook), I have no pants and my arms are crossed on my chest. If things get uncomfortable, all I can do is put my feet under their rests and push up.

When it comes to vasectomizing, Dr. Li prefers all three methods of closure. After snipping out a quarter-inch length of each vas, he electrocutes their insides (lumen!) to cauterize (which I could feel just fine, lidocaine or no lidocaine, my body jerking on the table like a B-movie actor being brought back to life), clasps them shut with titanium clips, then folds them over upon themselves, stitching each half to itself.

Then everything gets shoved back in the tiny hole and I get a giant stack of gauze to pad my codpiece for two days. I’m left alone in the room to wipe off some of the orange and get dressed. I’ve never worn a jock strap in my life and, as the tighty-whiteys I bought for some unremembered purpose were unfindable, I put on the tightest-fitting pair of garments I own—a style I haven’t purchased since my mission (since, in my married state, my libido requires no mechanical suppression)—pull them all the way up, roll down the waistband, pull on my pajamas, and take baby steps into my no-more-babies future.

Because I myself am a big baby, it’s only seven hours later that Lynsey feels the need to remind me, for the record, that pushing four humans out of her own tiny hole was worse. This is nothing I deny. In fact, it’s part of the reason I went under the knife today. But! She did have one advantage: I was there, feeding her ice chips and whispering koans about her motherly strength and pushing a tennis ball into the small of her back. I on the other hand was alone with Dr. Li. And sure, he loves Fitzgerald, but still.

I missed her. I wanted her hand—or some part of her—to hold.

We were done having babies a long time ago, Lynsey and I, the youngest of our three boys now seven. We started early so we could have a nice, long, empty-nest period. We filled our tiny house quickly, but since we only had boys, they fit in the one available room, stacked on top of each other. Done.

And, consciously, we were done. Subconsciously however, maybe not. Relying on our own self-discipline was hardly the way to stop at three, after all, but if Lynsey secretly (even to herself) wanted another, who was I . . .

Holding my beloved as she wept, night after night, mourning the existence of this new thing growing inside her, I understood something new about abortion—something new about its potential whys. Because although she dreaded leaving our home, she was also ready to do something with her hours besides care for children. And now this thing inside her had supplanted whatever possible futures she might have crafted.

Not that abortion was ever on the table for us. It wasn’t. And even though Lynsey lurched about motion-sick for eight months, now that child number four is here, we are so glad (even though there’s nowhere to put her).

My current stance on abortion strikes me as exceedingly Mormon, though perhaps a Deseret News poll would disagree. But if we can agree that certain circumstances make abortion morally sound (and the General Handbook, the Church’s official position on all things worth having an official position on, says yea), then abortion should be legal and available, full stop. Consider rape, for instance. Courts move slower than pregnancy, so unless abortion is accessible whenever a woman requires, raped women are de facto forced to carry rapists’ seed to term.

Choice may be the most sacred principle in our faith’s theology. If something can ever be allowed, how dare you choose for another whether they can or cannot do it? But this isn’t an essay about hot-button political topics, my fluctuating opinions on which no one cares.

Lynsey and I were married when I was barely still twenty-three and she was barely twenty-one. This is what our parents hoped BYU would do for us and, amazingly, it worked. I had no capacity to flirt or date, and thus was doomed to live in small dark rooms scribbling books; Lynsey had no desire whatsoever to get married, and would instead move to Manhattan and wear black and be dangerous. It took some divine intervention to get us inside the Oakland temple and sealed, but that’s another story with another angle on choice. (She’s still a bit peeved at God, if you ask her about it. And who can blame her? Have you met me?)

If we’d met and stayed in Oakland instead of merely wedding there, likely we would have arranged a different time frame—one more in keeping with our Bay Area peers—but being in Provo, we decided three years without kids was our longest morally defensible option. Therefore, after three years, we would start having kids and get them raised and gone before we were old. Three years and five months later, child number one was born. To look at photos, egad, were we young.

We moved home to California and decided to have another baby. Our apartment complex in Lancaster was adjacent to the site of a fatal shooting that occurred the weekend before we moved in. The desert was colorless and smelled bad. We had no neighbors who were neighborly. Lynsey felt like she was in prison, while the school I worked at was designed by a builder of prisons—and felt like it. Our life: as barren as we seemed to be.

When the way opened for us to move to the Bay, we snatched it, and Lynsey had only one period in El Cerrito before child number two was conceived.

Fertility is a confused sign of God’s favor. Mary was so favored she conceived sex-free. Sarah was so favored she was infertile for almost a century. In both cases: magic baby. God loves you.

The arrival of child number two wasn’t the disastrous, caesarian-interrupted labor of our first go-round, but labor is intense regardless, and Lynsey still wanted an experience to match her mental image. And, happily enough, twenty-six months later, the birth of child number three came only a half hour after we arrived at the hospital—a clean, simple, sliding-out awash in joy and motherly success. So while pregnancy number four was miserable, Lynsey did crave the high of giving birth to another child. “You are strong, you are strong,” I said as the contractions hit. “You are a mother.”

“I am a mother.”

“Your body is doing what it was built to do.”

“I am strong. I’ve done this before.”

“You’ve done this before.”

I knew that babies’ genitals are swollen from months in the stew and that foolish fathers often misidentify girls as boys, but I still made that error in the quarter-second I saw our baby before she was taken away so they could double-check her color. Less than a minute later, Lynsey held her on her chest, high on motherdom. It was ten minutes before anyone discovered we thought she was a boy.

A girl. Us? After three boys? Is such a thing even possible?

We wept.

This secondary miracle made the moment even more joyous.

We were told, when numbers two and three were born, not to let older siblings first see their fresh sibling held by their shared mother. Let mom hold the older child as dad introduces baby. It seemed to help. But when the boys arrived from Grandma’s four days later, it hardly seemed to matter which of us held their sister. They said hi to Mom as I brought the baby in from the back room and—it doesn’t matter. Her much older brothers aren’t interested in competing with her for Mom’s love and affection. They’re interested in providing their own love and affection.

We now have an oldest child, a middle child, a youngest child, and an only child—one of each. And by the time she is the age of the youngest, he’ll be her only brother left at home.

As we stopped for lunch on the way home from the hospital today and I was telling Lynsey about having my balls electrocuted, she was generously filled with remorse for not taking prevention upon herself. But that’s nonsense, of course. Snip-snip (correction: snip-snip-snip-snip) (hypercorrection: stab-stab-slice-snip-snip-snip-snip-bzz-clamp-clamp-doublestitch) might take—gasp—two weeks to recover from, but my body has not yet accepted (nor ever will) equal consequences for our reproduction—and it would have been grotesquely unfair to postpartumly douse my beloved in hormones we wouldn’t accept in a cheeseburger or to thrust a strange device into a womb that deserves ennobling retirement after building the four children we now have, one, two, three, and one.

(Incidentally, is three boys and one girl in one bedroom even legal in America? What if you’re a schoolteacher and every square foot costs a thousand dollars? Hhhh. You know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.)

So. Farewell, seed without number. I’ve no doubt we would have loved you. But our house is finite. And another pregnancy might kill us, since we would never kill you.

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Theric Jepson wrote the novel Just Julie’s Fine, which Wayfare’s own Lori Forsyth said made both her and her husband laugh so hard as he read it aloud that they could not breathe nor maintain an upright position. Accordingly, this essay is accompanied by a warning that it is not for asthmatics, those with spinal injuries, or the otherwise infirm. “Fertility” was originally commissioned by Holly Welker for her book Revising Eternity: 27 Latter-day Saint Men Reflect on Modern Relationships (University of Illinois Press, 2022). It has been edited slightly for Wayfare.

Featured art: A Bridal Couple from Southern Germany, c. 1470.

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In the hush of Nazareth’s olive-laden hills, the veil between heaven and earth thinned as light spilled into the room of a young girl. She was called Mary—Miryam in her mother’s tongue—a name carried by prophetesses and song-weavers. Through her young life, she had been quietly confident yet open to wonder and mystery.

That night, although familiar with the imaginal realm, she was not prepared for what was about to happen. Suddenly, the angel Gabriel, radiant with a light beyond the sun, entered her presence, echoing words from ancient scrolls: “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.”

Overwhelmed with fear, she wondered, Is this a dream? A vision?

Gabriel spoke again with gentle assurance: “Be not afraid, Mary. You have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son and shall call him ‘Yeshua’—‘Deliverance.’ He is the inheritor of David’s throne, and his kingdom shall flow outward forever.”

As the message grew within her heart and mind, Mary’s lips trembled: How can this be? I have never known a man!

Beaming as one beholding the secrets of creation, Gabriel met her astonished eyes with reverence and replied: “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, Mary. The power of the Most High will overshadow you as the cloud once overshadowed Sinai, and thus the holy child born to you will be called God’s Son. I bless your understanding to be magnified in God’s light and love.”

With those words resounding, she surrendered into a profound stillness where she held back nothing and embraced everything. Then Mary, daughter of Eve and the promise of prophets, bowed the arc of her will to the Almighty, saying with humble acceptance: “I am the servant of the Lord. Let it be to me as you have said.”

And the angel departed.

Within the brilliant light of his presence, time had stood still, but now that the light had faded from her chamber, she found herself in a liminal space between past and future. Vibrations deep within her body manifested paradox: She felt weak yet strong, resistant yet yielding, and empty yet full. Nonetheless, beneath her feet in the deep darkness, there seemed a well of light—one from which she could draw. Her acceptance of vulnerability and her openness to the Spirit turned into wisdom that drew light beyond light from the well as she embraced her fruitful fear and the deep urge to escape from it.

Gabriel’s words echoed from the heavens. . . .

“Let it be . . .” To me, she remembered saying!

Putting a grateful hand to her heart while embracing her body, she exclaimed aloud, “Me? Me, Mary!” then knelt on the ground as Isaiah’s words filled her, “A virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.” Clasping her hands, she looked to heaven and reclaimed. ”Immanuel!” Just then Isaiah’s joyful announcement continued in her mind, “For unto us a child is born. . .” “Unto us!” Unto me!

With such jubilation, Mary bowed—not from fear, but from the stirrings of divine possibility and the awe of what had just transpired. And what was to be.

Almost unaware to her, the air shifted once more. But this time, the presence filling the room bore a warmth deeper than fire and more ancient than stars.

This Divine presence was not announced with trumpet or thunder. Clothed in glory, she entered as wind through almond blossoms and as the hush before dawn—her voice flowing as water over smooth stones.

Mary saw and knew in her soul: This was the Mother—the Heavenly Mother of all souls, Wisdom, opening the void that lies beyond worlds.

Stunned, for the moment, then astonished beyond understanding, Mary felt in harmony with all that is—a beauty and glory beyond her imagining. She stood and impulsively reached toward the divine presence, but quickly held back, weeping with a new joy beyond any she had ever known.

There was no sense of yearning or determination in her—only utter trust consuming her body as the Mother reached out and lifted Mary’s astonished head to her bosom.

“Mary,” spoke the Goddess with timeless tenderness, “Beloved daughter, chosen vessel. You knew me and I knew you before the veil of birth. I come now to embrace you in the eternal bond of our love, awakening in you a remembrance that flows between our hearts.”

Mary looked again into Her face and those eyes that held a reflection of herself in orbs of love, and deep within her soul remembered seeing them before—before time, beyond space.

Mary collapsed again into Her tender embrace.

“You were chosen,” said the Mother, “from the great council before the world was made. You were chosen to bear a son—not only in body, but also in heart—to shape his compassion, teach him kindness, and sow in him the seeds of mercy and love, of forgiveness and grace, which will bless the entire world. Within you is strength sufficient for this calling. Prepare, dear one, for sorrow shall come as well.”

Mary wept, for in this Divine Mother’s presence, her soul opened wide.

“You and I,” continued the Goddess, “will share this son. Listen for my whisper in your dreams. I will be at your side when our son speaks his first words, when he takes his first steps, when he turns to you for comfort.

Know also, dear one, that this child is destined to bear the sins and griefs of the world. He will be misunderstood, betrayed, and pierced. You will see him mocked, beaten, bound, and hung upon a tree. It will wrench your heart as it will mine.”

Mary wept again but did not turn away.

“At the end, there will be an open tomb from which He shall rise,” She said, “and through him, death will lose its sting. He will bring everlasting life, and you will see him again as He walks with you after the world thinks him gone. And I, your Mother, will walk with you both until the veil is lifted once more.”

She placed her hands upon Mary’s head and then her belly, blessing the womb within her. Mary felt the hair all over her body rising in a holy coldness and something deep and beyond eternity awakening all the cells of her being.

“You are not alone,” She whispered. “Not now. Not ever.”

Then, as gently as She came, She was gone.

The young woman who only a short time before was pondering how such things could be, now rose with clarity and strength, the fullness of which she had never known. She would carry within her womb and within her heart and soul the wonder the world would someday know—the promise of salvation. Wrapping her arms around her heart and her belly, the light of the moon encircled her, while the world, unaware, was spinning toward redemption.

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Gloria Gardner Rees has taught English in the US, China, India, and Nepal. Her studies include nutrition, gerontology and adult development. Currently, she is involved in interfaith, humanitarian, and environmental work. In addition to writing midrash, she is co-editing a collection of essays by Latter-day Saints titled Pillars of my Faith.

Robert A. Rees is a scholar, poet, and humanitarian. He is the author of “Toward a Mormon Feminist Midrash: Mormon Women and the Imaginative Reading of Scripture,” Sunstone (2012) and “The Midrashic Imagination and the Book of Mormon,” Dialogue (Fall 2011). His most recent book is Imagining and Reimagining the Restoration (Kofford Books, 2025).

Art by Brooke Bowen.

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(For my Bapuji and Beiji)

I’m going to tell you a secret. Because I think you’re ready to understand.

When you kneel down at night to say your prayers, when you bow your head to bless your food, when you’re driving in the winter and hit a patch of ice and instinctively cry out for someone to steady the car as it slips toward a spin—God doesn’t actually understand the words you are saying.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying you shouldn’t pray. God loves it when you pray. God loves the sound of your voice. God loves seeing that you’re turned in his direction. His heart turns back to you every single time. But the God you’re praying to is the God of Israel. He’s a God who feels quite at home while watching over ewes, helping them safely birth their lambs. God is not originally from the world you live in now.

He’s a bit of a stranger here. His sense of time is still synced to the sprouting and swelling of barley and wheat, of dates and olives and grapes. He’s been content enough to follow the winding paths of faith out of his old patch of hill country by the sea, but God speaks a forgotten dialect of Hebrew. He can feel when someone calls him father, and he’s fascinated by the rhythms of all the languages his kids have picked up, but he’s an immigrant in all the places we’ve called him.

You tell me that doesn’t make sense, that God is omniscient? Well, the word omniscient is Greek. It’s not in his vocabulary at all.

God’s real gift is attention. Maybe he’s leaned on it a little too much. He gets by so well paying attention to what we’re doing and how we’re feeling that he doesn’t have to figure out what we say. Maybe a less attentive God would have learned at least a few major languages by now, so that he could argue with us in Latin and classical Chinese and seventeenth-century French. A different God would probably just learn English. That’s what the world economy expects.

Our God knows you’re never too old to learn. And he could definitely take lessons. But it’s not like he needs a job. And he’s been so busy. When he hears you cry out in panic on that icy road, he sees the ice. He guides your hands back into a path where you have traction. And he doesn’t need to understand your self-justifications to notice when other parts of your life are spinning out of control. If you let him, he’ll always nudge you back into some stabilizing friction.

He knows when you’re sick. Long before the day when you’ll complain to him about that pain in your abdomen, he’s already trying to prepare you for the moment when doctors will perform a scan, find the tumor, share the diagnosis. You speak English and the doctors’ words will sound strange and distant even to you. God won’t tell you in words that you’ll make it through this. But it’s not language that’s going to get you through the worst times anyway. It’s someone who loves you, reaching out to take your hand.

God knows when you’re lonely. You usually don’t. You think you’re not hardworking enough or talented enough, likeable enough, virtuous enough, attractive enough. You go on and on to God about your goals and your weaknesses and your silent shames. He doesn’t understand all that. But he understands you. He knows what you need before you try in vain to ask.

The times when God most wishes he spoke English are the times when he wouldn’t know what to say. The times when you’re praying so hard for something but it’s just not meant to be. The times when a wish you held dear is shriveling and he can see it’s going to die and he can see it’s going to take a piece of you with it. The times when someone hurts you, terribly, and you go over it all in your mind again and again wondering what you could have done differently—and that’s exactly the wrong question but it’s also the only question that gives you any sense of control. In many of these moments, God is as silent as the ashes left when the fire dies down. If he could, he would be silent in English, in your language, so that you could know that it’s not an absent silence but an active silence. A stilling of the soul of the universe in solidarity with your distress. A witness. God is never quite so focused on you as when he doesn’t speak.

And when the hardest times are over, when your dark nights pass into new dawns? God doesn’t want to leave. So he doesn’t study English. He hangs around with you instead. He strokes your hair when you pour your heart out at night. He sits beside you while you do your homework because sometimes you just need someone else around to keep at it. He smiles when you turn to him and babble incoherently after winning a game or taking a test. And when you cook, he’s basking in the aromas that drift across your kitchen. He likes watching your mind and hands at work; his joy makes the whole meal holy.

The part when you bow your head is just a chance for you to catch up to the blessing God already left there.

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Art by Kazimir Malevich, “Prayer,” 1913.

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They had been the only group foolish enough to build a campfire in the canyon park that chilly autumn evening, and Brian kept looking to the sky in fear that the mist of rain would transform into snow, making for a treacherous descent down the winding road they had taken to get there. A nearby creek, bloated by the falling rain, gurgled in the deep dark, and high canyon walls loomed invisible above them. The clouds above them were black and impenetrable, and the night pressed in around them undiluted by even the cool, distant glow of the parking lot streetlights. The wet cold crept through coats and skin and leeched the heat from their bones.

A shudder convulsed through Maggie, and her eyes flitted toward the little silver hatchback that sat alone in the parking lot. “Would you hurry up with the fire,” she said. “We’ve been out here five minutes and I feel like I’m going to freeze to death.”

There was a sudden flicker of light as Jared coaxed a little flame from the dry tinder and newspaper into the damp wood, albeit with the help of a little gasoline. Under other circumstances, Maggie would have chided him for the irresponsible use of propellant, but at the moment she was simply grateful for the warmth. The four of them crowded around the jumping flames and put their hands over it as if in worship.

“In Boy Scouts we called that ‘cup o’ gas,’” Jared said with a laugh.

“In my Scout troop we called that ‘cheating,’” Brian said, as he tore open a bag of marshmallows. “One match, Jared, that’s the standard, but I guess I wouldn’t expect a mere Life Scout to know that.”

“My standard is not freezing my a—”

“Did you guys ever roast Starbursts in Scouts?” Maggie interrupted, with her long-honed instinct for heading off Jared’s vulgarity. “We roasted Starbursts every summer at Girls Camp. I don’t know what it is about them, but I swear they are seriously the best.”

“No way, I brought a bag of Starbursts with me for exactly that!” Connie said, laughing.

The conversation went on in that direction for an hour, the rain and cold forgotten in the warm blanket of youthful reminiscence and the freshly earned nostalgia of young adulthood.

When the topic of church youth activities had worn itself out, Brian, Jared, and Maggie defaulted to swapping mission stories in the friendly but obviously one-upping manner typically characteristic of such conversations, while Connie feigned interest. There was a discussion of who had gotten engaged at the end of last semester, a list long enough to provide a third hour of fodder for jealousy, gossip, and the collective, awkward, deep-seated knowledge that neither couple would see such an engagement in their future.

“It’s 11:55,” Maggie said, looking at her phone. “Should we head down? I’ve got work in the morning.”

“I brought my laptop,” Brian said. “You guys want to watch a movie? I’ve got Princess Bride or Napoleon Dynamite in my DVD case in the car.”

“That’s the opposite of heading down,” said Maggie.

“You don’t have work until like . . . nine,” Jared said. “Let’s watch a movie. We can go over to the gazebo, even, and I’ve got a couple dry blankets in the car.”

“It’s getting pretty late,” Connie said.

“What,” Brian responded, “are you worried the Spirit’s going to go to bed at midnight and we’ll start sinning?”

Connie rolled her eyes. “No, Brian,” she said with exasperation, “I’m worried that Maggie has work in the morning.”

Maggie sighed. “It’s fine. Whatever. Brian, go grab the laptop and . . . Napoleon Dynamite. I haven’t seen that since it was in theaters.”

Brian smirked triumphantly. As he turned to walk to the car, Connie resolved that this would be their last weekend as a couple. “Grab the blankets,” Jared called after him, standing up and drawing one last bit of heat from the embers into his hands. He turned to Maggie and kissed her. The rain had stopped but invisible clouds still blanketed the sky, drowning out the moon.

Connie could see Brian rummaging through the car under the warm yellow lights of the parking lot, a pocket of light in the vast surrounding darkness. Jared took Maggie’s hand, and they started off through the darkness toward the gazebo. Connie sat alone by the fire and stared into the coals, entranced by their orange glow. She picked up a marshmallow, the last in the bag, and brought it to her lips. Just as she was about to take a bite, she heard the loud, wet, smacking sound of lips being licked right next to her ear. “What is the taste of sweetness?” a voice whispered.

“Ugh, Brian what is—” she began, but when she turned she saw that he was still a hundred feet away, walking back from the car with a bundle of blankets under one arm and a laptop case in the other. She stood up. “Did you guys hear that?” she called into the darkness.

“Hear what?” Maggie responded from the gazebo.

“What is the taste of sweetness?” the voice whispered again. The sound seemed to have a physical presence, a little gust of wind that blew in her ear, spinning through her skull like a cold whirlwind and bursting through her body. Her limbs suddenly flailed, and she dropped the marshmallow into the sodden grass, then found herself pouncing upon it with the greed of a starving beast. She yipped with delight to hold the little ball of congealed sugar in her hands and lurched toward the fire, each awkward, toddling step threatening to send her hurtling into the wet ground.

“Connie, what are you doing?” Brian yelled at her as he crossed from the parking lot toward the gazebo. She turned to look at him, her eyes flashing emerald as they reflected the distant lights. Brian stopped and stared. Her face contorted into something between a grimace and a grin, and she held the marshmallow with a strange gentleness, as though it were a small, fragile creature. She took one more step toward the dying fire, her green eyes locked onto Brian’s, then turned and plunged her hands into the glowing coals. “Connie, stop!” Brian shouted, dropping the blankets and sprinting toward her.

Connie shrieked in pain. Her body spasmed and rebelled against the sudden agony, but her arms seemed to have a will of their own, and she drove her hands, still clutching the marshmallow between them, deeper into the embers. Just as Brian reached her, she pulled her cupped hands from the firepit, palms and fingers blistered and smoking, filled with glowing cinders and the blackened marshmallow. Brian watched with horror as Connie shoveled the cinders into her gaping mouth, then began to howl. “Where is the taste of sweetness?!” she wailed as Brian took her by the shoulders and wrenched her away from the fire. Agony and rage and a fevered madness mingled in her eyes, and tears ran down her cheeks. She tore at Brian’s face with her long nails and charred fingertips as he struggled to control her. Maggie and Jared, hearing the chaos, ran toward them.

Connie shoved Brian away from her, and he stumbled backward toward the firepit. He fell, striking the back of his skull against a cinder block with a wet crack, and lay still. Maggie screamed. Jared froze and stared at the limp form of his best friend, then turned to look at the creature that had killed him. Not five minutes ago, she had been a beautiful young woman. Now—her eyes running with tears and ablaze with inhuman fury, her mouth bleeding and blistered, her hands charred—she had transformed into a monster.

“Connie?” Maggie asked from several steps behind Jared, her own eyes streaming with tears.

Connie’s voice, when it came, was a pained croak stilted by her thick, blistered tongue. “Where is the taste of sweetness?” she rasped. “He gives us pigs.” She took a step toward Jared, who took a step backward in turn. “He gives us pigs and we drown,” she shrieked and leaped at Jared with her black hands, then fell face forward into the damp, dark grass. She did not move. Maggie was sobbing and Jared took slow, deep breaths to keep from hyperventilating.

“Is she . . . dead?” Maggie asked. Jared leaned down and shook Connie gently, lovingly, a lump in his throat and tears welling up in his eyes. He stepped past Connie’s prostrate body and over to Brian, whose neck was bent at an impossible angle and whose open eyes were fixed on the parking lot.

“I don’t know. Maybe? We need to call 911.” But before he pulled out his phone, he took Maggie in his arms and drew her close. “It’s going to be okay.” He pressed his cheek against hers and kissed her comfortingly. “It’s going to be okay,” he repeated, holding her head in his hands. Then he stepped away and reached into the pocket of his jeans to fish out his Blackberry.

“What is the feel of warm flessssssshhhhhhhhhhh?” whispered a voice in his ear.

He whipped round to look at Maggie, who gazed back at him in confusion. Icy tendrils began to seep into his toes, ran up his legs and flowed through his veins and seized his heart in a cold grip, and he looked at Maggie with a fevered, hungry look. He snapped his teeth and then snapped them again, gouging into his lower lip. Blood trickled down his chin, though he did not seem to notice.

“Jared, are you okay?” Maggie asked, stepping away from him. He did not respond, but his breathing became heavy and he leaned forward awkwardly. He pounced, and Maggie screamed and turned to run. Jared caught her by the hair and yanked her backward, and she fell to the ground and flailed at him as he snapped his teeth. He knelt beside her and bent his face down toward hers, teeth still snapping continually, blood pouring from his ragged lips as he pursed his mouth as though to kiss her cheek.

Maggie grabbed hold of a fallen roasting skewer and whipped it with all her might against Jared’s face. The skin above his eye split open, and he howled with animal pain and clutched at the wound. When he stood, blood poured thick and warm from the gash on his forehead, covering half his face in a crimson sheen. His eyes were filled with pain and pleading and hatred, and his teeth clacked together again and again. “Jared, please don’t,” Maggie begged. “Please stay away from me.” But Jared leaped again, animalistic and flailing. Maggie closed her eyes and swung the skewer with all her might, and the thin metal rod struck his windpipe. She could feel the cartilage collapse, and when she opened her eyes again, Jared was clutching his throat and staring at her with disbelief.

Gurgling, he fell to his knees, then sideways into the grass. The rain started again, not a mist this time, but cold, heavy drops that washed the scarlet from his cheeks, the blood running from the wound in his eye down his temple and into the lawn. Maggie stepped toward him and knelt by his side. Her tears landed on his face, warm where the raindrops were cold.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said and took his hand in hers.

He looked up at her. The madness remained in his eyes, even as they were dulled by the lack of oxygen. He held one hand to his ruined trachea and reached out clumsily to her with his other. Despite herself, she took it. “He gives us pigs,” came a gurgling murmur, “and we drown.” Tears poured down from her blue eyes. “I only wanted to feel.” Jared did not move, and Maggie fell over him and sobbed and sobbed, and the cold rainwater ran into her shirt and down her spine.

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“Pigs” was originally published in the short story collection, A Thin Black Veil.

Henrik Sorensen is a novelist, essayist, and short story writer with an interest in science fiction and horror and the ways in which they overlap with Mormon cosmology, theology, and culture. His new collection of Mormon horror stories, A Thin Black Veil, is available on Amazon.

Art by Shari Lyon

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