My team met weekly, and I was able to put my knowledge of publishing to great use. We shaped a great concept for an online marketplace that would even allow McGraw-Hill to take advantage of used book buying and selling without incurring any inventory costs, and we backed it up with a campus consumer program to make sure the website would be well-used. I took our notes and wrote up the bulk of the proposal, made some corrections with the input from the team, handed it over to our team leader, and went on a cruise, promptly putting the case competition out of my mind.

Last week, I found out that out of the 60 or so schools that submitted case proposals, 46 were considered really top-notch. But my proposal stood out above even those, and our team was invited to the final stage of the competition, where the top 8 teams will present their ideas to McGraw-Hill executives in New Orleans this April. I’m really excited to have the chance to make a brand new set of contacts in the publishing industry, and I’m hoping we’ll knock ‘em dead.

Meanwhile, Marvel Comics released Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter #7 over the last couple of weeks – the first issue of the series since Dabel Brothers Publishing dissolved its partnership with Marvel. I was the editor on the first five issues, and my wife did the adaptation.

But what a lot of people don’t realize is that I also handled all the marketing and PR, and we pushed the heck out of the first six issues in every way imaginable. The first issue had three printings and sold well over 50,000 copies. The second and third issues also went into an additional printing, and each sold around 35,000 copies. The fourth, fifth and sixth issues sold around 30,000 copies each. The graphic novel collection, which came out later in the year, was one of the bestselling graphic novels of 2007, and from what I’ve heard, it sold around 60-70,000 copies. These numbers are great when you consider that the average Marvel comic book sells 3,000-5,000 copies, and the average successful independent book sells 2,000-2,500. I have no idea what’s currently “average” for graphic novel sales, but our next bestselling graphic novel, Red Prophet: The Tales of Alvin Maker vol. 1, which I also handled the marketing on, was considered quite successful at around 16,000 copies sold.

Anyhow, Anita #7 has received zero marketing support from Marvel, and it’s selling dreadfully — a friend in the industry told me it’s only sold 9,000 copies. That’s pathetic. It’s almost like they expected the book to sell itself. I don’t think they realized how hard my team was working with the customers to make sure the book was a success.

But then, that’s exactly why you can’t have a product-oriented perspective in publishing, as Marvel’s definitely learning once again with their ridiculous reset of the Spider-Man story. You’ve got to focus on what the customers want, not on which products you think you can sell. Today’s consumers don’t want to be told what they want unless you can get it right every single time. Mess up too often and they’ll find someone else to buy from. The sad thing is, consumers are very vocal about what they want, but many companies do a lousy job of listening.

On a final note, my apologies for the various hiccups the website has endured over the last week. Between a domain name issue, a server problem and some configuration issues, it’s been tough to get it back online and working. Fortunately, it looks like the problems are finally resolved. All I’m waiting for now is for the “Time Tourists” portion of the site to go back online.

Because of the title and the theme, some people never seem to get past the surface and assume that I’m using this as an allegory to talk about a homosexual’s “coming out” experience. Being straight and happily married, I’ve never had to deal with such an experience, so I would have a hard time writing about it. No, what this story is really about is what happens when we find ourselves searching for a way to express whom we really, truly are and find that unique outlet that gives us a chance to finally speak up for ourselves. For me, mime was a passing fancy to pass the time, but for Tara in this story, it’s more of a spiritual awakening.

Confessions of a Closet Mime

By Sean Jordan
July 18th, 2001 (Revised February 11th, 2002)

Day 1

They say you should keep a journal whenever you take up a hobby. Not that I usually care what “they,” whoever they are, have to say. But in this case, it’s good advice. And I’m stalling.

I’m really nervous about even writing this, but I need to get it down on paper, if for nothing else than to affirm the truth to myself. So here goes… I’m just going to write it and sit here and read it.

I’m a mime.

Wow. I actually had the guts to get it on paper. And it feels good, I guess. It’s just too bad I can’t tell anyone else.
I should explain – it might help me sort things out a little bit. My name’s Tara Lindberg. I’m a senior in high school, an aspiring artist, and a hopeless failure so far as my parents are concerned. And you are… a piece of paper in a cheap spiral-bound notebook that has “Physics” written on the cover. Nice to meet you, and sorry about all this secrecy. And yes, I’m stalling again.

The problem is that my family has zero appreciation or interest in anything I enjoy. They want me to go to some big college and be an engineer, or a doctor or a lawyer or someone important-sounding who makes a lot of money. But I want to be an artist. I don’t know what kind; I’ve never had a chance to discover what I’m good at doing. Every time I’ve tried, my parents have told me I’ve got my head in the clouds and have kept me from exploring.

I’ve tried painting. I’ve tried music. I’ve tried drama and dance and poetry. I even flirted with puppeteering and sculpting at different points. But I’ve never been able to stick with any of them. After all, every attempt I’ve made to enrich my life artistically has been shot down by my family so that I won’t get “sidetracked” in my journey to become what they want me to be.

And that’s why I’m so nervous about this mime thing.

I don’t know how or where I got the idea to give pantomime a try. I remember when I was in the sixth grade I went trick-or-treating as a mime as a subtle joke (after all, how can a mime ask people for candy? No one got it.). Since then, I’ve practiced pantomime on my own, making faces at myself in the mirror, acting out strange scenes with invisible objects in my room, and even mimicking peoples’ motions to learn how they move. After years of doing this without thinking about it, it’s only recently occurred to me that maybe this is my form of expression that will unleash the artist within.

Someone’s coming, so I’ve got to stop for now. I’ll write more later.

Day 2

Only one day into the realization that I’m a mime, and I’ve already hit a major snag. This time, thankfully, it’s not my family. But it could turn out to be a much more practical concern; after all, how is one supposed to learn pantomime when there aren’t any mimes in the area to teach it?

The head of my high school’s drama department wasn’t exactly helpful. “I know there are some people who give clowning lessons,” she said. “That’s kind of the same thing, isn’t it?”

One’s an art and the other’s a comedy routine, I thought about saying. That’s like comparing the fall play to the Three Stooges. But I bit my lip, thanked her, and left, not wanting to give away my secret. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to think of how I could explain the difference between clowns and mimes to a layman.

On the surface, I suppose, mimes and clowns are fairly similar; they both wear makeup, they both try to entertain through physical humor, and they both have a tendency to perform at carnivals, fairs, parades, and other “children’s” events. But that’s where the similarities end. Mimes wear makeup and costumes so that their facial expressions and body movements can be read clearly; clowns wear them because they attracts peoples’ attention and make them laugh. Mimes rarely use props; clowns carry around arsenals of them. And, of course, the major point: mimes are silent, completely focused on nonverbal communication, while clowns tell bad jokes and ask people if they’d like balloon animals.

I think the truth is that somewhere down the line, mimes and clowns became arch-enemies. The clowns obviously won; that’s why mimes are so scarce these days. I have this picture in my head of an epic battle where clowns wielding giant novelty double-bladed axes are cutting down legions of surprised-looking mimes who are feebly waving invisible rapiers in a vain effort to defend themselves. Maybe that explains my rather irrational fear of clowns, too; as a mime, they would, after all, be my natural enemy.

But then again, maybe I’m reading too much into things. And on that note, reading is exactly what I intend to do – I was, at least, able to find a couple of books on pantomime at the library, and I’m hoping they’ll be helpful.

Day 3

I really think people should be required to cut down their own trees if they want to waste paper. Especially the author of “Mime for Morons,” an insultingly worthless book that points out all of the obvious things about pantomime with none of the necessary instruction on how to seriously approach the art… or the theory behind it.

Most of the book explains simple mime “tricks” like “how to get trapped in a box,” “how to walk an invisible dog,” and “how to blow up an invisible balloon.” There is no technique to the movements; the author is more concerned that they’re “exaggerated and amusing” than artistically expressive. What a joke.

The other book, however, was almost too much – it was written by a serious French mime who was heavily into the theory and who assumed quite a bit of knowledge on the part of the reader. Much of the practical information I was looking for – instructions for exercises, basic movements, and the like – was alluded to but never given. I enjoyed learning more about the ideas a professional mime had about the art, but it really didn’t help me to move farther in my own practice. So I guess I’ll have to keep working on things blindly until I can find some better resources.

My mother almost caught me yesterday during one of my little practice sessions. I was trying to climb through an invisible window, and as I envisioned it in front of me and began trying to figure out how to open it and put my leg over the sill, she opened my door and walked into my room with a pile of laundry. Quickly, I went into a different pose and acted as if I’d been exercising, and she looked at me oddly.

“What were you doing?” she asked suspiciously.

“Stretching,” I said, standing up straight and looking at her as if it was a stupid question. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” she said with a look of disbelief on her face, and left. I decided to play it safe and work on facial expressions for awhile after that, just in case she tried to barge back in and catch me in the act.

I really don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep this from my family, I really don’t. But I can’t give them the opportunity to ruin this for me before I get a chance to see just where it can take me.

Day 4

I gave my first performance today, and I think it went pretty well.

I told my parents I had a project to work on and that I’d be home late after school, which bought me a couple of hours in the afternoon to give this mime thing a try. As soon as my last class was over, I darted out of the building and across the street to the city park. I made a beeline for the restroom and, once inside, quickly changed into black pants, a white shirt, black suspenders and white gloves. Next, I pulled out a can of white shoe polish and painted my face white and highlighted my eyebrows and lips with a black makeup pencil. Looking in the mirror once I was finished, I felt rather ridiculous, but after a moment, I smiled. I’m a mime now, and no one can stop me, I realized. I hid my bookbag under one of the sinks and went outside to begin exploring.

At first, all I did was walk around nonchalantly, pretending to whistle and looking around as if I was simply out for a stroll. No one seemed to notice me at first, but as I got closer to the park’s playground, I noticed several children dart away from me towards their parents in terror. “She’s just a mime,” they’d explain, and beckon me over to try to show their little ones that I wasn’t as scary as I looked. Most of them warmed up to me after a moment, and a few even boldly asked me why I couldn’t talk. I just shrugged, not really knowing how to explain without speaking.

One parent really rubbed me the wrong way, though; she kept asking me to “do that trapped in a box trick.” I refused, flailing my arms around to show her that there was no box, and she got frustrated after awhile and, hissing some expletives at me, walked away. I wanted to convey to her that I’m an artist, not a dog, and that I don’t do tricks, but I couldn’t think of a good way to show her that. So I threw an invisible tomato at her instead.

After about an hour of this routine, I was beginning to realize how little I could really do. The few actions I had been practicing, which involved making invisible balloon animals, pretending to juggle, and walking into an invisible door and trying to get it open, began wearing thin very quickly, and the small audience I eventually attracted got tired of my performance pretty quickly. It wasn’t long before I got tired of it too and, sighing silently, went back to the restroom, changed my clothes, and started cleaning the makeup off my face. And then I realized the big mistake I’d made.

Had I thought things through a little better, I might have realized that white shoe polish is really hard to get off your skin, particularly the face. I spent about 30 minutes scrubbing myself raw with a washcloth before finally settling for a slightly pale complexion. Thankfully, my parents weren’t home when I got back; all I found was a note saying that they’d gone out to dinner and a movie and not to wait up for them or throw any parties.

My brother, however, was a different story.

“I saw you out there today,” he said as I was looking over the note. “What were you doing?”

“Pantomime,” I said nonchalantly, hoping my disinterested tone wouldn’t clue him in to my secret. “I just thought it’d be fun to do something crazy for a change.”

“Weirdo” was all he said in reply. I just hope he won’t mention it to mom and dad before this weekend. I think I’m going to spend Saturday morning at the mall, giving myself another shot at this mime thing. Because, truth be told, I really enjoyed my little performance today.

And for the first time in a long time, I really felt like I was expressing myself.

Day 5

So, a valuable lesson has been learned: shoe polish is really hard to get off your face. Maybe there’s a trick to it I haven’t figured out. But it doesn’t matter; after a quick trip to a theatrical makeup shop today, I picked up some tips and supplies that should help me out at the mall tomorrow. Hopefully, this stuff will come off a little easier.

The experience of buying it was an interesting story, actually. I walked into the store a bit nervously, not sure of how to ask for what I really wanted. I glanced up towards the woman at the counter, who was eyeing me with a bored look on her face. She looked like a colorblind gypsy, wearing a strange-looking outfit full of clashing purples, greens, and blues, her face so caked with makeup that I almost thought she was wearing a mask. I’m not really sure I want her advice, I thought, but after looking around for a moment in frustration, I approached the counter gingerly.

“I’m, uh, looking for some makeup,” I said nervously, turning to face her. She said nothing and simply stared at me blankly, as if she wouldn’t come to life unless I gave her some specific command. “Uh… white face makeup, actually. And a black makeup pencil.”

She stared at me for a moment. “What, are you a mime or something?” she asked finally, her voice devoid of any emotion.

“Uh, no! No way! Of course not!” I protested quickly, and then, with a sinking, selling-out feeling, “I’m, uh, dressing up like a clown for a kid’s party.”

“Clowns, mimes, they’re all the same when it comes to makeup,” she said, and pointed towards a shelf with her eyes. “Clown white’s over there, and makeup pencils are right next to it. What size do you need?”

Embarrassed, I walked over to the shelf and picked up a pencil. “Uh, this one should be about right,” I said with a forced smile. “Thanks.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Um, sure!” I replied with a shrug. “I just need something to draw some stuff on my face and highlight my eyebrows.”

She rolled her eyes. I was beginning to wonder if any other parts of her body could move. “I don’t think that’s what you want. Maybe you should let me help you out here. What kind of face do you need?”

I looked down, a bit ashamed. “You said it already. A mime.”

“OK, so what you need is some clown white, a lip and eye pencil, and a thicker one for outlines,” she said, and suddenly came to life, getting up and picking several items up from around the store. Her actions were careful and almost practiced, and I had a sense, for just a moment, that despite her appearance, she did know what she was talking about. “You got some baby powder at home?”

“Um, yeah,” I said, a bit surprised. “Why?”

“Wash your face with cold water, dry it, and start putting on some of the white with your fingers,” she said, gesturing lightly with her fingers. “Smear it on, then smooth it out, and then powder it and let it set. Give it a few minutes, and then you can start outlining. What color do you want your lips?”

“Uh, black,” I said, surprised. She reached past me and picked up another little container.

“Mimes usually do red, but you can do black. Lip gloss would probably be the best thing for that. Put it on, then outline with your liner. I’d try mascara for the lashes and a medium sized outline pencil for the eyebrows. You got gloves?”

“Gloves?” I asked, surprised.

“Mimes wear white gloves, don’t they?” she asked, but didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Seven dollars. You need anything else?”

“Uh, nope, I think that’ll do me,” I said in a bit of a daze as she rung up my order. “Uh, thanks. I’m kind of relieved you’re OK with this whole mime thing.”

The woman looked at me blankly. “I grew up in San Francisco,” she said dully. “Believe me when I say I’ve seen everything, mimes included.”

“Uh, gotcha,” I said, and quickly paid her. As she took my money, she smiled lightly.

“It’s nice to see we’ve got some culture around here, at least,” she said, her voice still devoid of much emotion. A dull twinkle lit up in her eyes for just a moment. “People around here are too conservative – suck the life right out of you. Been a long time since I’ve dealt with any mimes. Great people, you know. Quiet. But a lot of fun.”

I thanked her and started to leave, a little unsure what to make of this. “You’re always welcome to perform here,” she said as I opened the door. I turned around and looked back at her for just a moment. She had a slightly excited look on her face.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Thanks again.” And I left, wondering if I’d awakened something in this clearly artistically-starved woman.
Unfortunately, walking into my house with a bag from a theatrical makeup store didn’t exactly thrill my parents.

“Not the drama thing again,” my dad groaned as he spotted the store’s masked comedy and tragedy logo. “C’mon, Tara, I thought you were done with that stuff.”

“Her brother said she was out in the park dressed up as a mime yesterday,” my mother said curtly. My dad’s face furrowed a bit as he looked up at me in anger.

“A mime? Is that true?” he demanded.

“I was just having some fun,” I said darkly, glaring back at him.

“Fun?” he exploded. “Didn’t it occur to you that people might recognize you out there? That they might talk about what bad parents we are to let our daughter go out parading like some kind of…”

“…deviant?” my mother finished for him, returning my glare. “Don’t you ever think about anyone but yourself, Tara?”

And so here I am now, sitting in my room, the result of an explosive argument about expression and free thought. They took my makeup away, but I’ll get it back. After all, I’ve still got a performance planned for tomorrow morning.

Day 6

Today was an interesting day.

I got up early and retrieved my mime makeup, and then spent a few hours in my room practicing some movements and warming up. When 10:00 rolled around, I put on some black pants and a white shirt, threw my hat, suspenders and makeup into a plastic grocery bag, made some excuses to my family about needing to run errands, and headed off towards the mall, seriously psyched about performing.

I changed in the ladies’ room, drawing a little more attention to myself than I would have liked. Several women, on their way in and out, gave me odd looks as I applied the makeup, and eventually one little girl boldly walked up and asked me what I was doing while she waited for her mother.

“I’m turning into a mime,” I said with a grin. She stepped back, but I stooped down and gently placed her face on my face so that she could feel the makeup.

“Is it contagious?” she asked, terrified. I laughed.

“No, but it’s fun,” I said. “You should try it sometime.”

She seemed a little more at ease now, and looked up at me curiously.

“Don’t you hafta be quiet?” she asked.

“In a little bit, when I draw a line around my face,” I said. “Then I’ll be a mime.”

She watched silently as I put on my lip gloss and began outlining my eyes and lips. “Do you have a name?” she asked after a moment.

“Mimic,” I said without hesitation, thinking to myself Where did that come from? The girl smiled.

“That’s pretty,” she said. Suddenly, her mother walked onto the scene and, with a disapproving sigh, dragged her daughter away. “But I was just talkin’ to the mime, mom!” Her mother lectured in return about talking to strangers. As I began outlining my face with a black oval, I thought but I’m not a stranger. I’m a mime.

Moments later, I was walking around the mall nonchalantly as if I was window shopping. Everywhere I went, people were staring at me, waving, pointing, or making remarks. I tried to pretend as if I was oblivious to them, and even pretended to be whistling as I strolled along.

I passed a security guard, who gave me an odd look and went for his radio. I heard him say something about a mime into it, but he didn’t approach me, so I continued walking.

Eventually, I wandered into the food court and decided to give a small performance. I joined a line for a pizza place and, after tapping my foot and looking at my invisible watch every few seconds with a silent sigh, I strode up to the counter confidently when it was my turn to order. I pretended to muse as I looked up at the menu, ignoring the stunned look on the face of the teenage boy who was running the register. Finally, after a moment’s deliberation, I pointed at one of the pizzas in the display case and made a triangle with my hands before patting my stomach and licking my chops.

“You want the pepperoni, right?” the boy asked with a puzzled look on his face. I nodded with a hungry smile on my face. “All right, you want a drink with that?”

I nodded, and pointed to the Coke logo on the soda fountain. “All right, Coke then. $4.50.”

I pulled out my invisible wallet and, opening it up and looking in it, looked up rather sheepishly as I turned it upside down. The boy rolled his eyes.

“No money, I see. Well, sorry, but we can’t sell you anything if you don’t have any money. Next!”

The customer behind me looked a bit perplexed as well, so I shook his hand, pretended to tip my hat, and walked away. And, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the security guard from earlier walking into the food court.

Before long, I was back in the mall, so I resumed my strolling routine. As I reached another courtyard area, I stopped for a moment and pretended to lean against an invisible wall as I looked back and forth, trying to decide where to go. A few children approached, and I stood up straight, pretended to pull some balloons from my pocket and began blowing up invisible balloon animals. One of the kids caught on right away and asked me for a cat, so I labored away and extended my hands after a moment. He smiled as he took the invisible animal from me, and a few of the other children made requests. I began blowing up another invisible balloon, but suddenly jumped backwards, startled, and began waving my fingers in the air. Another one of the kids realized what was going on and shouted “the balloon popped!”

More children were gathering now, and I made a few more balloon animals before leaning back on my invisible wall and breathing heavily as if I needed to take a break. “Is that wall real?” a girl from the crowd asked. I nodded and, gently taking her hand, placed it flat in the air next to mine as if it were connecting to an invisible surface. She seemed very surprised as I did so, and several of the other children followed her lead, placing their hands near mine in the same fashion.

“It’s real!” one of them cried.

“No it’s not!” another one said. “It’s fake!”

“I can feel it!” the little girl shouted. Other children began chiming in, and an argument over whether or not the wall was actually there broke out. I walked away, smiling; none of the children seemed to notice. But after I got a few feet away from them, I felt a very real finger tapping on my shoulder. I jumped as if surprised and whirled around suddenly, pretending to have a big stick in my hand to ward off the finger’s owner. And I found myself face-to-face with the security guard from before.

“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?” he asked.

My eyes got wide and I pretended to hide the stick behind my back with one hand as I explained with the other. “I’m window shopping,” I gestured, moving my lips as if I was speaking.

The guard looked at me strangely. “All right, well, whatever you’re doing, you can’t do it here. The makeup’s a security problem.”

“Really?” I gestured, raising my eyebrows in disbelief.

“Yep. Burglary,” he said, matter-of-factly. “No one knows who you are.”

I smiled nicely. “But I’m very nice,” I gestured, fluttering my eyes a bit.

“Performance artists have to be cleared by the main office,” he continued. I looked at him blankly. “Monday through Friday. Nine to Five.”
I held my free hand up to my face like a telephone receiver.

“555-5251,” he said without missing a beat. “OK?”

I nodded.

“Thank you,” he said, and pointed towards a door. “The exit’s right over there.”

He turned around and started to walk away, so I bonked him with my stick. He didn’t seem to notice, but some of the passerbys who had been watching the confrontation started laughing. He turned around and, looking at me sternly, pointed once more towards the exit. I stomped towards the door, throwing my stick to the side and scowling. Several people began clapping as I left, and I looked back at them sadly.

Once I was outside, I sat down on the pavement for a moment and pretended to be writing something on an invisible board I picked up from the ground. After a moment, I stood up and began marching around, carrying an invisible sign, shaking my fist, and silently shouting in protest. Most of the people who passed by were genuinely confused, and a few shouted out things to me, mostly inane comments about being trapped in boxes and so forth. Eventually, the mall’s public safety patrol car rolled up next to me, and two security officers got out and approached me. A small crowd of curious people began to form.

“Listen, this is very cute, but if you don’t stop, we’re gonna have to call the cops,” one of them said.

“What’re you guys gonna do?” someone called out. “Tell her she’s got the right to remain silent?” This got a few chuckles from the crowd, but the security officers didn’t look amused.

I held up my index finger and mouthed “First amendment rights.”

“That’s free speech!” someone in the crowd shouted. “You haven’t said anything!”

“Private property,” one of the officers said. “We’re trying to be nice about this, but if you’re going to be a nuisance, we can have you arrested.”

I saw a someone in the crowd start taking pictures, so I decided to stand firm. With a resolved glare, I held out my hands as if to say “cuff me.”

The officers looked exasperated. “Listen, ma’am,” one of them said, then thought about his words for a moment. “Yeah. You can hear, you just can’t talk.”

I stuck my fingers in my ears. Several people in the crowd laughed.

“Call the cops,” the other one said, shaking his head in disgust. “We’re not getting paid enough to deal with this.”

At this point, I realized I’d probably pushed things a bit too far. “No wait,” I gestured, holding up my hand. And slowly, sadly and heavily, as if bearing a great burden, I walked away, past the crowd, out into the parking lot. A few people booed, but most of them just shook their heads and walked away.

One, however, chased after me. “Hey, mime, hold on a second!” he said. I turned around, and waited for him to catch up. “I’m Merv Robertson, from the Herald. I got a few pictures back there, and was just wondering if I could get some caption information.”

I smiled and began mouthing my name and address. He grinned and shook his head.

“Maybe I’d better have you write it down,” he said, handing me a notebook. “You can do that, right?”

So I wrote down my name, Mimic the Mime, and a brief explanation of what’d been going on. He looked it over carefully as I handed it back to him and said “Um, I need your real name too.”

“That is my real name,” I gestured and nodded. He looked a little confused, but said “Um, OK, thanks!” and walked away. I turned around and, trying to keep myself from laughing, made my way towards my car. Once I climbed inside, I grabbed a towel and a bottle of water and, as I placed the towel over my face and broke the outline with a corner, I started laughing so hard I was having trouble breathing. And I didn’t stop for a long time.

Day 7

As of today, I’m out of the closet.

And boy, am I in trouble.

There was a picture of me in the paper this morning standing in front of the security officers. The caption named me as “Mimic the Mime,” but my parents recognized me right away. And, unfortunately, so did several family friends who called later in the day, rather concerned to see that I’d pulled such a crazy stunt.

They threatened to take away my makeup, but when I wouldn’t give it to them, they took my car keys instead. I was lectured up and down about how this artist stuff is a pipe dream and how I need to face the reality that I’ve got to get a real job if I ever want to make money. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was not allowed to be a mime anymore. And, as I sat there, silently pretending to listen, I was trying very hard not to laugh at the irony of a situation where I was expressing what I felt – a dull, quiet boredom – through my actions.

It’s not like they can stop me anyhow. I don’t have to dress up or wear makeup to be a mime. I don’t even have to stay silent. I just have to let my motion express my emotion. And let my creativity be poured into finding new and different ways to do it.

I was thinking about the old cliche of the mime who’s trapped in the invisible box. The mime begins by exploring her surroundings and discovers that she’s trapped in a world where the walls are closing in. But as she begins to push, she realizes that the walls can move backwards as well. And then suddenly, she pushes a wall down and escapes into a world where there are no boundaries – and where every obstacle is a new adventure.

************************************************************

Copyright Sean J. Jordan, 2008. All Rights Reserved.
The author grants permission for this story to be distributed freely for non-commercial use.

Another thing that annoyed me was the insistence of these same Christians that the name “Jesus Christ” was the only name synonymous with the redemption of the soul. Truth be told, no one knows what the man we refer to as Jesus Christ actually called himself; the letter “J” didn’t even exist until the 9th century AD, and the Greek word “Iesus” is a translation of a Hebrew name. scholars believe he may have called himself “Yeshu” or “Yeshoua,” but the lack of sources outside the gospels make it hard to know what.

Both of those pet peeves played a heavy role in the creation of Elijah, who is very much like myself in the year 2001…

Josh

by Sean J. Jordan

December 5th, 2001 (Revised December 8th, 2001)

Love your neighbor as you love yourself, Alison kept reminding herself. No matter how annoying they are.

And Elijah was annoying.

“He’s been coming to bible study for three years now, and all he seems to want to do is stir things up,” one student bitterly complained. “I’ve been praying for awhile now that he’ll come around, but he’s one of those people who just seems bent on going to hell.”

Others in the group nodded in agreement, and Alison, ever the clueless college freshman, decided to speak up.

“It just seems like there’s got to be a better way to reach out to him than to ask him to leave,” she said timidly, feeling patronizing eyes turning towards her. “I mean, I know I don’t know him as well as the rest of you, but…”

“We gave him a warning,” the bible study leader interjected gently, and a few murmurs of agreement rose from around her. “I told him he could stay if he wanted to participate, but that he couldn’t talk about Josh.”

Josh. Elijah’s god, or so he claimed. And it had been the sheer mention of Josh that had created a verbal battlefield between Elijah and some of the older members of the group only moments before.

“We get people like this sometimes,” another student explained. “All they want to do is cause trouble.”

“There’s nowhere in the Bible where it says “Thou shalt be a doormat unto others,” someone else blurted out, and a few members of the group giggled.

“Sometimes, we just need to grit our teeth and pray for them,” the leader said calmly, and Alison found herself feeling uncomfortable as she heard it. “Maybe we should take a few minutes and go to God about Elijah.”

Alison felt her skin crawling. Why? she wondered. I’ve prayed for people before. But as the others in the group began bowing their heads, she excused herself with a sheepish statement about needing to use the bathroom and quickly walked out into the hallway.

Elijah was sitting outside, leaning against a wall and quietly talking to himself. I should just leave him alone, Alison thought, and then decided against it, instead walking to a spot next to him and crouching down.

“Are you OK?” she asked quietly. Elijah mouthed a few more words and then looked up and smiled.

“Sorry, I was just praying,” he replied cheerfully. He had a friendly, bouncy sort of voice. Alison sighed heavily and plopped down as her legs collapsed underneath her.

“They’re praying for you right now, you know,” she said.

He nodded. “They usually do.”

She shot him an annoyed look. “Do you get a kick out of antagonizing Christians?”

He laughed and pretended to rub his backside. “I did today.”

A look became a glare. “I’m serious. Is there a point to all this, or are you just trying to bother people?”

Now he was the one who was sighing, and she was surprised to see a serious expression on his face.

“Did it ever occur to you,” he said slowly, “that maybe I’m trying to save them?”

“Looks like you’re not succeeding,” Alison replied dryly. “I’d say you’re about 0-20 today.”

Elijah shrugged. “Yeah, I’m probably wasting my time. Most of them are set in their ways already.” His face brightened a bit. “But at least you’re out here. That’s got to count for something.”

“Just to try to talk some sense into you,” she protested. “I’ve got no desire to learn more about this… what did you call him?”

“Josh.”

“Right, Josh. I’m convinced Christianity is true, therefore, I am a Christian. QED.”

Elijah’s smile was almost condescending. “And I’m sure you could sit out here and prove to me that it’s all true, every word of it. Every ounce of dogma, every line of scripture.”

Alison shifted a bit to make herself more comfortable. “If you want me to, yes.”

“Please don’t,” he said, and then added quickly, “believe me, you wouldn’t be the first to try.”

Love your neighbor as yourself, Alison felt herself thinking, and stared at Elijah blankly. But how? she wondered. How do you love a guy who’s trying to frustrate you?

“I’m Alison,” she said almost automatically, extending her hand. “I don’t think we were really properly introduced.”

“Elijah,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it warmly. “You’re a freshman here?”

“Yes. Yourself?”

“A senior,” he replied with a grin. “Though sometimes, I still feel like a freshman.”

“Why?”

“Because I still haven’t lost my love for learning, I guess,” he said.

“So you’re a good student, then?” Alison asked, happy to change the topic to something more neutral.

“Terrible,” Elijah said wryly. “I love to learn, but I hate homework.”

“Do you like to read?”

“Love it. I think I read…” he paused to think, and then looked back up. “… four? books last week. Maybe five.”

“I’ve got one for you sometime,” she said. “Mere Christianity, by CS Lewis. It’s a…”

Elijah held up his hand and cut her off.

“I’ve read it,” he said. “Can’t you guys be a little more original?”

“I just thought you might like it,” Alison said, a bit wounded. “I’m not trying to convert you or anything.”

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “You’re going to miss your Bible study.”

“They’re just praying for you right now. I’ll go back in a minute.”

There was a pause. “Why,” he said after a moment, eyes still closed, “did you come out here anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “It just seemed like it’d make more sense to try to get to know you personally than to let everyone else tell me who you are.”

“I like that,” he said, still not moving. “We should talk sometime.”

“About Josh?”

“Yeah.”

She stood up, brushing the dust from the hallway off her pants. “Only if we can give equal time to Jesus.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“It was nice to talk to you,” she said, and began walking away. But as she turned and reached for the doorknob, she heard his voice.

“Do you mind if I pray for you?” he asked.

“Only if I can pray for you,” she replied.

“Let our gods duke it out, huh?” he said, and laughed. “I’ll talk to you later, Alison.”

She shook her head and returned to the study.

****************************************************************

It was nearly a month before she saw Elijah again, much to the relief of her friends in the bible study. He was standing in a small group of people, listening to a doomsaying, gay-bashing, bible-quoting campus preacher. Alison walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder and he shook his head sadly, not looking away from the performance in front of him.

“I’m glad Josh isn’t like this,” he said, and Alison groaned.

“Jesus isn’t like this either,” she said, turning away. Elijah turned with her, and they began walking away.

“You know, I tried to talk to this guy once, and he told me…” Elijah chuckled here, “… that I had a demon. Can you believe that?”

“Such a sad picture of Christianity,” Alison said. “I wish people didn’t think of us like that.”

“One thing I’ve never understood is how you guys can claim to worship the same Jesus and say that the other guy’s wrong,” Elijah responded. “One says hate homosexuals, another says love them. One says everyone’s going to hell, another says God doesn’t want anyone to. And then, my favorite … one says it’s a sin to consume alcohol and another invites you to talk about theology over a few beers. And it’s all in the name of Jesus.”

“And I suppose Josh isn’t so inconsistent?” Alison remarked darkly.

“Hey, Josh makes it easy. Two rules. Love him, love others. That’s all you need to know.”

Alison frowned. “Jesus said that, you know. Matthew 22:37-39.”

Elijah applauded. “Looks we’ve got a walking, talking Bible here, folks.”

“Maybe you should read it sometime,” she said stiffly.

“What makes you think I haven’t?” he replied. “But let me ask you… have you read the Koran? The Vedas? The Apocrypha? The Book of Mormon?”

“Of course not!” she replied indignantly. “Why would I?”

“How else are you going to know if they’re true?”

“But I know they’re not, so there’s no point in reading them.”

Elijah tsked. “That’s where you Christians get it all wrong. You decide if something doesn’t agree with your worldview, it’s not worth your time.”

“Now wait a minute,” Alison interjected, “if I believe Christianity is true, and other religions aren’t a valid way to God, then I can conclude their ideas aren’t as true as what the Bible’s got to say and therefore aren’t something I want to fill my head with. That’s reasonable.”

“Did you know,” Elijah said, seemingly undaunted, “that the book of Esther nearly didn’t make it into the Bible because it doesn’t ever mention God?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“And did you know,” he continued, “that the Catholic Bible has six books that aren’t in the Protestant Bible?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Alison replied. “What’s your point?”

Elijah shrugged. “If the Bible’s the word of God, I don’t understand why there’ve been so many arguments over what’s supposed to be in it and how it’s supposed to be arranged. Can’t God make up his mind?”

“Hey, it’s not God’s fault,” Alison said. “It’s people who are constantly trying to twist his words. You can make the Bible say anything if you take it too literally and out of context.”

“See, that’s why I like Josh,” Elijah said. “It’s hard to misquote a god who hasn’t said anything.” They turned a corner and continued walking. Alison shivered a bit and zipped up her jacket.

“So where’d you get the idea of this Josh guy, anyway?” she asked.

“Well, it’s an interesting story,” Elijah said. “I was raised by a couple of Christian fundamentalists. You know, the type who name their kids out of the Bible? Actually, I don’t know if you know this or not, but my name means “My God is Yahweh,” which I think is kind of ironic…”

“I asked about Josh, not you.”

“Right, right. So anyway, when I was in high school, I decided I’d had enough of this church stuff. I was tired of the dogma, tired of the hypocrisy, and tired of people judging each other for not living up to the standards of a God who just wanted to send us all to hell anyway. So I was laying outside, looking up at the stars one night, and I started thinking. ‘We either live in creation or chaos,’ I reasoned, ‘and I can accept that we live in creation because life’s just too depressing to live in chaos. So there must be a God, and it stands to reason that he’s got ultimate power and knowledge over his creation since it doesn’t make any sense for a God to create something he can’t control.’”

“Sounds reasonable,” Alison agreed. “Go on.”

“OK, so then I thought, ‘He’s got to be morally perfect, because I have the idea of moral perfection, and it doesn’t make sense for there to be created ideals unless the creator can live up to them.’ That’s actually a pretty complicated line of thinking, but I’ll explain it another time. And anyway, I went on to wonder if God was a personal god. I decided that he’d have to be, since there’s such a thing as personal beings in his creation, and that therefore, he must have a name and an identity.”

“And so you named him Josh,” Alison interrupted.

“Well, it was more along the lines of asking him if it was OK to call him Josh and not hearing him object,” Elijah said.

“That’s ridiculous,” Alison said. “By your logic, I could ask the air if it’d like to be called Harold, and reason that if it didn’t respond, it’d be content to be called Harold.”

“Hey, call it Harold if you want to,” Elijah shrugged. “I don’t think it cares. But you’re missing the point. Air isn’t a personal being. Josh is.”

“But why Josh? Why not Frank, or Joe, or …”

“…or Jesus?” Elijah finished for her. “Because his name is Josh. If it isn’t and it matters, I just have to trust him to tell me that.”

Alison stopped and smiled as a sudden realization struck.

“How do you know he’s not trying to tell you through someone like me?” she said excitedly. “His name isn’t Josh. It’s Jesus. Don’t you see?”

Elijah stopped and looked back at her with amusement. “Or maybe your Jesus is trying to use me to tell you his name is really Josh.”

Alison groaned. “Are you trying to drive me crazy?”

“Not at all!” Elijah replied. “I’m just trying to help you to see the truth.”

“I know the truth!” she cried. “Jesus came and died for your sins so you don’t have to go to hell! Don’t you get it?”

“Hell…” Elijah mused. “Now there’s an interesting topic.” He glanced at his watch and looked back at her suddenly with a start. “But it’ll have to wait until next time. I’m late for class!” And with that, he took off running, shouting something about hoping they’d get talk again soon.

I hope so too, thought Alison, shaking her head. I think one of us is seriously confused.

****************************************************************

“I ran into Elijah today,” the bible study leader said sadly towards the end of the meeting. “He said he’s still praying for us.”

A few murmurs of disapproval worked their way through the group, and Alison found herself disapproving as well. But not of Elijah, she realized. Why do I feel like I want to defend him?

“I wish he’d give it a rest,” someone said in exasperation. “Everyone knows he’s just mocking our beliefs.”

“Well, my pastor said sometimes God gives us devils to test our faith,” another student remarked. “Maybe God’s using Elijah like he used Pharaoh with Moses.”

“Elijah’s not a devil!” Alison was surprised to hear herself blurting out. There was an awkward silence as eyes in the group turned towards her. Uhoh, I’m in over my head here, Lord, she thought. “He’s just someone who really needs to know about God’s love,” she said, feeling as if she was stumbling over her words in nervousness. “And sometimes, I don’t really think that we’re doing a very good job in… ummm…” The glares were beginning to feel like daggers. “… uh, showing that love to him.”

Someone groaned. “What do you want us to do? Pay his rent? Wash his car? Take his finals?”

The bible study leader turned towards Alison. “We’ve tried everything. All we can do is pray for him.”

“Yeah, but…” Alison fumbled, “… maybe we need to… you know, just accept him. For who he is, not who we want him to be.”
A couple of people in the crowd lunged for their Bibles and began flipping furiously, but the leader held up her hand to stop them and smiled kindly.

“You’ve got a heart for people, and I really admire that,” she said sweetly. “But one day, you’re going to realize that all the good intentions and love in the world can’t save someone. It’s only through Jesus Christ that anyone can experience salvation. We may not like it, we may not think it’s fair, but that’s the way it works. What we think doesn’t matter.”

“I happen to think,” the leader added quickly, “that Elijah is a very neat guy. But I also know that unless he chooses to accept Jesus Christ as his lord and personal savior, we won’t be seeing him in heaven. And I think that’s really all that can be said about him.”

A few of the people in the group nodded in agreement, and even the bible flippers seemed to be satiated by that. Alison nodded too, thinking technically, she’s right. He really isn’t one of us.

As the meeting closed, Alison ducked out quickly as several of the people in the group began to make a beeline for her, dog-eared Bibles in hand. And maybe, she thought as she escaped from the throng of well-meaning scripture-sharers, he doesn’t want to be.

****************************************************************

“Hey, it’s Alison!” a surprised Elijah said as he opened the door and saw her standing there. “What’s the occasion?”

“I… wanted to talk,” she said, a bit unsteadily, and he looked concerned.

“Come on in,” he offered, sweeping his hand into the room. “Excuse the mess – I didn’t know I’d be having visitors.”

She walked in nervously, quickly surveying the efficiency apartment. It was a bit cluttered, maybe, but hardly messy. Elijah offered her a chair and sat down on his bed, smiling gently and waiting for her to speak.

“How’d you find out where I live, anyway?” he asked.

“I looked you up in the student directory.”

“Ah, just like a stalker,” he replied with a grin. “I’ve always wanted one of those.”

Alison decided to change the subject. “So, do you live here by yourself?” Stupid question, she thought as she looked around. Elijah simply laughed.

“Well, sometimes I rent my closet out to wandering vagrants,” he joked, “but otherwise, yeah. It’s just me. Not many people want to live with an iconoclast.”

“A what?”

“An unconventional eccentric,” he explained. “That’s me in a nutshell.”

“Oh,” Alison said, and looked around. “It’s nice.” And it really was. The room was filled with books, some in piles, some lining the walls on makeshift bookshelves on top of his desk, stereo, and kitchen cabinets. It had a very homey feel to it, which was more than Alison could say for her cramped cinderblock dorm room.

“Yeah, I like to think so,” Elijah said, and began to stretch. “So,” he started, pausing to yawn, “what brings you here? You look upset.”

Butterflies were forming in her stomach. “Well, um,” she started, “we talked about you in Bible study today.” Elijah nodded, but said nothing, so she tried to continue. “And, um, well, I kind of got in an argument with the rest of the group.”

“Over what?” he asked.

She reddened a bit. “I told them we should accept you as you are and quit trying to make you into what we want you to be.”

“A noble sentiment,” he agreed. “Is that how you really feel?”

“Well, yeah!” she said. “I mean, we can’t make you put your faith in Christ, but we can at least treat you with some love and compassion and just let you be you.”

“Be careful,” he warned her with a smile. “You’re beginning to sound like a follower of Josh.”

I am not a follower of Josh! she thought, but decided not to say it. “Um, how, exactly?” she asked instead, unsure if she really wanted to know.

“Because Josh accepts people as they are,” Elijah said.

“Well, Christians are supposed to do that too,” Alison retorted.

“Ah, but they don’t.” Elijah held up a finger as if to ward off her responses for a moment. “When was the last time you saw a practicing homosexual in a Christian church?”

“Well, there are churches that accept them, but…”

“… but they’re wrong, right?” His tone was much more serious now. “How about a prostitute? Or a drug addict? Or someone who lies all the time? Or a couple who’s living together outside of marriage?” Alison was silent. “They’re real people too, right?”

“OK, so?” she asked. Elijah threw up his hands and sighed.

“Exactly. ‘So what?’ you guys ask. ‘They choose to live in sin.’ But Josh says that they’re people too, and that he loves them as much as he loves you or me.”

“Jesus says that too.”

“Maybe he does, but I’d never know from looking at his church,” Elijah responded. “You know, back when I was still going to my parents’ church, I saw something incredible. There was this girl who’d gone away to college and come out of the closet. And you know what they did? They excommunicated her. They actually told us not to attempt to contact her or talk to her until she repented from her ’sinful lifestyle.’”

“And you know,” he continued, “it really bothered me. Here we were, constantly talking about loving a world full of sinners, and yet we were doing everything we could to be separated from them. That was when I decided I didn’t need Jesus anymore.”

“Just Josh.”

“Exactly. Because Josh doesn’t care if you’re gay or the wrong color or a thrice-convicted murderer and dog rapist. He’ll take anyone, especially the people who aren’t good enough for you Christians.”

“But Josh didn’t die for your sins,” Alison said. “Jesus did.”

“And that’s another thing… your dead God,” Elijah said without missing a beat. “You Christians and your dead God. You make such a big deal about his death, you seem to forget he’s supposed to be alive.”

“Death,” he declared, “isn’t in Josh’s vocabulary.”

Now Alison was getting frustrated. “Well, it is in mine!” she said. “and I refuse to believe in a god who can’t comprehend the reality of it!”

“Who says he doesn’t?” Elijah asked. “Maybe he’s just not partial to who he’s willing to accept.”

“But it’s not fair for a god to save everyone!” she protested.

Elijah looked at her sadly. “Typical Christian response. You guys only want Christians in heaven. But Josh? He’ll accept Ghandi, and Siddartha Gautama Buddha, and Plato and Socrates and whoever else is just trying to figure out who God really is without worrying so much about being fundamentally righteous.”

“And anyway,” he added, before she could respond, “I didn’t say Josh saves everyone. There are people who are bound and determined to live apart from him, and if that’s what they want, that’s what he’ll give them. But he’s not going to turn them down on the basis of who they were. He looks at them on the basis of who they are.”

“But that’s twisted!” Alison finally broke through. “By your logic, you don’t even have to believe in Josh to be saved!”

Elijah shrugged. “I think Josh reveals himself to everyone, each in an individual way,” he said. “How they choose to respond to that is between them and Josh.”

“So you’re saying all religions lead to Josh then?”

Elijah looked annoyed. “Stop putting words in my mouth,” he said. “I didn’t say that at all.”

Oops, Alison thought. “Well, what are you saying, then?”

“First of all, let’s get this clear… there is truth in other religions.” Elijah looked passionate and intense as he said this; This must be one of his pet peeves, Alison decided. “Virtually every world religion, for example, says ‘Love thy neighbor.’ Christians tend to discard that as a partial truth, but I see it as a stepping stone to telling people about Josh.”

“OK,” Alison said carefully. “So what do you tell them?”

“I tell them what I know. That there’s a god out there who’s more concerned with relationships than with rules. That what he wants is a world where people treat each other with real love – you know, the kind that’s not trying to take advantage of anyone or sell anything – and that he’s willing to accept anyone, even the worst sinner out there, so long as they’re willing to follow him.”
“Sounds familiar. What does following entail?”

Elijah shrugged. “Different things for different people.”

“OK, what does it mean for you?”

“A lot of thinking, a lot of exploring.” He looked contemplative for a moment. “I guess you could say I’m still getting to know Josh.”
This guy’s a froot loop, Alison thought, and stood up. “You’re impossible.”

Elijah smiled. “All things are possible in Josh.”

She leveled a glare. “Whatever. I’ll talk to you later.” And quickly, before he could say anything that might convince her to stay, she flung his door open and walked out of the room, slamming it shut behind her.

I wanted to stay, she realized, and stood there for a moment, outside his apartment, deep in thought. Anger began to well up inside her. I think he was actually starting to sell me on all of this.

She felt herself fuming. Lord, give me wisdom and strength, she prayed, storming down the stairs and out of the apartment building. Because right now, I’d be happy if I never saw him again.

I think.

****************************************************************

It was nearly Christmas break before she heard from him again.

She heard the phone ringing as she walked into her room on her way back from class. Let the machine get it, she decided, unslinging her bookbag and taking off her coat before easing herself onto her bed, hoping for a quick nap after a long day. She was vaguely aware of the answering machine’s message playing, but not really interested in who was calling.

“Alison, this is Jenny, from your bible study group,” a panicked female voice said. Alison sat up. There was a lot of noise in the background, as if the call was coming from a mall or someplace crowded. “Are you there? Please pick up.”

She lunged for the phone, very nearly hanging it up is it slipped out of her hands. “Hello? Hello?” she said quickly, hoping she hadn’t goofed up.

“Listen, Alison, I work at the hospital and… look, can you come down here?” the voice on the other end said quickly.

“Why?” she asked, a little surprised.

Jenny sounded as if she were going to cry. “Elijah’s here. He’s… not well, Alison. He was in a bad accident.” And then, softly, “I think he’s dying.”

Alison glanced at her watch and felt her heart pounding. “I can be there in 20 minutes, I think.”

“Good. I’ll meet you at the entrance to the emergency room, OK?”

Alison thanked her and hung up. She paused for a moment, still recoiling from the shock, and then quickly grabbed her keys and coat and ran out of the room, flinging the door shut behind her, quickly returning to chide herself to remember to put her shoes on next time before leaving once again.

****************************************************************

Jenny was waiting at the entrance as she’d promised, dressed in a volunteer nurse’s outfit. She did not look happy.

“I’m going to have to sneak you in,” she explained, looking around fearfully as they walked down the hallway towards intensive care.

“Just me?” Alison asked. “Isn’t anyone else coming?”

“He didn’t ask for anyone else. Just you.” Jenny ducked around a corner, pulling Alison with her. A doctor walked by, seemingly oblivious to them.

“He asked for me?” Alison asked once the coast was clear and they returned to the hallway.

“He said he’s got something really important to tell you,” Jenny replied. They stopped at a door. “Here we are. We might not have much time, so be quick.”

Alison walked into the room and saw a heavily bandaged form hooked up to more tubes than she could count lying in the hospital bed.

“Elijah?” she asked quietly, not wanting to disturb him, but his eyes opened at the sound of her voice.”

“Hey Alison,” came his muffled reply. “Thanks for coming.”

“What happened?” she asked, walking over to the side of his bed.

“I got hit by a drunk driver,” he said, a bit slower than usual, and Alison realized that it was hurting him to talk. “I don’t know what happened to him. I guess he’s in Josh’s hands now.”

Alison felt herself beginning to cry. “Can’t you just give up this stupid god of yours and get your heart right with the real one before it’s too late?” she asked, and began sobbing. “I don’t want you to go to hell!”

“I won’t,” he said, calmly and softly, grimacing as he moved his arm to lightly touch her forearm with his fingers in consolation. “Josh will take care of me.”

“No, he won’t!” she wanted to scream, but settled for simply saying it instead. “He’s not real. Don’t you see that?”

“I do see,” he said, with a simple smile. “And if I abandon him now, what’s the point of having believed in him in the first place?”

Now she felt angry, and glared at him between tears. “Did you call me in here just to thumb your nose at me?”

“No, I didn’t,” he said, sighing. “I have something for you.”

“What?” she asked, not wanting to trust him. “It’s not about Josh, is it?”

“Yes,” he replied, and slowly, with obvious pain, lifted his arm to a nearby nightstand and picked up a small, neatly folded piece of paper.

“I don’t want it,” she said obstinately.

“Please…” he said, extending it towards her. “You have no idea how much this hurts.”

She took it, looking at him sourly, and began to unfold it.

“Not here,” he said, and then smiled. “Think about what it says, OK?”

Jenny walked in the room suddenly, and Alison jammed the paper into her pocket. “Wrap it up, guys,” she hissed. “I’m going to be in a ton of trouble if they find out about this.”

“We’re finished,” Elijah said, his voice returning to its normal, happy tone, if for just a moment.

“But…” Alison protested. Elijah smiled again.

“I love you, Alison. And Josh loves you too. Don’t forget that.”

And with that, he closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep.

“I love you too, Elijah,” she said softly. “And just remember, it’s never too late to come to Christ.”

With that, she left, and Jenny, looking rather shocked, trailed behind her, saying nothing.

****************************************************************

She found out the next day that he’d died a few hours later of massive internal bleeding. Grief-stricken, she sat at her desk as she got home from class, crying and staring at the small fold of paper he’d given her the day before.

Do I want to open this? she asked herself, turning it over and over in her fingers. Do I want to confirm what I already know – that he died trusting in some made-up god and went to hell as a result? Part of her did not want to know – after all, she realized, I want to believe that he changed his mind at the last minute and is with Christ right now. But curiosity gave in to obstinance, and she found herself unraveling the note.

“Yeshuah wept” was all it said, and in big bold letters.

I don’t understand, she thought, staring at it in disbelief. What does this have to do with anything?

Yeshuah, the Hebrew name for Jesus. Yeshuah mashiah, salvation from God.

Jeshuha.

Joshua.

“Josh.”

She began to cry again.

****************************************************************

It was a small funeral, with only a few family members and acquaintances attending. Elijah, it seemed, did not have many friends. His parents were there, both looking very stern and puritanical, both looking too reserved to show anything but the outward signs of grief.

After it was over, Alison approached them and explained that she had been a friend of Elijah’s and that she was very sorry for their loss.
“Just tell me that he died in our Lord Jesus’s arms,” his mother said, looking as if she was about to lose control and begin sobbing then and there.

Alison smiled and choked back one of her own. “Not Jesus,” she said carefully. “But let me tell you about Josh…”

************************************************************

Copyright Sean J. Jordan, 2008. All Rights Reserved.
The author grants permission for this story to be distributed freely for non-commercial use.

Last Centaur

By Sean Jordan
July 2nd, 2002

“Odd” cannot begin to describe
this strange combination of creatures;
A centaur, with the power and grandeur of a horse
And the sorrow and sickness of a man.
His neck is bent, almost snapping, along his shoulder.
His arms flail out in desperate despair.

Bronzed for an eternity;
Captured in a moment.

“He looks broken,” a girl whispers, awe-struck
As she and her companion sit at the creature’s hooves.
He is the last of the centaurs, they discover later,
Meant to symbolize the death of mythology, paganism, and imagination
Under the crushing weight of Christianity.

Creepy, yet compelling.
The girl walks around the statue slowly, taking in the sight,
Trying to make sense of the centaur’s suffering.
Her companion declares that had he designed the statue,
It would have stood proudly, tall,
A regal man among beasts
Rather than a burdened beast among men.

The girl ignores his commentary,
Knowing he has missed the point, as have so many others,
Wanting to understand – to empathize! – with the statue’s spirit.
After several quiet moments, she sits back down,
Unable to express the movement within her,
Unable to stand for the lonely centaur.

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Copyright Sean J. Jordan, 2008. All Rights Reserved.
Photo Copyright Kirby Vandivort.
The author grants permission for this poem to be distributed freely for non-commercial use.