The Cell Phone

           a short story by Mary M. Isaacs

     It was early in the afternoon. He had taken a break from walking and was sitting on an old bench in the park of the little town. It seemed like a nice place to live; he was glad that he’d had a chance to see it before leaving the state. While he rested his feet, he took a water bottle from his backpack and had a drink before putting it away. He would look for a cafe or a grocery store deli while heading to the bus station. There was a long road ahead of him, and he would need food and more water for the journey.

     The phone in his jacket pocket rang. He took it out, looked at the display for a moment, and then decided it was okay to answer right now. He held the phone up to his ear as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Hello.”

     Her voice sounded like it always did now: controlled, tentative, intentionally neutral. “Hi, Jack. How are you?”

      “I’m all right.”

     A pause. Then, “Where are you these days?” The question was said in a light tone, but that didn’t fool him.

     “I’m on the move. Passing through Colorado right now.”

     “Where are you heading?” The end of the question was bitten off, as if she had realized she was going too far and  would like to unsay it. Too late.

     “Not sure right now. Somewhere.” It was the usual answer. And a truthful one.

     There was more silence. “Do you need anything? I could send something General Delivery if you told me what town you were heading towards. Or where you’ll be sometime soon.” She qualified the explanation, to give him space.

     He thought about it, and then replied in the negative. “But thank you.” He knew she was just trying to be helpful. Like when she gave him this phone, which she was paying for. He seldom used it, except for answering her calls. Sometimes. And he had disabled the GPS tracking as soon as he received it. He didn’t want to be dependent on anyone or anything; he didn’t want to be found, especially by her. But he kept the phone just to give her some peace of mind. He figured he owed it to her, after what had happened.

     “Jack…” her voice trailed off uncertainly. He knew what that meant.

     “I know.” He passed his hand over his eyes and considered whether he should say anything else, and then decided it was the least he could do for her. “I love you, too.”

     There was another long silence. He could feel the intensity in it, and he waited, knowing she had something to say. But when she finally did speak, her abrupt abandonment of generalities caught him off guard.

     “I’m not angry with you any more, Jack—don’t you know that? It wasn’t all your fault, your decision. I agreed, remember? I know it was wrong, but we did what we thought was best at the time. I forgive you. I’ve forgiven myself.”

     He jerked upright. “But I can’t,” he responded harshly. “And I can’t forget what I did. Not ever.” He stopped speaking as suddenly as she had, earlier. “I have to go now.”

     There was no response from the other end, but he knew it wasn’t silent where she was. He knew she was trying to keep her crying as quiet as possible. Their calls always ended like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He waited for her to speak again, trying to keep his own pain under control.

     “Please take care, Jack. Be careful wherever you go. I’ll call again.”

     “You do that.” He heard hesitancy, as if she was going to say something else, and then she hung up.

     He turned off the phone and pocketed it. Then he leaned back on the park bench and closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. Her calls always had that effect, scrambling his thinking; this one would haunt him for quite a while. What would everything be like if it hadn’t happened? Was he going to be on the road like this forever? Would he ever be able to see her again? At that, he opened his eyes and sat forward, dragging his thoughts away from a past that could not be changed.

     He took a deep breath, picked up his backpack, and got to his feet. He thought he’d seen a cafe sign down the road a bit. It was time to go.


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Mary M. Isaacs

copyright 2019

"The Cell Phone" is included in the collection, Holy Innocence, found on the right sidebar

De Profundis

         [“Sanctuary” fulfilled]

      These days he always dreamed about terrible things, things that mirrored the fearful realities in his waking hours; it was as if all those fears were being dragged into his restless nights.

     Chris was no longer discernibly devout at this point in his life. He had been brought up in a distant country by an old woman and an even older man after being abandoned by his mother. Well, perhaps “abandoned” was not the right word. The old man had told him that she had left her baby—Chris himself—with them for safekeeping, as she was being pursued because of a death sentence on her head. On both their heads, or so she said, and she wanted her boy to be saved. But the old people had always been vague about what danger could have threatened an innocent baby. Instead, they showed him, daily, the reality of their faith and devotion to God, even in the harsh religious climate in which they lived. Over the years, Chris learned about their Christian faith; he learned where it came from and what it meant. He participated in their daily worship services, which were held quietly and unobtrusively, because of the ongoing religious intolerance.

     There were times they insisted he hide, explaining it as only an exciting game. Only much later did he learn the truth about that...

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Mary M Isaacs

copyright 2026 (story continued in a forthcoming book)

Sanctuary

                A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

 

   The old wooden door opened noiselessly; a young woman hesitated on the threshold, looking in from the darkness outside. The brick walls of the room were in shadow, lit only by two oil lamps on either end of a plain wooden table and the glow of a hanging lamp: a candle in a red glass holder.

   “Sanctuary,” she breathed, closing her eyes in thankfulness.

   She entered the room and quietly shut the door behind her. In her arms she carried something wrapped in blankets; over her shoulder was slung a large knapsack, which looked more bulky than heavy. Her clothing was wrinkled and stained, as if she had been wearing it for many days–which she had been.

   There were a few benches along the walls. She crossed to one and sat down gratefully. While still carefully holding what was in her arms, she unslung the knapsack and set it on the floor beside her. She then leaned against the wall and sighed deeply. This was her penultimate destination; the difficult journey was almost over. Although she no longer had a watch—she had no metal objects of any kind on her, for that matter—she had a good sense of time. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait very long for the final service of the day. She rested quietly, eyes on the hanging lamp.

   After a short while, a bell started to ring...

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Mary M. Isaacs 

copyright, 2020

"Sanctuary" is contained in the collection  The White Bird, on the right sidebar

On L.A. Freeways

        A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

 

   She didn’t like driving through L.A. It was said (apocryphally, she was certain, as she’d never experienced it herself) that there were times when traffic was light. Oh, sure. She always found herself crawling as she passed familiar Los Angeles landmarks, no matter what time of day or night it was. But going completely around greater L.A.—via Bakersfield, Barstow, and San Bernardino—was only possible if you didn’t mind feeling that you were never going to get anywhere again for the rest of your life. Which was the same feeling she got when traveling through L.A. 

   So that alternate route wouldn’t help at all. 

   She was familiar with distance traveling, days-long traveling. As a child and a teenager, her father’s job transferred him every couple of years, which meant move after move. Before she went off to college, they’d lived in California (several locations), New Mexico, Arizona, and back to California again, burning through two grade schools, two middle schools, and three high schools, in her case. What she mainly remembered from all those moves, though, were the road trips. 

   Going back to Southern California to visit old friends and relatives meant days and days of driving, over long stretches of lonely Arizona and California desert highways, punctuated by stops at roadside motels. Fortunately, she was able to read in moving cars without getting sick, so that helped pass the time. But even that palled after a while, so there were hours of imagination, growing remembrances of and comparisons with road trips past, and absently watching the landscape go by while daydreaming. The license plate game helped, too, when her younger siblings got restless, or endless repeats of the alphabet game (one of her favorites—because, being the oldest, she always won). 

   Now grown up, she lived and worked as a teacher in Northern California, but some family members still lived in the south of the state. Every so often a trip to see them was necessary or required or desired. The current trip was one of those. Time was tight, as it needed to be shoehorned into a short break between summer school and the new school year. Some teachers were able to take the whole summer off, which would be ideal for her long-distance visiting, but she couldn’t afford to do that. QED, a lightning trip down south was in order—and that meant the L.A. freeways. Once again. 

   No longer a child in the back seat, but now the solo driver in the car, she was a little less able to completely daydream her way through traversing the gigantic urban sprawl, but practice had enabled some adeptness at this. Today’s trip brought some odd things to mind. While drifting along a packed freeway, averaging 0-5 mph, she looked speculatively at the repetitive exits, overpasses, and industrial buildings she was driving by. It occurred to her that if there were no street exit signs or mileage signs, she would have no idea where she was; it all looked the same, across nearly the whole of the city. Maybe it WAS all the same…maybe it wasn’t REAL…maybe she had left her usual reality for a California dreamin’ Twilight Zone. Her imagination clicked on, in high gear. 

  

   I drive and drive and drive and drive. I see nothing but acres of roadway, flyovers, entrances, exits, and interchanges, as far as the eye can see. And traffic. Traffic. TRAFFIC. More cars than I could ever imagine existing in my entire multiple decades of life. Is this really a road, or am I stuck in a slightly-mobile used car parking lot? If this gets any worse, we’ll be going backwards. 

   She peered into the cars on either side of her. Who were these people? Where were they going? Why were they jammed onto the freeway alongside her? What were they thinking as they stopped and started, stopped and started, etc.? When did they get on the road, and how far were they going? Did they wonder, as she always did, if they would ever get to their destinations? Her imagination sped on, unchecked. 

   These people must spend great chunks of their lives on these roads. In fact—she fantasized--what if they really spent their ENTIRE lives on these roads? The buildings I see off in the distance--what if they're not real constructions, but just false fronts (a la Disney) attached to overhead signs on the next freeway over? False fronts, suggesting a vast, (pseudo-) metropolis, masking the constant flow of traffic from one end to the other and back again. Circling endlessly, as people are born, grow, mature, and die while traveling in their cars... Slabs of apartment building false fronts, scrims of ticky-tacky houses, promising the constant commuters that there is settled, residential life available. Someday. For some people. 

    Just not them. 

   Maybe she would never stop driving. Maybe NONE of them were ever going to stop driving. Maybe they were just going to go creeping down those freeways forever… What she wouldn’t give right now for an open, barren stretch of Arizona highway. So what if it was hundreds of empty miles long? She’d at least be MOVING. 

   Passing countless faux-botanical cell phone towers ("Telecommute WHILE you commute!") augmented by matching faux-botanical foliage to line the freeways and decorate the median strips. Which is needed to replace actual, genuine foliage which withered and perished long ago, from the 10-lane-wide gulf stream of inexhaustible exhaust fumes. 

   Freeway exits to other freeways or to nowhere (essentially the same thing). Fast food places and gas stations along the sides of the freeways are pit stops (literally, recalling some gas station bathrooms). Electronics stores, for periodically upgrading cell phones. Targets, for replacing shoes worn out by constant accelerating and braking; replacing hats and sunglasses lost out the open windows; replacing clothes which have been ruined by disintegrating tacos, nacho cheese dip, chicken nugget grease, and hamburger sauce—or which have simply been outgrown; for stocking the cases of energy drinks needed to keep on driving. 

   She suddenly remembered a favorite Ashleigh Brilliant post card from the past (now, alas, lost). It had a line drawing of a cloverleaf interchange, with the following quote: It's really quite a simple choice: life, death, or Los Angeles. With Los Angeles ranking below death? 

   She glanced out both side windows and checked the rear view mirror, as traffic ground to a complete halt. 

   Yep, seems legit.

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Mary M. Isaacs

copyright 2021

"On L.A. Freeways' can be found in the book, Hair of the Dog  (link on the right sidebar)

Cars

     A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

 

 

     It was the 31st. He had some miles left for the month, so he went for a longish drive. No reason to waste those miles—if he didn’t use them, he’d lose them.

     It was nice to just ride around in the car. It was a day off from work, he’d picked up his grocery allotment boxes for the next month, and he wasn’t due for any medical or dental check-ups. He could drive anywhere he wanted and enjoy the free feeling for a while.

     He’d carefully calculated how far he could safely go in order to be home before the gauge read zero. So he just relaxed and drove for a while, admiring the scenery he seldom had the time to really look at. Going anywhere for no particular reason happened very rarely now. He found it delightful. All too soon, though, it would be time to go back—he checked the gauge and realized that that time was now. As he was looking for a place to turn around, something caught his eye at the side of the road. It was an awkwardly shaped lump, but it looked like it was moving. He slowed up as he got closer, and then saw that it was a person lying next to the curb, surrounded by a few scattered belongings. He knew he was supposed to ignore such things and pass on by, but he just couldn’t; he pulled over and got out of his car...

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 Mary M. Isaacs — copyright, 2022 

To continue reading "Cars", it's in the short story collection, The Visions, located on the right sidebar.

Sanctuary

               A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

 

   The old wooden door opened noiselessly; a young woman hesitated on the threshold, looking in from the darkness outside. The brick walls of the room were in shadow, lit only by two oil lamps on either end of a plain wooden table and the glow of a hanging lamp: a candle in a red glass holder.

   “Sanctuary,” she breathed, closing her eyes in thankfulness.

   She entered the room and quietly shut the door behind her. In her arms she carried something wrapped in blankets; over her shoulder was slung a large knapsack, which looked more bulky than heavy. Her clothing was wrinkled and stained, as if she had been wearing it for many days–which she had been.

   There were a few benches along the walls. She crossed to one and sat down gratefully. While still carefully holding what was in her arms, she unslung the knapsack and set it on the floor beside her. She then leaned against the wall and sighed deeply. This was her penultimate destination; the difficult journey was almost over. Although she no longer had a watch—she had no metal objects of any kind on her, for that matter—she had a good sense of time. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait very long for the final service of the day. She rested quietly, eyes on the hanging lamp.

   After a short while, a bell started to ring...

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Mary M. Isaacs 

copyright, 2020

To continue reading "Sanctuary" it is found in the collection  The White Bird, on the right sidebar

The White Bird

  (A fairy tale by Mary M. Isaacs )

     Once there was a Princess who thought too highly of herself.

     Her mother, the Queen, had adored her little girl—her first child—whom she called “Rosabel”, after the hundreds of perfect rosebuds the King had brought to her at the child’s birth.

     The Queen was a gentle and loving woman, and planned to raise her daughter to be generous, good, and humble, as befits a princess. Unfortunately, she died before Rosabel was a year old. Although her father, the King, was an intelligent and effective ruler, he had no idea how to raise a child. In addition, he had a barely-realized fear of also losing his little daughter, the only reminder of his beloved wife. Rosabel was indulged in every way, therefore, and allowed to have anything she wanted, no matter how foolish or selfish. As a result, she grew to be a self-centered, headstrong, spoiled young lady, as could have been predicted by anyone with an ounce of sense. But there was no one to prevent it from happening, so the Princess grew more and more difficult and contrary as the years passed by. Nothing was good enough for her: food, clothing, entertainments, her father’s regard, the courtiers’ deference, the people’s respect—even the daily weather always fell short. She was never satisfied with anything...

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Mary M. Isaacs--copyright 2021

The entire story can be found in the book "The White Bird", available by clicking on the book image featured on the right sidebar.

Auld Lang Syne

     A short story by Mary M. Isaacs.

     (Note: This story is a sequel to "Christ Child's Lullaby")

     “All beautiful the march of days/As seasons come and go.
     The hand that shaped the rose has wrought/The crystal of the snow,
     Has sent the hoary frost of heav’n/The flowing waters sealed,
     And laid a silent loveliness/On hill and wood and field…

………………….
     Rose peered through the small window in the heavy wooden door of the old church. No taxi yet, just gently falling flakes of snow in the late afternoon light; she was glad the snow had held off until after the service was over. It would be a light snowfall, though, like the recent ones, and she could have walked to the church service; it was only a few long blocks, after all, and there was no ice. But Mrs. Evans had insisted that she take a taxi there and back, and Rose had agreed in order to give her neighbor peace of mind. Not like last year, after that memorable Advent service—and she smiled to herself as the memory flooded back. Joe had walked her home that evening, through the fallen snow. But Joe wasn’t here today to hold out his elbow for her arm to guide her steps home. She missed him, and wished he was there...

Stephen's Feast

 A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

     Owen was on his way home, tired and hungry after a long day at work. It was the day after Christmas, but someone had to staff the office even though it was usually a very quiet day. He had volunteered, so that all his married colleagues could spend an extra day home with their families. There was no one for him to celebrate with, not even a dog, so he didn’t mind coming into work right after the holiday.

 

      The weather wasn’t looking good; it had been cloudy all day, with a couple of brief showers, but now it was threatening heavy rain. It would be a long drive home, as he lived over 25 miles away from the office–freeway driving most of the way, but always slow and tricky in bad weather. Better stop and get some dinner now, he thought. Maybe that BBQ place—yeah, that would taste good! I’m really hungry. I’ll get a BBQ sandwich meal for tonight and an extra sandwich for tomorrow’s lunch. And maybe an extra side—two are never enough. Their sides are good enough for a meal on their own… I just hope they haven’t run out of anything!

 

     He reached the BBQ place and turned into the parking lot. He went inside, breathing in the delicious smell as soon as he opened the door. As he stood in line, he went through the usual uncertainty of which of the sides he would order. They offered six, but he knew he should limit himself to three. By the time he reached the front of the line, he had decided on the mac and cheese and the cole slaw, with corn muffins extra. As he was ordering, though, he kept thinking about the fries. Regular or sweet potato? I’m so hungry… The young boy behind the counter waited patiently while Owen thought, clearly used to patrons’ indecision about sides. “And regular fries, too,” Owen finally announced. As he waited for his order to be assembled, he noticed that some light rain was starting to fall. Owen added a large cup of coffee to his order, realizing that it could be a while before he reached home, and he might need it...

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@2019, Mary M. Isaacs

To read the rest of the story, you may order either Holiday Stories or Christ Child's Lullaby,  by clicking the link on the right sidebar.


Author’s note:

The title, “Stephen’s Feast”, refers not just to the hitchhiker having a good meal, but also to St. Stephen’s Day (The Feast Day of St. Stephen)–December 26, the day after Christmas, which is when the story is set.

More importantly, the entire story is a contemporary retelling of my favorite Christmas carol, “Good King Wenceslas”. The first line of that carol is “Good King Wenceslas looked out/on the Feast of Stephen…” i.e., the carol takes place on December 26. You might want to look up the words if you don’t know them all.

“Owen” is the closest name I could get to Wenceslas. The hitchhiker is the “poor man” in the carol whom the “king” [Owen] spies through his window [car window] on December 26. The boy at the BBQ place is the "page" who supplies Owen with "flesh and wine" [the BBQ sandwiches, sides, and hot coffee]--the "pine logs" are the warm car.

The carol ends with the words, “Therefore, Christian men be sure/Wealth or rank possessing/Ye who now shall bless the poor/Shall yourselves find blessing.” At the end of the story, Steve is blessed and Owen is happy with what he has done.

Christ Child's Lullaby

 

     Rose hurried, so she wouldn’t miss the beginning of the church service. It was already too late for her to take her place in the choir—she couldn’t have, anyway, because of the cold and laryngitis that had crept up on her the past several days. She knew it was coming and it made her heart sink. There was nothing Rose loved more than singing, and she especially looked forward to Christmas time when she could sing the beautiful music she had adored and sung since childhood. She knew she had a good voice—her friends told her that, choir directors told her that, even strangers in church said so. That didn’t matter, one way or another. She just loved to sing; she would sing even if her voice had been plain and ordinary.


     She buttoned up her overcoat and put on a woolen cap, gloves, and snow boots. It was bitterly cold outside, and the forecast had called for more snow sometime before morning. Even though it was too late to protect her voice from the cold, Rose still needed to keep warm. The church was very large; good for singing but bad for warmth. As she was not going to be in the relatively sheltered group of singers standing shoulder-to-shoulder, but instead sitting in a cold wooden pew by herself, she needed the heavy outer clothing.

     She remembered to turn the heat down in her small apartment. She also left a few lights on, as her parents had advised when she moved to the city. After locking the door, she hastened down the stairs and out through the glass doors of the lobby. No one was around—too cold, too late at night. Everyone was either snug at home, or already where they were going for the evening. She turned at the corner and made her way down several blocks, avoiding icy patches and leftover drifts of snow. It had been a rough week for weather, so she was careful how and where she stepped...

 

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Note: “The Christ Child’s Lullaby” is an English translation of a much longer traditional Gaelic Christmas song, “Taladh Chriosda,” from the Outer Hebrides of Scotland.

(copyright 2018, Mary M. Isaacs)

The full story can be found in two collections, Christ Child's Lullaby and Holiday Stories, featured on the right sidebar. 

The Christmas Card

 The Christmas Card - a short story by Mary M. Isaacs

    It’s like herding cats! Linda thought with a smile. Fortunately, she loved cats—almost as much as she loved the little children standing together in front of her. She was trying to line them up on the low platform that had been set up for them, and get them into order by height. They were wiggling and giggling, as always—both eager to begin and a little shy of the strangers who were coming into the room.

    Her Sunday School primary class (3- to 5-year-olds) had come to this nursing home to sing a few Christmas songs. For several weeks they had practiced and had also been busy making Christmas cards to hand out. The cards were made from all colors of construction paper, folded over, with stickers and drawings and their names, too, in various stages of legibility. Linda would have liked to add glitter—both she and the children loved it—but the nursing home had requested its absence. Linda recalled the first year she had come with her class for this singing, bringing along well-glittered cards. She clearly remembered how the glitter had mysteriously multiplied and spread itself all over the nursing home. She had volunteered to help clean it up. It had taken hours…

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Copyright 2022 by Mary M. Isaacs 

The entire story can be found-in the books  Holiday Stories  & The Least of These, both available by clicking on the book images on the sidebar,

Rosemary for Remembrance

  

A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

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     She looked at her table, which she had just finished setting. The burgundy tablecloth was one of her best; there were matching burgundy candles in the crystal candlesticks. She had spent over an hour polishing the silver and washing the best china, after getting it down from the cupboard over the refrigerator. Now she straightened the silver at each place setting and made sure the water glasses had no spots. She wanted everything to look perfect tonight. The dining room had been cleaned and dusted earlier, the windows washed, and the chairs polished. It looked as lovely as she remembered from all Thanksgiving dinners past. 

     Suddenly the doorbell rang. She turned away from the table expectantly, whisking off her apron as she hurried to the door. She looked through the peephole and then opened the door with a welcoming smile...

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 Mary M. Isaacs — copyright, 2018 

To read the rest of the story, "Rosemary for Remembrance"  can be found in both Christ Child's Lullaby and Holiday Stories, featured on the right sidebar.

Anja

 A short story by Mary, M. Isaacs

   It was 3:15, Thursday afternoon.

   Franklin Pearce answered his ringing cell phone. The voice that greeted him was his wife’s, strained and agitated.

   “Frank, please come home! Something terrible…Anja’s having another of her attacks…get Dr. Hall, Frank, hurry!”

   “I’ll be right there.” Pearce ended the call and looked up an all-too-familiar contact, fuming at the few seconds’ delay. When Hall answered, his casual greeting only irritated Pearce, who was a bit brusque in consequence.

   “Hall, it’s happened again. Meet me at our home as fast as you can.” Slipping the phone into his pocket, he rushed out of his office.

   Matthew Hall frowned in consternation at the phone in his hand. Then, while pulling on his coat, he hastily called a taxi and scribbled a note to his wife. Within minutes, he was on his way the short distance to the Pearce apartment. He glanced at his watch; it was 3:30...

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Mary M. Isaacs

copyright 2025

(from a forthcoming book)

Hidden in Plain Sight

A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

   There hadn’t been any public burnings for a while. The State had decided that “out of sight, out of mind” was the best policy for destruction, now that the people had been conditioned to know what was allowed and what wasn’t. Many things were regulated or banned outright—art and literature and religion especially—and sparks of intellectual creativity had been few and far between for a long time. Certain topics only were allowed for books, certain subjects only for artwork. Everything else had been forbidden or destroyed. The Guards had made sure of that.

   John remembered witnessing frequent burnings many years ago, when he was a child. One had been for forbidden art. There had been a large pile of beautiful paintings, mostly portraits, and he had watched with unexpected pain and anger as the Guards threw the artwork into the fire. The colorful images darkened and then burst into hot flame until they were entirely consumed. Years later, he understood that pain, as he discovered a love for art within himself and eventually trained to be a landscape and florals painter, the only art subjects now allowed by the State. But in the back of his mind was always the memory of the fiery destruction of beauty; deep inside his soul he remained angry at the restrictions and waste.

   The creators of forbidden art and the authors and publishers of forbidden books were never seen again. “Exile” was the whispered explanation, which spread throughout the population. Other kinds of contraband had been publicly destroyed, as ominous and pointed examples. People fell into line eventually and the burnings became rarer. But John never forgot...

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@2020, by Mary M. Isaacs

To read the rest of the story, Hidden in Plain Sight  is a part of the collection of stories in Hidden in Plain Sight, featured on the right sidebar.

Corpus Christi

 

A short story by Mary M. Isaacs 

   It was another locked and deserted church. The young man walked up to the chain link fence and gripped the wire with his fingers. He looked up, gauging the height of the fence. Yes, he could probably climb over it fairly easily, but a heavy padlock on the double doors beyond showed how useless that effort would be. The dry leaves, dirt, and litter on the steps suggested that no one had attempted to get in for some time. There were faded shadows of graffiti, which had been scrubbed as clean as possible, but the doors and walls were forever scarred. 

   He wondered what it looked like inside. The windows had been broken and were now boarded up, but had the sanctity of the building been breached? Would the inside be destroyed too, vandalized like the outside? He hoped not but feared so. 

   He let go of the fence and dropped his arms. This was the third abandoned church he had seen that day—fourth, if you counted the burnt-out shell of a building he’d seen that morning. He couldn’t be certain that it had been a church, but there had been several clues… He felt sick at heart. 

   As he stood there, he had a vivid memory of going to church as a very young child...

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 Mary M. Isaacs 

- copyright, 2020 

"Corpus Christi" is a part of the collection of stories in The White Bird, featured on the sidebar

The Angelus

    A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

 

“In the Lord I’ll be ever thankful, In the Lord I will rejoice,

Look to God, do not be afraid.

Lift up your voices the Lord is near,

Lift up your voices, the Lord is near.”

 

     The woman looked at her husband pleadingly as he prepared to go out the door for the day’s work. “Couldn’t we just keep saying it only in the morning and at day’s end, as we have been?”

     “Alison, we’ve talked about this. It’s time. We can’t hide in fear any longer. You know we are to speak boldly.”

     “But they will hurt you, maybe take you away. Maybe I’ll never see you again. Maybe they will come for me.”

     Daniel came back from the door and put his canteen on the table. He took his wife into his arms. “You know what to do. Go to your cousin Joseph’s house after lunch. They will keep you safe until we see what happens. There’s plenty of room there for you—we have no children to protect. Yet.” And he smiled at her.

     She clung to him. “If they take you away, there never WILL be any children.”

     His smile broadened and he put his hand gently on her belly. “We have this one.”

     She pulled back and stared at him. “How could you know that? I’m not even sure myself!”

     “God told me,” he said simply, as he looked at her.

     “But,” she stammered, “isn’t that more reason for you to be careful, then? For you not to do this? How can I raise a child without you?”

     “How can we raise a child without God?” he countered sternly. His wife had no reply but leaned her forehead on his chest as she held him tightly. “You know I have to do this, Alison. I hope I will not be alone, but even if no one else speaks out, that won’t matter. I must.”

     “I love you so,” her words came out muffled as she pressed closer to him. “God watch over you and keep you safe--every hour, every minute.”

     “Alison,” he whispered. “Dear heart…” and he kissed the top of her head. “Get everything ready to take to Joseph’s. I want to know that you will be safe.”

     She pulled back and looked up at his face, searchingly. He leaned over and kissed her. “I will see you at dinner. Deo volente,” he added.

     The woman reached up to touch his cheek. “I will get everything ready for dinner before I go. I will make something special for you, Daniel!” and she tried to smile at him. “It will be a surprise,” then she turned away abruptly, in order not to see him leave. After she heard the door close behind him, however, she put her hands over her face and allowed the tears to fall...

(To continue reading "The Angelus", you can find it as part of the collection Lux Umbra Dei, available at Amazon in either paperback or Kindle. Click on book image on right sidebar.)

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“In the Lord I’ll Be Ever Thankful”, by the Taize Community.

Mary M. Isaacs, copyright 2020

From the collection  Lux Umbra Dei  

(link to book on the right sidebar).

Encounter

        A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

     Fran watched the rain falling in the street outside as she leaned idly on the counter. There would be little business today, she knew, not on a rainy Sunday morning. This wasn’t her usual shift in the café, but another of the waitresses had been sick and Fran had volunteered to take her place. It meant missing church, but she didn’t mind doing a good turn for a friend. Besides, it would be a change. Sunday mornings were so often all the same.

    So far, there had been only some early orders for coffee and doughnuts, mostly to go. The cook wasn’t due in for another half hour, when full breakfasts were offered. All the booths had their original place settings from when she had set them up at 7:30. Saturday’s daisies still looked fresh and new. The coffee urn gave off a faint hissing sound and an aroma of institutional coffee. Everything was ready—but no customers. A few people walked past, under their umbrellas--some in a hurry in their Sunday clothes, some just idly strolling by. A few of the usual bums passed the café, glancing hopefully inside. Fran recognized them from her regular shift, weekdays at lunchtimes. Then, when it was so busy and crowded with office workers, the bums hung around outside, waiting for the opportunity to ask for handouts. Funny, she thought, maybe the fact that it’s Sunday is why they’re behaving themselves. She laughed at the thought.

    She lit a cigarette as she stood there. The owner allowed the staff to smoke if there was no one else in the café. Otherwise, ashtrays were just for customer use. She’d wipe this one clean when she finished.

    Her mind wandered a little. Was it this afternoon that she had promised to go shopping for her elderly neighbor? No, couldn’t have been…she herself didn’t need to go to the store for at least another week. She would have promised to go then, when it was convenient. But, yes, there was something to remember...

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Copyright 2024 by Mary M. Isaacs  

Complete story will appear in a forthcoming book.

(Watch sidebar for further details.)

Cars

(A short story by Mary M. Isaacs)

 

 

       It was the 31st. He had some miles left for the month, so he went for a longish drive. No reason to waste those miles—if he didn’t use them, he’d lose them.

       It was nice to just ride around in the car. It was a day off from work, he’d picked up his grocery allotment boxes for the next month, and he wasn’t due for any medical or dental check-ups. He could drive anywhere he wanted and enjoy the free feeling for a while.

       He’d carefully calculated how far he could safely go in order to be home before the gauge read zero. So he just relaxed and drove for a while, admiring the scenery he seldom had the time to really look at. Going anywhere for no particular reason happened very rarely now. He found it delightful. All too soon, though, it would be time to go back—he checked the gauge and realized that that time was now. As he was looking for a place to turn around, something caught his eye at the side of the road. It was an awkwardly shaped lump, but it looked like it was moving. He slowed up as he got closer, and then saw that it was a person lying next to the curb, surrounded by a few scattered belongings. He knew he was supposed to ignore such things and pass on by, but he just couldn’t; he pulled over and got out of his car.

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 Mary M. Isaacs — copyright, 2022 

(To continue reading, "Cars" is in the short story collection, The Visions, located on the right sidebar.)

Sanctuary

 (a short story by Mary M. Isaacs)

                         

   The old wooden door opened noiselessly; a young woman hesitated on the threshold, looking in from the darkness outside. The brick walls of the room were in shadow, lit only by two oil lamps on either end of a plain wooden table and the glow of a hanging lamp: a candle in a red glass holder.


   “Sanctuary,” she breathed, closing her eyes in thankfulness.

   She entered the room and quietly shut the door behind her. In her arms she carried something wrapped in blankets; over her shoulder was slung a large knapsack, which looked more bulky than heavy. Her clothing was wrinkled and stained, as if she had been wearing it for many days–which she had been.

   There were a few benches along the walls. She crossed to one and sat down gratefully. While still carefully holding what was in her arms, she unslung the knapsack and set it on the floor beside her. She then leaned against the wall and sighed deeply. This was her penultimate destination; the difficult journey was almost over. Although she no longer had a watch—she had no metal objects of any kind on her, for that matter—she had a good sense of time. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait very long for the final service of the day. She rested quietly, eyes on the hanging lamp.

   After a short while, a bell started to ring...


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Mary M. Isaacs copyright, 2020

To continue reading "Sanctuary", it is found in the collection in "The White Bird", over on the sidebar