Good Sex, Great Prayers

by Brandon Tietz

  “Again,” she says. “Do it again.”

  I repeat. I rip out a page, sometimes two, press it against Sasha’s body and staple. On Sasha’s ass, thighs, and lower back hang various excerpts from Mark, Luke, and John. Romans, Corinthians, Colossians. They overlap and hang off her body like a wooden electrical post covered in adverts—and she’s bleeding, rubbing her clitoral region and oozing from those puncture wounds. Another page, another staple through the skin. Blood, then more blood. Orgasms.

  Sasha flips onto her back, “Puncture and fuck me at the same time.”

  Her legs tilt open, the outside of her knees very nearly touching the comforter of the bed. Into her thighs: James and Peter. Her stomach: Titus. On the pubic bone: Revelation. I staple her, and Sasha pulls the vinyl underwear off to the side, edging forward. She desires traditional penetration now, and so I unbutton my pants and remove myself.

  “Just a little more wax,” she says.

  Again I reach for the nightstand, grabbing a candle and turning it upside-down over her vaginal cavity. Sasha screams. She climaxes. The liquid is already thickening, becoming more opaque as I prepare to enter her.

  Sasha sighs, stammers her breath. “You’re fun.”

  Symptoms of the disease have intensified: small pastures of sores are in various states of bloom, covering roughly 80% of the penis. They’re deep red, infected. Discharge from the urethra has gone from milky white to yellow, indicating an infection. Sharp pain throbs at the tip; this pain increases notably during urination and climax. There’s also a sour smell, which is why I’ve employed the usage of candles.

  “Fuck me, Mr. Thomas,” Sasha says.

  Naturally-occurring oils in my hands seep into the sores, stinging, making it so I can barely stand to touch myself. I wonder if Sasha would enjoy it. I wonder if it would add another level to her bliss.

  She tilts her head up, tipping the mask off her eyes, shocked. Sasha screams, “Chili dog! Chili dog!”

  I snap. My arms wrap around both her thighs and pull hard, entering her. Enzymes hit the sores, searing with pain, as if I’m cooking in the flames. Fluid oozes, coats the vaginal walls and spreads infection.

  “Mother fucker!” Sasha screams at me. “Chili dog!”

  The Catalyst

  Father Johnstone’s house is covered in raw egg, white shell shrapnel baked to the aluminum siding via the unseasonable heat. Whoever did this used at least three cartons of Grade As, most likely procured from the market he and Madeline passed through only moments ago on their walk back from the daisy hill. Roughly half an hour was spent up there, the pastor searching for something living while Madeline chastised him for wasting valuable time, as she put it, but he had to be sure. After the sixth or seventh crushed bumblebee, Father Johnstone finally surmised that he wasn’t being tricked and no sleight of hand was at play. Death was officially in the air, in Pratt, and the proof was staining his palms and fingers cement gray. It was an unsettling realization, so much so that his response to finding his home vandalized is considerably mild. The cracked double-pane windows and bashed-in mailbox don’t register like they should, nor does the crudely spray-painted word ‘fagot’ across his front door.

  “Look at that.” Madeline points at the middle where a ‘g’ is absent. “So, your graffiti artist is a shitty speller.”

  Father Johnstone digs his keys out of his pocket, saying, “That hardly narrows it down.” He looks at the spot underneath the porch light, noticing the pile of dead moths from the prior evening. Their wings and bodies are disintegrating now, slowly deforming to ash like a cigarette without the smoke or smolder.

  “The bastards even teepeed your little dogwood tree,” Madeline says, motioning to the thin sapling in the yard, which tops out around four feet. It’s draped in toilet paper. Half a roll lies discarded a few paces away from the trunk. She mentions, “I should whip up some poison muffins just in case they come back.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” Father Johnstone pushes the key into the deadbolt. He can hear Mary inside the house, barking and scratching at the door just as she always does when company arrives. As the pair enter though, it’s Madeline she greets first, jumping at her leg and whining to be picked up, which she gladly does. Father Johnstone inspects the living room, moving into the kitchen to see if there’s been any kind of a break-in, but all appears to be normal. Everything except for the luggage next to the couch, that is. Yet again, Father Johnstone battles the allure of a hasty departure. It wouldn’t take but a few minutes to pack everything up in the trunk, stick Mary in the passenger seat, and liberate himself from Pratt. He could disappear completely—to another town a few hundred miles away, and no one would be the wiser. They’d never find him.

  “Temptation is the pull of man’s own evil thoughts and wishes,” Madeline says with Mary cradled in her arm. She scratches the spot behind Mary’s ear, which elicits a blissful grumble.

  For a second, Father Johnstone thinks she’s just said something oddly poignant, but then he remembers the source. There’s even been a few occasions where he’s uttered the words himself, although not in regards to his own cowardice. “Book of James,” he cites.

  “Don’t mistake your own self-indulgence for self-preser-vation, Johnstone,” Madeline says. “You’re in this now. You can’t leave knowing what you know.”

  “What do I know? Honestly?” he asks. “You’ve hardly told me anything.”

  Madeline approaches the pastor, forfeiting Mary over and taking Father Johnstone’s ring of keys from his hand. Only three are on it: one for the house, one for the church, and a large black-handled one for the Challenger. They’re accented with a white rabbit’s foot, a somewhat morbid token Father Johnstone received from a member of his congregation that Mary has used as a chew toy once or twice.

  “We’ll take the car then,” Madeline says. “I’ll drive.”

  “Wait a minute, who said you could drive my car?” the pastor objects.

  “It’s a 1970 Dodge Challenger, right?”

  “Yeah,” he nods.

  “110-inch wheelbase? V-8 engine?” she confirms. “And you probably sprung for the 426 block, right?”

  “With a Hemi,” the pastor says, unable to withhold a prideful smirk.

  “I know my cars, Johnstone. It’s gonna be fine,” she says, heading towards the garage, keys jingling against each other. “Bring Mary. She’s coming with.”

  “And where would you be taking us?” he asks.

  “Well, you complained about not knowing anything,” Madeline shrugs. “I suggest you get in the car if you want to learn.”

  She enters the garage, peeling the cloth tarp off the Challenger and revealing a glossy blue finish with black trim. Chrome wheels and handles. Tires are practically virgin, showing hardly any signs of wear. Madeline runs her finger down the body of the car, grinning in anticipation, and carefully inserts the key into the lock, taking care not to scratch the paintjob. She opens the door, a faint wave of Armor All and pine air freshener wafting out, and slides into the leather confines of the driver’s seat. Madeline leans over to unlock the passenger side, and Father Johnstone eases in with Mary, clutching her tighter than normal against his chest.

  “I have to ask you something,” the pastor says. He sighs, turning to his left and asking, “Am I letting you drive this car? Or are you somehow forcing me to let you?”

  “That’s good, Johnstone.” Madeline sticks the key in the ignition and turns. The engine fires up, revving when she gives the gas pedal a couple taps to test the car’s integrity. She says, “Most people don’t figure it out that fast.”

  Madeline presses the button on the garage door opener clipped to the visor, flooding the space with afternoon light. It gleams off the various wrenches and power tools stationed on the walls. She backs the car out of the driveway to an audience of a few random passersby on the sidewalk, giving old Mr. and Mrs. Bellows a wink. Madeline shuts the garage before peeling out, heading westward, towards God only knows.


  “What exactly did I figure out?” Father Johnstone asks.

  “That you might not be completely in control,” Madeline says, taking Main St. towards the end of town, where homes and buildings become sparse. “Some people can’t deal with that. Like, you live by this plan all your life, but what happens when you find out it’s the wrong plan?”

  The Challenger bolts smoothly down the road at a steady 55mph, the sign for Route 9 appearing over a small crest after a few minutes. Madeline eases off the gas, letting the vehicle cruise along the last of the worn blacktop of Main Street. She hangs left at the intersection, heading south to where the farmlands are located, acres and acres of wheat that are spotted with a few small cornfields. Father Johnstone considers what Madeline said, the part about living your life by the wrong plan. He can only assume she means God and the Good Book. Up until recently, Madeline has always been what Father Johnstone considered a close friend, albeit one he felt a certain paternal obligation to, probably due to her age and solitary nature. Never though, has she been one of the flock, nor has she been to a single sermon, despite the pastor’s consistent pressure otherwise. In fact, the closest Madeline’s ever been to participating in a church function was the Pratt bake-off. Even then, it was purely for the sake of carrying out a social agenda, or perhaps something more corrupt. Mrs. Tiller could attest to that, if she could remember what transpired this morning.

  “You’re being quiet over there,” Madeline observes.

  “I’m thinking,” Father Johnstone says, still holding Mary to his chest. She gives him an affectionate lick to his cheek, pressing her little coal nose against his skin. He can see the wheat fields in the distance, golden on the horizon.

  “Thinking, as in: you’re hoping I’m full of shit,” Madeline says. “But you’re also afraid of what it could mean if I’m not. That about right?”

  The fields begin streaming by, a golden blur.

  Father Johnstone nods, looking out the window.

  “And what do you do when you’re afraid?” she asks.

  “Normally, I’d pray.” Father Johnstone turns back to his left, looking at Madeline in the driver’s seat: young, beautiful, calm. She’s in control. “My prayers haven’t been working so much lately, but you probably knew that, didn’t you?” he says, a hint of accusation in his tone.

  “Maybe you’re doing it wrong,” Madeline says.

  Father Johnstone doesn’t respond. There’s no right way to address the fact that a suspected atheist is telling a man of the cloth that he’s praying incorrectly—not without it sounding completely rude, at least. She has no frame of reference to say such a thing.

  “This car, for instance,” Madeline says. “It’s composed of specific parts: an engine, tires, gas tank, spark plugs. It works because all the pieces are in the right place.”

  “Okay,” the pastor nods.

  “Take one of the pieces away and the car doesn’t function,” she says.

  “Right, but what does that have to do with anything?”

  “I’m saying that maybe your prayer is missing something. Maybe it’s not so simple as just saying the words.”

  Madeline eases off the gas, allowing the car to slow down, it goes from 65, to 55, then 40. They hear the transmission downshift, and the wheat around them become less blurred as they decrease in speed. Father Johnstone can make out the individual strands of grain, and the Challenger starts to edge off the road, easing onto the grass shoulder between the crop and the chalky gravel of Route 9. Madeline gently presses the brake, bringing the car to a full stop and killing the engine. The pastor has never been to this part of Pratt before, but he can assume that many of the town’s teens looking for late night privacy have. Local law wouldn’t take the time to patrol these roads unless they were specifically called out, and even then it would have to be something a little more serious than a run-of-the-mill MIP charge. The fields are desolate, almost making it seem like Father Johnstone and Madeline are alone in the world, even though they’re only about ten or so miles from the main population.

  “Let’s take a walk,” Madeline says. She puts the car in park and gets out, gently shutting the driver’s side door behind her.

  Father Johnstone does the same, letting Mary down onto the grass. The fields are so rarely travelled that the pastor feels safe letting her go without a leash. Of course, the first thing she does is meet Madeline on the other side of the car, sidling one of her boots.

  “She’s precious,” Madeline says. “Do you remember when you first got her?”

  The pastor recites this story to Madeline: the bear in the basket. He doesn’t care if he comes off soft or weak. Mary is the closest thing to a daughter he’ll ever have, and when he looks down at her, trotting along through the grass, he can’t help but smile fondly.

  “Can you remember a time you were upset with her?” Madeline asks.

  “I used to kennel her when I left the house to run errands,” the pastor says. “It got to a point where I thought I could trust her to be out by herself. A couple hours later, I came home to find the coffee table all chewed up and a few books that were on the lower shelf torn to shreds. Poop and pee everywhere. I was livid…screamed my head off at her.”

  Mary looks back at the pastor as she runs along, almost as if she can recall what he’s talking about. It wasn’t one of their best days.

  “So she disappointed you,” Madeline concludes. “How’d you deal with that?”

  “She was a puppy. Puppies chew things and tear up stuff. It’s in their nature.”

  Madeline traipses along, giving the pastor a smile. “Well put, Johnstone,” she says. “Real love means understanding the other person—or pet, I guess, even when they disappoint you.”

  “I think I’d agree with that,” the pastor nods.

  “Good, because I’m going to need you to be more understanding than normal,” she says. “A lot more.”

  “Do you plan on disappointing me?” Father Johnstone asks.

  “Maybe,” she says. “I hope not.” Madeline stops walking, squatting down so one knee is buried in the grass. She says, “Mary, run out there a bit. I need to talk to your daddy in private.” Mary goes into a heavy jog, fur pushing back against the wind. She’s swift when there’s room to run. Madeline stands back up, pointing upwards, asking the pastor, “What do you see?”

  It’s blue. Not a single cloud.

  “Nothing,” he says, but he starts to feel his stomach churn, knowing that Madeline is building up to something. “The sky,” the pastor adds with a shrug.

  Mary is around one hundred feet out, still trotting along through the tall grass. Madeline yells, “Mary, stop!” and she does, walking a few paces back before she sits on her haunches. “When it rains, when the sun rises or the earth floods—what is that? What causes it?”

  “The Lord,” he says. “The Lord is in everything.”

  Madeline takes the pastor’s hand in her own, interlocking their fingers. She says, “At all times, yes? Even when it hurts someone?”

  Father Johnstone nods, pangs of doom in his stomach. “At all times,” he says. “Even when it hurts His creations. He giveth and He taketh away.”

  “So if one of your flock were to ask you about a natural disaster, and all the people it hurt, and all the homes it ruined,” she says, “then you would say that’s God?”

  “We don’t always understand His plan, but we have to have faith in that there is one and there’s a reason for His actions,” Father Johnstone explains. “Yes though, even in the instance of disaster. We’re fortunate in that we can at least somewhat predict these things now.”

  “Warning signs,” Madeline says.

  Father Johnstone nods in the affirmative.

  “Now look out there,” Madeline says. “Look at Mary sitting on the grass under this clear blue sky. Doesn’t she look peaceful?”

  The pastor nods, sighing deeply as he watches Mary out on the grass. She sits alone amongst the gold and green. It’s
like a painting. Places like the daisy hill and the golden fields remind the pastor just how beautiful the world is. They’re out this far for a reason though, to see something, and the anticipation is making his guts churn.

  “Keep watching,” Madeline says, her hand gripping the pastor’s a little bit tighter. His hand starts to tingle, almost buzzing. She says, “And remember what you said about the Lord being in everything.”

  It happens.

  A column of white erupts from the earth, just underneath where Mary is sitting. Brightness stings the pastor’s eyes as lightning shoot upwards, breaking unevenly as it reaches into the heavens. Into the cloudless blue. Madeline continues to squeeze the pastor’s hand, squeezing so tight it hurts the bones in his fingers. Compresses his knuckles to mush. His palm aches like it’s bruised, and then the light dissipates with a thunderclap. It punches his eardrums. And he can see Mary in the distance. Collapsed. No longer a caramel brown. No longer herself. Father Johnstone rips his hand away from Madeline’s, feeling significantly weak, but his adrenaline is pumping with fear, the kind that overcomes age or health or fatigue. The fear invigorates him. He runs, terror charging through his heart as he pleads, “No, no, no, please, no.” He sprints towards the pile of burnt fur and flesh, covering half the distance in what seems like hours. A strip of white cuts vertically through his vision from the lightning, partially blinding him, but he continues to run. To pray and beg and hope. The pastor says, “No please no God no please no,” and he’s already crying, breaking, because he knows what’s waiting for him. Tears stream sideways across his cheeks. Mary is unmoving, scarred by light and lying upon burnt, black grass. The pastor falls to the ground in front of her, hands reaching out but not touching. He doesn’t dare touch. He can feel the heat on his palms, smell the char in the smoke rising off the carcass. Mary’s eyes are sealed shut, oozing a dark brown fluid. Hot blood stains her teeth, and the pastor is sobbing, saying, “No…please no…please,” blinking hard. Tears hit the earth, and he looks at Mary’s body, the wet pink skin where fur has been burnt away. Bone pokes through fried skin. The edges of her mouth are cooked and bubbled, and he says it again, begging, “Please God, no…no…please.” But there is no prayer, nothing he can say or do. She’s dead. Mary is dead. Father Johnstone balls up in the grass, burying his face in the earth and cries. Sobbing in agony.