Seeing the world of Elias and Jacob brought to life in this stunning image is an incredible feeling. This story is a fast-paced military sci-fi thriller that explores the cost of a hidden life, the nature of consciousness, and the unbreakable bond between two unlikely soldiers fighting a war in the shadows. I can't wait for you to read it.

The book is now available for pre-order, and every pre-order makes a huge difference for an indie author.

Pre-Order Protocol Heresy!

Some Incredible News for Apostate!

I’ve been nervously awaiting the first professional review for Apostate: The First Heresy, and I was absolutely floored when the verdict came in from the respected team at IndieReader. They not only compared the world to Orwell's 1984, but they also left this incredible review:

Read the Full Review!

NEW: Buy the Apostate Audiobook!

An Invitation: Introducing The Misfit's Hearth

As you know, I love stories about outsiders and rebels. To celebrate that, I’ve started a brand new, free weekly newsletter called The Misfit's Hearth.

Every Friday, I curate three of the best indie books I can find that feature our favorite themes: found family, misfits, seekers, and the quiet rebellions of the human heart. It’s a way for us to discover hidden gems and champion the authors who write them. I’d be honored if you’d join our growing community.

Subscribe to the Misfit's Hearth!

What I'm Reading Now

On a personal note, I just finished reading Dominion by Addie Citchens, and I can't stop thinking about it. It’s a powerful, dark family drama set in Mississippi, centered on a tyrannical Baptist minister whose secrets threaten to destroy his family and his community. If you appreciate stories that unflinchingly explore the shadows of faith, power, and the human heart—themes that are very close to my own work—I highly recommend you pick this one up. I will be posting a TikTok review on this amazing debut soon!

Thank you again for being on this journey with me. You are the reason I write.

Warmly,

C.J. Loveman

As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. This newsletter may contain affiliate links, which means I may receive a small commission at no cost to you if you make a purchase.

Blast Off with Apostate! Available NOW!

The wait is finally over. Apostate: The First Heresy has officially launched, and I'm so grateful for your support! I'm so excited for you to dive into this new dystopian world where the most unlikely person inspires a rebellion. Please join me in the celebration by grabbing your copy today. Your reviews and shares make a massive difference in helping other readers discover the book, so if you enjoy the story, I'd be incredibly grateful if you'd spread the word.

Get The Book!

As a special thank you for being a subscriber, you get the first exclusive listen to a scene from the audiobook!

Listen to the Exclusive Clip!

The Story Behind The Story

When I was studying to become a minister, I remember the night Bill Clinton was elected. I was in a prayer room with fellow students, shouting rebukes at demons we believed had stolen the election. Even then, something felt deeply wrong.

Over the years, I watched with growing horror as the politicization I’d first witnessed in college consumed the faith I held dear. The questions became insistent: Has this faith been overtaken by a quest for political power? At what cost? Do they want to create a theocracy? With those questions, the foundation for Apostate: The First Heresy was born.

This story is my attempt to explore those fears, but also to find hope. It is not an attack on faith, but an effort to free it from the bonds of raw political power.

Read the Full Story on My Blog!

Looking for More Sci-Fi? Grab these Free Books!

As a thank-you for your support, I wanted to share this fantastic promotion with you. If you've already grabbed Apostate: The First Heresy, here are some other incredible sci-fi reads to enjoy, absolutely free. For the Month of August only!

FREE Sci-Fi Ebooks in August!

My soon-to-be-published book, Apostate: The First Heresy, fits squarely in the dystopian end of science fiction. I am honored to announce its inclusion in a current promotion for this month only, along with 23 other ebooks for Free Sci-Fi August! Included in this giveaway are exciting science fiction books ranging across the genre.

You can get Apostate: The First Heresy early and for FREE, even before its August 12th publication. One of those ways is to grab it during this Free Sci-Fi August promotion, which expires September 3rd!

Other titles included in this promotion are:

• Angels Fall First by Waldo Rodriguez

• Survival in the Grove by Gerreld Cheam

• Ashes of Xyphos by Kevin Sanon

• MECH: An Archangel Project Short Story by C. Gockel

• Last Light at Keppler Station: A Sci-Fi Romance by Stacy Hall

• Many others to explore!

Free Sci-Fi August!

I'm writing to share some exciting news about how you can best connect with me and follow my writing journey!

As many of you (if you follow me on TikTok) already know, the cover for my debut story is finally here, and I'm incredibly excited for you to see it. It truly captures the essence of the world you're about to step into.

While I've truly valued our connection here on Substack, I'm making a strategic shift to consolidate my primary author presence and newsletter directly on my website, cjloveman.com. This move will allow me to connect with you more directly, offer even more exclusive content, and build a truly vibrant reader community that's all our own.

Your New Home for Updates & Free Stories!

I'd be absolutely thrilled if you'd join me on this next chapter! By subscribing to my new newsletter on cjloveman.com, you'll get:

• Exclusive content and early sneak peeks of upcoming projects.

• First access to news about new releases.

• Direct updates from my writing desk – including insights you won't find anywhere else.

And as a special thank you for making the move, you'll immediately receive a complimentary digital copy of my latest story, which some of you might recognize!

Apostate: The First Heresy

You may recall Apostate from its original publication on A Thin Slice of Anxiety. Now, this powerful narrative has been professionally revised, meticulously edited, and beautifully formatted to serve as the gripping first installment of a brand new dystopian series! It will be published as both an ebook and a paperback on August 12th.

Set in a near-future America where an iron-fisted theocracy weaponizes faith, Apostate: The First Heresy is a gripping standalone short story that launches a thrilling dystopian series. Discover how one disgraced minister's profound crisis sparks an unexpected rebellion.

This is your entry point into a world where conviction clashes with control, and a reluctant prophet steps into the light. Apostate: The First Heresy officially publishes on August 12th, but you can claim your free copy right now by joining my new community.

Ready to dive into the definitive version of Apostate and discover what's next? Simply click below:

CLICK HERE TO CLAIM YOUR FREE EBOOK & JOIN MY NEWSLETTER!

https://read.cjloveman.com/apostate

(You can also visit my website directly at cjloveman.com to learn more and sign up.)

I'll still maintain my presence on Substack as a reader, but the best and most reliable way to engage with my writing and connect directly will be through my website and new newsletter.

Thank you so much for your support so far. I can't wait to continue this journey with you!

Warmly,

C.J.

I can’t believe I just finished my novel's first draft, The Centurion’s Embrace! My goal was for it to land closer to 80,000 words, but this first draft is only 46,000. I will make revisions, and if I can find ways to expand it, I will, but not artificially and not at the expense of the story. If the result is that I have to self-publish or it is categorized as a novella, so be it.

The next step is recruiting a diverse group of 5 to 10 beta readers! I already have three, but I’m looking for more. If you are interested, please complete this beta reader application!

Beta Reader Application

After getting feedback from my beta readers and making another round of revisions, I will send the manuscript to a professional editor to fine-tune everything.

About The Centurion’s Embrace:

In the volatile world of first-century Galilee, Roman Centurion Gaius's ordered life is shattered by two undeniable forces: his profound, forbidden love for his Jewish servant, Tobias, and a miraculous healing that defies all Roman logic. But this newfound path incurs the wrath of the ambitious Tribune Valerius, who sees Gaius's integrity and compassion as a threat. As Valerius’s persecution mounts, leveraging Gaius’s love, secrets, and even the lives of those around him, he is stripped of everything he once valued. 'The Centurion's Embrace' is a historical drama about a love that transcends boundaries, a dramatic spiritual awakening in an era of upheaval, and the agonizing choices one man must make between imperial power, personal honor, and a transformative faith that offers a new kind of freedom.

Beta Reader Application

I’ve posted a basic proposal for this new writing project below. I’ve withheld some details to avoid spoiling some of the possible twists. The proposal isn’t meant for a publisher or an agent at this time. IT IS MEANT FOR YOU!

As a part of this series, I will share experiences along the journey including sneak peeks of chapters.

Check out the proposal below! Please leave a comment or question.

Working Title: The Centurion's Embrace

Genre: Historical Fiction, LGBTQ+ Romance, Christian Fiction (Cross-over potential)

Logline: In 1st century Judea, a Roman Centurion's forbidden love for his Jewish servant, coupled with his father's hidden past and his own burgeoning faith, forces him to confront Roman hypocrisy and the nascent Christian community's prejudices.

Synopsis:

Gaius, a seasoned Roman Centurion, arrives in Judea, hardened by years of service but secretly yearning for a deeper connection. He finds himself drawn to Tobias, his intelligent and dignified Jewish servant, whose quiet strength and unwavering faith intrigue him. Their shared intellectual discussions blossom into a profound bond that transcends the master-servant dynamic, igniting a forbidden love that threatens to shatter their worlds.

As their feelings deepen, Gaius and Tobias find themselves caught in a web of conflicting loyalties. The rigid social hierarchy of Roman society condemns the equality of their relationship, while the Jewish community grapples with the implications of such a love within their religious laws. Adding further complexity, Tobias is drawn to the nascent Christian community, whose message of love and equality resonates with him, yet also challenges his growing feelings for Gaius.

Adding to the tension, a military rival discovers a dark secret about Gaius's family. This revelation creates immense pressure to Gaius’s already precarious situation.

As their love is tested by betrayal, societal pressure, and the internal conflicts of faith and desire, Gaius and Tobias find solace in the concept of agape love, a selfless and unconditional love that just might transcend all of the boundaries.

When the rival seeks to leverage their relationship and threatens to disclose the family secret, Gaius is forced to stand trial before a Roman tribunal. Facing potential execution, Gaius makes a defiant declaration of his love and emerging faith, challenging Roman hypocrisy while also prompting the early Christian community to confront its own prejudices.

Target Audience: Romance readers, readers of historical fiction, particularly those interested in Roman history, early Christianity, and LGBTQ+ themes. The novel's exploration of faith and love could also appeal to some readers of Christian fiction.

Key Selling Points:

* Unique Premise: A forbidden love story between a Roman Centurion and his servant, set against the backdrop of early Christianity, interwoven with a family secret, offers a fresh perspective on a well-trodden historical period.

* Compelling Characters: Gaius and Tobias are complex and nuanced characters whose internal struggles and emotional journey will resonate with readers.

* Rich Historical Detail: The novel will be meticulously researched to bring 1st century Judea and the early Christian community to life.

* Exploration of Themes: The story delves into universal themes of love, faith, duty, social justice, and family secrets, offering thought-provoking insights into the human condition.

* Cross-over Potential: The novel's themes and setting have the potential to appeal to a broad readership, including historical fiction fans, romance readers, and those interested in Christian perspectives on love and acceptance.

Leave a comment

We came to China to celebrate Chinese New Year and our daughter’s birthday with family. Meanwhile, I learned about famous Chinese author Lu Xun. If you’re interested check out this video!

I’ve been giving reviews on TikTok for some time now but based on the likelihood that it will soon be unavailable in the United States, I’m experimenting with taking my reviews to other platforms including here. Let me know if you have thoughts about it!

"Hey, Loveman!" Clay's voice boomed down the hall. "Phone!"

The towering cowboy from Montana didn't have a good handle on theology or doctrine, but he made up for it with volume. His vocal talents still qualified him to become a superstar televangelist or a mega-church pastor in our denomination. 

"Thanks, brother," I said, emerging from my dorm room.

I felt terrible that Clay's room was situated right in front of the community phones. He must feel like the messaging service for everyone on the first floor.

I walked down the hall with its pale prison-like cinderblocks and picked up the receiver.

"Hello..."

"They still call you that?" Janine asked in her gentle voice.

Janine never complained, but I always got the vibe that she didn't like them calling me "Loveman" after we started dating. She knew that Kirk, my first roommate, based it on the literal German translation of my last name. He also teased me behind closed doors, calling me "Lover of Men," but I never told her about that.

If anyone knew that I wasn't the gigolo of the Christian campus, it should've been Janine. She knew that something was off in our relationship, even if she couldn't put her finger on it. But I knew the culprit, even if I wasn't ready to admit it even to myself. Over the years, I entombed my secret, but it still signaled to me like a demonic radio beacon. I was in the middle of a fierce internal battle over my sexual orientation.

"There aren't many people who call me that anymore," I said, feeling a little exasperated.

"OK, well…hey, we need to talk."

"Is everything OK?"

I sensed big trouble somewhere in her voice. My breath quickened, and my mind raced with the terrible scenarios that might play out. She's finally going to dump me. Does she know? Is she going to report me to the administration? Is my ministry over before it even starts?

"Let's just meet in the chapel in a few."

Oh crap, I thought. Janine's ending this, and I can't blame her one bit. How long could she possibly date someone who showed her no natural affection? Now I knew 100% what was coming, and it scared me.

The chapel on campus was used for daily services, but it was also where relationships went to die. If your significant other asked you to meet there, it was a sure sign that they were planning to break your heart and leave Jesus to pick up the pieces. I always thought it was a rather genius strategy because who could argue if their last words were, "Let us pray"? Now that I might be on the receiving end, I didn't admire it so much.

I traipsed back to my room and bundled up before venturing into the freezing Great Plains. As I added layers, my monkey mind went berserk. How could she know? Was she going to confront me? Will they kick me out of school?

I stepped out into the whipping arctic air, and it caused a moment of physical pain, and then everything went numb. I wished that my nerves could do the same.

I battled toward the chapel and distracted myself, replaying how Janine and I met. I was the leader of a campus inner-city ministry, and she joined a multicity student trip that I organized. Having seen her on campus, I already knew that she was a petite blonde who loved to smile. The more calculating guys in the dorm obsessed with her father being a prominent pastor. But during that trip, I learned that she had such a gentle, kind disposition and a powerful intellect. I drove the college van, and she rode shotgun the entire time. We spent a lot of time talking on the long journey and started dating a few days after we returned to campus. When the news traveled, everyone congratulated us, saying that we were the perfect couple.

My steps crunched on the icy gravel in the parking lot, and I looked around for anyone that could spot me entering the chapel. Everyone would know about it before the day ended if I was about to get dumped, but I wanted to avoid the shame of someone seeing it in real-time.

"Hey Cory, where's Janine?" Andrew bunched up with his girlfriend Emily, yelled from my blind side.

Damn! 

"I think she's in her room," I lied, hoping that Emily didn't already know the truth.

"So, I'm just heading to the gym."

After the second lie, I pivoted away from the north doors of the chapel.

"Well, maybe Janine can warm you up when you're done!" Andrew laughed as Emily play-slapped him.

I gave him a thumbs-up and felt like the world's biggest phony.

I meandered around the oval-shaped building, thinking I could enter through the south doors instead. My head turned, and I squinted through the wind watching for witnesses. I wasn't paying attention and slipped on a patch of ice. My back hit the sidewalk, and it disoriented me for a moment. My layers padded my fall, and my body was too numb to feel any pain. I slowly rolled back up as if nothing had happened and continued.

How appropriate, I thought. How many times was Janine forced to fake slip just to get me to hold her hand? I understood that I was her boyfriend and should show her some kind of physical affection, and it just didn't come naturally to me. When I tried to psych myself up, it felt like my brain malfunctioned, and my body seized up.

I arrived at the south chapel doors and did a quick scan in all directions. At the point of no return, I dove into the chapel lobby and stripped off my winter jacket and hat. I wrapped around the hall to the sanctuary as the fog on my glasses began to clear. I went into the darkness, and it disoriented me. The bright lights and worship music were replaced with shadows and silence.

I couldn't see anything until my eyes adjusted to the creepy scene. I looked around and detected a couple hiding on the far side of the sanctuary.

 "Cory?"

I jumped, surprised to hear Janine's voice coming from only a few feet away. She sat on a back pew taking cover under the balcony.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's just really dark."

"I thought you'd come in on the other side."

"I got sidetracked," I said as I sat next to her, and we shared an awkward hug. 

Now that the small talk was over and my eyes were adjusted, I could really see grim disappointment coming through her. I saw that last time when Janine visited Milwaukee during spring break. She loved meeting my family, and they adored her. When it was time for her to board the bus home, she came in for a goodbye kiss. Instead, I dodged and turned it into a hug. The look was only a flash at that time, but now it seemed persistent.

Janine couldn't wait any longer and rushed to the real point of our meeting.

"I really like you a lot Cory, but I just don't think this is working." She paused to catch her breath. I wanted to fill in the silence, but again I was useless and couldn't speak. I dreaded this moment, but now that it was there, I didn't fight for our relationship.

"I think that we should…end things."

She studied my face. I kept silent while all kinds of voices were shouting in my head. 

"I hope that I'm not hurting you," She said.

Janine looked like an angel speaking to me with words of comfort even as she felt her own pain. I was ashamed of everything. I wanted to beg her for forgiveness, and I wanted to confess with words I had never spoken. I also wanted to thank her for bearing the burden and doing the heavy work, including this final act of mercy. Those are the things that I thought about but failed to verbalize.

"Are you OK?" She asked.

"Yeah…I understand…" I finally spoke through shallow breaths. "I think it's… it's for the best."

I saw her eyes getting glassy for the first time and knew how much this weighed on her. I did not show any observable feelings for her, even now, at the end of our relationship. I did care, though, and she did matter to me, but I couldn't get the words out. Suppressing complicated feelings had already become my default position.

There was a stubborn silence. The only sound was the chapel heating system straining in the background. I don't remember who moved first, but we hugged and forced pained smiles one final time. I guess we both decided not to marinate more in the awkward silence, so we left in opposite directions.

Standing near the door, layering back up, I felt so many emotions all at once. It was like a dark work of abstract art with everything splashed together in seeming disorder. I felt like a failure as a man, guilty for what I did to Janine and fearful of what would happen next. But perhaps the most unexpected feeling that streaked across that canvas was relief. I was relieved that I no longer had to wear that mask and that I wouldn't be dragging Janine through the reckoning that I knew was coming.

(Author’s Note: This is a work of creative nonfiction)

This story was originally published on March 29, 2023, at A Thin Slice of Anxiety.

It happened on a steamy summer night just after a church softball game. They came back to Calvin's place and needed a shower before dinner. Calvin held out the most luxurious towel in his linen closet, but they fumbled; they both reached for it, and Calvin landed one of his hands on the small of Kirk's back. His large palm enveloped the spot as Kirk lifted his upper body. Calvin allowed his hand to lower with gravity, and Kirk did nothing to remove it. Their eyes met, confessing their intense desire. Pulling their bodies into a tight embrace, they finally felt the evidence of their pent-up passion. No longer playing games, they became engulfed in each other as their mouths joined and their hands explored. He would never, for the rest of his life, forget Kirk's scent, his taste.

Just when it seemed like they couldn't turn back, without warning, Kirk pushed back and looked to the ground.

"No! I…I can't…"

Calvin was so disoriented from the sudden shift, it took a moment to realize what it meant. Kirk gathered his things and started for the door while Calvin stood dumbfounded, not knowing what to say or do.

Near the bus stop, propaganda posters layered all around the old phone pole. The new images slathered over the old in a protruding mass. A crimson-colored background and large hands with the Church logo reaching down to the masses with images of bounty. "Meeting All Your Needs!" In large block letters on the bottom. It reminded him of a film series about the "end times" shown in churches decades earlier. The films scared the hell out of people even as they tried to chase them into Heaven. Now, Calvin lived under the tyranny of theocracy, and the state-Church seemed content to hurl the entire world down the same dreadful path it once feared.

On the edge of the poster, he noticed a curious hole. He pushed it with his fingertip, and soon the entire digit sank deep into the layers. Years of old paper and glue separated as if he were burrowing the depths for something precious. The approaching bus shined a spotlight on him, and he jerked his hand away and prepared his phone for scanning.

Calvin lumbered up the bus's stairs, a tote bag on his arm, and his phone in hand. He glanced at the driver; in his peripheral vision, there was the young nurse in scrubs and an older man sleeping in his seat. He walked to the place furthest from the other two passengers and plopped down. A used newspaper sprawled across the seat next to him. He saw the headlines: "President Visits Tomorrow!" "Rioters at Church Headquarters Tied to Terrorists," and "US Expands Sanctions Against Secular Nations." He tossed the paper on the floor and stepped on it with both feet.

Calvin pulled out his prized possession, an antique Walkman from the 1980s. It once belonged to his favorite uncle, so it felt like a family heirloom, but it also sheltered him from the endless propaganda. Rather than the radio, he would listen to his vast collection of cassette tapes.

Looking at the current rotation he popped in "Eschatology Lectures, a Theological Study of the End Times," an old cassette by one-time prominent theologian Dr. Hulda M. Wyatt. How unsurprised she would be to see the world's current state. On the other hand, she would feel shocked and mortified to witness the Church's role in it all. The scenes whipping by the window didn't register in his mind because he had already wrapped himself in Dr. Wyatt's lecture. Every passing moment increased Calvin's primal desire for sleep, and soon he even tuned out Dr. Wyatt.

Calvin disembarked, failing to avoid the message wrapped around the entire bus shelter. "Support the Government! Report to Church!" emblazoned in red with the happiest models on earth pictured in every open space. Pictures of the perfect Church-approved family. His instant rage pulled him out of his slumber for a moment. He turned off the lecture and began a ferocious internal rant as he walked toward the store.

A few days after Kirk ran out of his apartment, he called Calvin and asked to meet him at the church. They met on a Monday because the rest of the staff took the day off. Calvin walked in and saw Kirk pacing near the open sanctuary doors. His face looked pale, drained of the usual cheer that could brighten any room. His dark hair, always stylish and brushed forward, now just hung unkempt like blinds over his eyes.

"Let's go talk in there," Kirk said, motioning to the pews in the back. They sat.

Calvin knew to expect the worst yet with Kirk’s body heat so close, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. He breathed deep, ingesting every particle in the air that they shared, archiving it deep inside.

"I don't know what happened at your place, but I almost quit over it," Kirk said. "No! Why? Calvin replied. "That seems a li—"

"But then I realized what happened was really about you, not me."

"What?" Calvin asked as he dropped his upper body back against the hard wood. "Cal, you are gay or whatever and misunderstood our friendship."

"Misunders--"

"You. You have to get yourself right, or one of us has to go," Kirk said.

For a moment, Calvin doubted himself. It was true that he had misread signals with friends in the past. But this time he could point to direct contact, places, and ways that Kirk touched him. All evidence from just a few days ago. He knew that the feelings were mutual, but he also felt desperate to salvage something between them. So rather than force Kirk to face his desires, he just accepted the blame.

"I'm sorry! I'm Sorry! I'll do whatever you want. Please. Can't we still be friends?" "Maybe, a long time from now, if you get yourself right."

"How lo—"

"I’ll be praying for you, Cal," Kirk said.

He lifted his hand to hide the tears in his blue eyes and paused as if he had something more to say.

Calvin could feel the conflict raging inside him, but Kirk turned and ran out, leaving any of those words unsaid.

Calvin let out a primal scream. "Why!"

Obscenities blasted out of his mouth toward the vaulted sanctuary roof. He felt tricked and betrayed. He had served his whole life, lived only to serve, but now he was left alone with this mortal wound. Even as his anger toward life and God erupted from him, he wondered if he could ever be forgiven.

The bank of ten monitors flickered a bluish hue across the cramped office. It hypnotized Calvin into a light sleep and then nudged him awake in endless cycles. This was the woeful reality of the life of a security guard, the only living thing in the store overnight.

He sent his hand across the particleboard desk and bumped into the radio. A classic country star yodeled after he turned it on. His eyes lifted like two heavy garage doors just as the song ended. "This is a news brief from the Patriot & Prophet News Corporation—"

"Oh god, bring back the yodeling!" Calvin said.

"God's Chosen, the President, on Wednesday detailed his plan to create a new international organization overseeing Church and morality initiati—"

Calvin's hand stung after he struck the radio with an open palm. He hit it so hard that the transmission turned off.

"It's all an abomination!"

Calvin tried to exhale his tension as he examined the radio.

After confirming that it still worked, he rose with the tightness of middle-age and began his end- of-shift tour a few hours early.

In the stairwell, he steadied himself on the cold steel railing and descended to the store's lower level. The glistening white floor shone as he made his way to the exterior doors on the other side. He removed the scanner from his jacket and pointed it at a bar code on the door frame. It beeped, documenting his first stop.

A distant call came over a loudspeaker as he put the scanner back in his pocket. Pulsating police lights blinded him through the six glass doors; the colors grew more intense as they came closer. He couldn’t help but wonder if they were coming for him.

You're paranoid, he thought.

"Stop!" The authorities yelled over their loudspeaker.

Calvin felt a brief moment of relief, knowing that they were hunting someone else.

"What the hell is going on out there?"

A man materialized from around the corner and crashed full speed into the middle door. The impact released an explosion of glass, each shard colored by the approaching police lights. Calvin let out an instinctual scream but was so transfixed on the scene he didn't shield himself. The fresh-faced young man looked up at him in desperation.

Blood starting to flow down covering his face, he whispered, "Help. Please, help me," as he struggled to get up.

His voice sounded even younger than he looked. His bangs, now red, weighted down near his eyes.

Before Calvin could say or do anything, morality officers barged through the gaping hole. They wore their purple uniforms with crimson Church logos across the chest.

The young man was unable to stand; still, the officers tackled him and unleashed their rage. When they had their fill, they put the kid in restraints and put a hood over his head.

In only moments, the immaculate area looked and smelled like a slaughterhouse. Calvin, filled with disgust, wanted to beat the officers with the nearest blunt object.

"Stop! Are you planning to kill him right next to the children's department?"

One of the younger officers shot a death stare back at him. "Mind yourself, rent-a-cop."

"Relax, officer." A svelte man in a black suit walked in, raising his hand.

Calvin noticed his slicked-back hair and the distinctive Church logo pinned to his lapel. "I'm Inspector White from Church Intelligence, and I'm sorry for what has hap—" "Yeah! I've got a large hole where a door used to be. Glass and blood all over!"

"Copy that. But we have contractors on call. They will have this place cleaned and repaired in no time."

"OK, well, I’ll have to write an incident report and leave a message for my supervisor," Calvin responded.

"Understandable. I will leave two officers behind to guard the door until everything is back to normal."

Calvin nodded as the officers moved the young man past him and toward the door. Blood now soaking through the hood made him nauseous.

"When The Righteous Judge gets through with you, you'll wish you died tonight," the younger officer told his prisoner.

Calvin bit his tongue as he turned around and made his way back to the security office. He spent the rest of his shift rewatching the security video.

"I don't know what they are anymore, but it’s not a church!"

Feeling emptied of everything inside, he stumbled to his church office and sat at his desk. The next morning Calvin woke with his senior pastor shaking him by the shoulders. "Calvin! Son, are you OK?"

Calvin looked up, feeling disoriented, and realized that his conversation with Kirk had not been a nightmare. He burst into tears as the weight of his sorrow covered him all over again. The head pastor walked him to his large office and eased him down onto the couch. Sitting next to him, he put his arm around Calvin. He looked at him with a mix of bewilderment and genuine compassion. His facial expression changed after Calvin made an unsolicited but complete confession, telling his senior pastor that he was gay.

He sent Calvin back home and put him on administrative leave until a disciplinary committee reviewed the matter. Calvin, numb from pain, didn't react, but he knew what it really meant. He remembered his original calling into ministry, the supernatural vision that he had as a preteen. It supercharged him through his youth, the college years and even through most of his internal struggles. That calling served as his touchstone, a guide to navigate life, and a context for everything. He knew that his promising career and passion for ministry died right there on his senior pastor’s couch. He felt a fog of prophetic doom descend all around him and he knew that it would be permanent.

The sun just began piercing the sky when Calvin boarded the waiting bus. He made his way to the back and looked toward the store. Replaying the barbarism that he witnessed earlier, he found himself admiring the young man. I don’t know what he did, but at least he did something. The more he thought about the young man’s voice, his build and face, the more he thought about Kirk. He wondered if Kirk had been swallowed whole by the Church, or did he eventually take a stand for himself?

Calvin harbored hate for the state-Church but never took concrete action. It seemed like a pattern through all the critical moments in his life, and he felt like a coward. He wished that he hadn’t repressed his sexuality for all of those years. He wished he had the strength to honor both hisown nature and his divine calling. Instead, he went with the program and buried his true identity. He sacrificed so many parts of himself to a Church that discarded him like trash. Those moments with Kirk released feelings that he never had before or since, but it also blew up his life into unrecognizable pieces. He thought of the wasted decades. He lived a long personal tribulation, wholly isolated and ruined.

The smell of diesel invaded his senses as he disembarked at his stop. A wave of depression filled Calvin on the ride home, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse and sleep it away.

Walking past the old telephone pole, he rammed all of his fingers into the hole he dug earlier. The whole hand buried, he grabbed past the decades of glue and paper and ripped out with violence. The thickness of the mass startled him as it all fell to the ground like a cinderblock. The faded poster that remained could have been about anything, but at least it wasn’t propaganda. His hand covered with a sticky glaze, he stared at it and realized what he had just done. This kind of act is a crime against the state, he thought. Huffing and puffing as he ran from the scene, Calvin darted down a nearby alley. Panting, he inhaled the smell of stale piss and rotting garbage as he moved forward—the evergreen sparkle of broken glass strewn across the alley.

My God, that felt good. Where did that even come from, he wondered. This might be the first public manifestation of his deep hate for the state-Church. A rush of excitement and wonder now replaced the depression that consumed him on the bus. Like an addict introduced to a powerful drug, he prayed that he could just make the feeling last.

Before he could form another thought, the same might that blew through him as a boy began to pour down, overflowing his entire being. Liquid lightening activated every cell. His legs became weak, and his body trembled as he fell to his knees. His face pointed up, and with the same courage that Calvin had as a child, he opened his eyes. A tear gashed across the sky as far as he could see, and at the center, the same light that he saw as a boy, the very same image moving closer. A mighty cloud of witnesses fanned out on either side, chanting a chorus in an unknown tongue.

Then a voice so evident in his heart that he didn't need an acoustic version. "I have put my words in your mouth."

"But who am I?" Calvin responded, "I've lost my calling, I'm bitter, I'm ga—" "My grace is sufficient for you. My power is made perfect in your weakness."

He closed his eyes, remembering that God had always spoken this way to him, with words from  scripture.

Hours seemed to pass in God’s presence, but in actual time only moments passed. Calvin opened his eyes, still kneeling on the cracked concrete, and saw everything back in its place. His legs were jittery, still feeling the glory in every fiber of his skin, bones, and spirit.

"I feel it…finally, I can feel it again," He said.

Calvin walked to his small apartment. When he entered, he went into his barren bedroom. He stared at the closet debating whether to go inside. Imbued with a new boldness to confront his past head-on, he went in and pulled down the box. He thought many times about destroying its contents, but something always stopped him. His old journal, photos, and a red scrapbook from his ministry days were still buried there. He had shoved his painful memories deep inside for a long time, and likewise, he entombed this physical evidence.

When he dusted off the red cover and began to page through it, he saw recognition awards, a copy of his college diploma, and the official letter credentialing him as a minister. There was a program from a national youth convention with himself listed as a keynote speaker. It struck him to see the sudden end of things just past the middle. Blank pages that he always intended to fill while still a young man.

He laid the scrapbook on his bed and started pulling out the scattered pictures. He rifled through them, reliving moments with a smile but stopped on one with a sick feeling in his stomach.

Calvin pictured together with Kirk, the children's minister at the church. Their arms draped around each other, and Kirk flashing that dimpled smile that made everything seem alright. They were inseparable in those early days working at the church. He found himself infatuated with a few male friends over the decades, but Kirk was the first one he loved with his whole heart. True love that he never experienced before or since. Short but explosive. Haunting and life-altering.

He took a pen from his uniform pocket and opened the old journal to the first blank page. Calvin wrote with such intensity that his words, like flames, consumed the pages. He documented his wandering, isolation, and struggles for the last 20 years. He wrote about his vision and renewed calling. He wrote about how he had finally battled the demons that this very journal represented to him.

"Maybe, I was never meant for conventional ministry." Calvin wrote.

Pausing for a moment, he felt a new revelation descend down and absorb into his mind. He pressed his pen deeper into the page and continued to pour inspiration out in ink.

"If I stayed in the Church, if I lived the lie, I would be a part of this abomination today. My extended pain, my unrelenting heartbreak may be my salvation."

"Is it possible that all of my past prepared me for this exact moment?" "God put a message in my heart, and I will speak it to the world. Today!"

Still experiencing spiritual ecstasy, he felt divinely led to put God's message out through a live stream video.

He drafted a three-point outline, trusting that he would be given all of the right words.

1.  Invitation to the oppressed, the poor, the stranger, those cast aside by the Church.

 2.  Appeal to genuine believers that have been misled. Return to your "First Love."

 3.  A harsh rebuke to Church leaders that prioritized political power over all else.

He continued to write, “They threw me out, ruined my life, and declared me an apostate. But an apostate is someone that abandons their faith. I never did, even in my worst moments. This so- called Church, on the other hand, has long turned away from the true faith."

Calvin sat on the worn sofa studying the tripod that he retrofitted to hold his phone. He hoped that the tape would hold during the live stream. He feared that the phone might fall and send a live feed of his carpet matted with years of spilled Mountain Dew.

He trembled with nervousness. He had cloistered himself for decades. He only saw other people on TV, on the bus, or when he went to the grocery store. Doing this video went against every impulse that he programmed into himself for all these years. But still, he knew that it must happen.

He checked the camera view of the phone and noticed the darkness in his living room. He went to the blinds and saw years, maybe decades of dust that had layered there. He opened them just enough to bring in light but not so much that someone could see inside. The dust particles that he set free streamed into his nose, circulated through his respiratory system, and he violently coughed them back out.

Calvin walked around the room, psyching himself up, but then caught a glimpse of his reflection on the darkened TV screen. He could see his flabby rounded frame, his too-large untucked shirt, and the outdated glasses on his face.

"I can't do it, I can't do it, I just can't do it!"

He fell back onto the sofa, the rate of his breathing increased, and his chest tightened. For a moment, he thought that it might be a heart attack or something worse.

At the peak of his panic, he began to hear a familiar, still-small voice repeating simple words of comfort.

"Be still. Be still. Be still."

Even in his current state of mind, he recognized the words from the Book of Psalms, "Be still and know that I am God."

Indeed, he could feel the growing blanket of comfort in those words. He could feel his pulse slow, his breath normalize, and the tension in his chest ease.

The anxiety had not left Calvin's mind, but it did start to reverse. And at that moment, he committed a flagrant act of faith. He hit record.

His vocal cords began to engage, and with the very first intonations, his apprehensions and fears melted away. Calvin started delivering his first sermon in over 20 years. The most important sermon of his entire life.

Calvin basked in the euphoria that he always felt after delivering a sermon that he knew connected, piercing through to the soul. Calvin wanted to celebrate. He wanted to give thanks for this miracle. He grabbed his favorite gospel cassette, blasted it, danced, clapped, and shouted all around his small apartment.

Curiosity drove him to check his live stream's statistics, and it astonished him to see almost 10,000 views.

He wondered how it could be possible from a new account with zero following.

Not very familiar with the platform, it took him a while to notice the comments. He couldn't help himself and began reading the barbaric attacks.

The Church's international troll army and government bots must be engaged already, he thought. He refreshed the page minutes later and found the video disabled, but the nasty comments kept piling up. Impulse drove him to continue refreshing, but he started to notice something different. Hundreds of new comments carried the same message.

"We are with you, brother!"

Embedded in every supportive message, a link to new individual pages with the full video still available.

"My God!" Calvin shouted.

A coordinated effort to thwart censors, battle trolls, and amplify his message.

"There's a resistance!"

Calvin exhausted in every way, but he couldn't stop looking at his original video's comments.

The video itself continued to spread like a virus throughout the internet. The government technicians and Church censors couldn't keep up. They couldn't stop the message.

Comments, now totaling over 1,000, he saw something new and terrifying. The trolls now started calling him out by name.

"They've identified me now," he said, his voice shaking.

He expected it at some point, but it still caused him to pause. He assumed that they might already know his physical location. He could feel in his guts that the stakes had risen.

Stories in the media started popping up, dismissing him as a depraved Sodomite, disgruntled because of his termination from the Church. Others focused on his status as a nobody, decades of dead-end jobs, and bankruptcies. He thought that the rapid pace of propaganda couldn't get worse until he saw an interview on the Church's TV network. Kirk's piercing blue eyes now looked dead as he stared into the cameras. He had a new and disturbing nervous tick, squinting his eyes as if absorbing pain.

Calvin could see how they purged all of the life from him, and he mourned for Kirk. The person that changed his world no longer existed.

He read a script accusing Calvin of sexually assaulting him when they worked together. He went on to make even more monstrous claims, lying to the entire world. Calvin's pain rolled through him like a storm. The old wounds that he thought he conquered started to throb.

He looked at his email, and he had over 1,000 new messages. He read many death threats and some disingenuous invitations for him to defend himself on Church-controlled media.

Then he saw a grouping of emails with the same subject line: "Fighting the good fight!"

Calvin started reading the supportive emails, and they all listed different ways that the resistance helped his cause. The link in one email went to a story posted on the Patriot & Prophet website. The defamatory content was replaced with his full video message. He clicked another link for the Church's TV network but discovered that the resistance hacked it, taking it down. Supportive comments stood in the place of the vile attacks all over the internet.

He witnessed such a sophisticated effort in real time. It must be a large group of people all over the world, he thought.

As he daydreamed about everything happening behind the scenes, the sound of his phone startled him. He just stared as it kept ringing.

He wondered if he should answer. He thought that it could be a death threat, or it could be the resistance.

"Or it could just be a wrong number.”

He realized that they couldn’t do much more to him, so he answered.

"Hello."

"Brother, there is not much time, so please just let me speak a word of knowledge to you." The women spoke in a Southern accented baritone.

"OK," Calvin responded.

"I am Anna the Prophet, and you should know that righteous men and women all over this world are fighting for you."

"I've seen that on—"

"Brother, please listen. You've planted seeds today, prophets have been called, and heroes of the true faith have been born. No matter what happens next, God wants you to know these truths."

"Th— Thank you for that," Calvin whispered.

"Now brother, I know that you don't know me, but we have special brothers and sisters coming to your home ri—"

"You know where I li--"

"Brother Calvin, time is short. Gather whatever you must and get ready. Those serving the Whore of Babylon will arrest you, so we want to move you underground."

"Where am I go—"

"Lord bless and keep you, Brother, get ready!" The prophet said, and she disconnected the call.

Calvin grabbed a garbage bag and started throwing in things that he might need. He put in his Walkman, a dozen cassettes, and a few days’ worth of clothes. He paced around the apartment, having second thoughts about what he should do next.

"Should I just run off on my own? How do I know Prophet Anna is for real?"

He wondered if he shouldn't run at all. Maybe he should just stay right there and let the morality officers take him away, just like they did to that young man in the store.

“I’m no better than him,” he said.

Calvin stacked his scrapbook, pictures, and journal and sat on the sofa. He reflected for a moment, and then it came to him. He already existed in a different world, on a different spiritual plane. His faith finally smoldered again inside him.

"They can't extinguish it, no matter what happens next."

I just wanted to share the good news that after almost three years, my story “Apostate” has finally been published! At a later time, I will republish it here, but until then, you can check it out at the online LitMag, A Thin Slice of Anxiety!

The seed for this story had been swirling in my head for a long time, but it wasn’t until 2020 that I actually started writing. The first couple of versions went through a short story workshop at Gotham Writers. Then a few more versions went through a couple of paid editors that gave me useful feedback.

I started submitting the story to LitMags in August of 2020 and continued until it was finally published a few weeks ago. It was painful to see it get rejected 76 times over the last few years, but the story was precious to me, and I had to get it out in whatever way possible. I’m so happy that it has finally found a home!

Behind the Story: Apostate

I grew up in an Evangelical Christian church, and when I was a kid, they showed a series of four movies about the Rapture and the “end times.” These are the old-school movies that came long before the Left Behind series. It started with “A Thief in the Night” and went on through the seventies and early eighties. As a child, the films scared the hell out of me, and I believe that was probably the point.

I was called into the ministry as a teen and went on to a very conservative Bible College. I was fervent and determined, but that is also where I struggled and finally confronted the fact that I was gay. Even though I graduated and was even licensed as a minister, it didn’t take long before I had to step away from the ministry. It wasn’t that I had lost my passion or faith, but at that time, it just wasn’t possible to be a minister and openly gay. So for a very long time, I wandered through life not knowing what to do or where to go.

I should say that Calvin, the protagonist in the story, is not meant to be me. On the other hand, it is undeniable that my own life experience definitely inspired and informed this story. It was important to me to explore the idea of holding onto personal faith through all the personal devastation but also making peace with the reality of one’s self. Making Calvin a true believer but also wrestling with his sexual orientation helped me accomplish that goal in the story.

No matter who you are or where you are coming from, I hope that you enjoy reading “Apostate” and that it’s at least thought-provoking.

Ben's nerves pulsated all over his body as he ran through each scenario in his mind. He walked down the long pale hospital hallways trying to remember the security guards' directions. 

The yellow line to blue, to green, then the elevator, he repeated to himself, shoes squeaking on the polished floor. Walking through the hospital's bowels, he contemplated the same two questions. What do you say to a father that you never knew, and how do you say it standing next to his deathbed?

His shallow breaths quickened as the elevator carried him up. An unrelenting knot squeezed in his chest as he passed through the hospice doors and walked to the nurse's station. 

"Who're you here to see?" The nurse asked with a smile, not quite looking up from his hands on the keyboard.

"Carlton Hughes." 

Ben counted the number of taps on the keyboard as he waited. 

"Your name and relation?"

"Benjamin Jerrell. J-E-R-R-E-L-L. I'm his…ah…son." 

"OK, got it in the system," he said, gesturing toward the monitor and rising. "Your sisters are in there right now." 

The muscles in Ben's shoulders tightened, and he cursed to himself as the sensation traveled to his neck. He wanted to avoid other people—why else would he come so late?

Following the nurse down the hall, now he wondered what he should say to his half-sisters. What could he say? These were half-sisters that he had never met. Last he heard, the youngest didn't even know that he existed. She didn't know that she had a half-brother. That her father cheated on her mother. That he got their young babysitter pregnant. 

Praying. Begging God that someone had told her the secret over the years, Ben stepped through the door to his father's room.  

One woman about his age sat in a recliner near the cracked open window. Ben could see her long brown hair waving with the slight breeze. She wore a powder blue sweatsuit and bright white tennis shoes. Sleep deprivation radiated from her face. He could see his father in her features. Deeper still, he could see a bit of himself. This had to be her. It had to be Jackie. 

She looked at him with a weary smile. 

Near the foot end of the bed, he saw the other sister with super tight graying curls above a pinched and drawn face. She must take after her mom, Ben thought.

Their father lay there, almost unrecognizable from the old pictures. Pictures of his father striking a heroic pose on a horse. Scenes from his time in the military and at his oldest daughter's wedding. Always smiling and posing in what seemed to be a happy life. A life that never really included Ben.

Turning back to the two sisters, he looked at his feet and said, "Hi, I'm Ben. I don't know if you know—" 

"I know who you are," the older sister said, looking back and forth between Jackie and him like she was watching an intense tennis match. 

Jackie smiled again and softly asked, "How do you know ou—?"

"I'm Charlotte," the older sister said in an agitated tone as she walked to Jackie and grabbed her hand. "Jack, let's let him visit for a little while. We need to talk."

"I'm sorry for interrupt—"

"No problem," Charlotte said as she dragged Jackie out of the room. 

Somewhat cordial…But did I detect bitterness or just awkwardness? He wondered.

Looking at his father in the bed, he tried to empty his mind temporarily of everything else. He knew that his father had been on dialysis for some years, but that was the extent of it. He didn't really know the specifics of what had him in this state, but he could see the tube inserted into his trachea. His lips were chapped, and his closed eyelids were so thin they seemed transparent. 

What do I do now? Ben thought. Do I say something? Is he asleep or in a coma? 

Ben stood silent, looking at his father. Looking for a sign of life. There was no movement, and he couldn't hear anything except the whirring sound of medical equipment.

He began to speak in a whisper, "I want you to know—"

"Carl, wake up! Someone is here to visit you!" A new nurse announced, startling Ben as she entered the room. 

"Is he sleeping?" Ben asked.

"Yes. Sometimes he's very alert, and other times he can't stay awake," She said. "It's the morphine." She walked up to Carl and rubbed his cheek with one hand, and moistened his lips with a damp sponge in the other. 

"Sweetheart, your son Ben is here to see you. Can you wake up for us?" She said into his ear with a hushed tone. 

Ben watched his father's eyelids lift like a pair of heavy weights and his eyes adjusted to the dim light. 

"Carl, your son Ben is here to see you, isn't that nice?" the nurse said, waving her open palm toward Ben. 

Ben forced a smile and waved his hand. His father moved his head, trying to nod, and raised his hand a fraction of an inch off the bed.

Ben watched as his father's eyes closed and opened, fighting a losing battle against sleep. 

"It looks like you caught him during a sleepy stage," the nurse said, tucking Carl's blanket around him and adjusting his pillow. 

"That's OK. I'm just glad I was able to visit," Ben said. "Can I ask a dumb question?" 

"There are no dumb questions, especially on this ward," she said. 

"What's going on with that tube going into his throat?"

"That is a tracheostomy tube. It's connected to the ventilator to help him breathe."

Ben soaked in the information and said, "This may sound stra—"

"Remember what I said," she replied, shaking her finger and smiling.

"OK. What's wrong with him? Can you tell me why he's sick? Why is he…?" 

"He's been on dialysis for years, and he's had many other health problems. But the real problem right now is, like his kidneys, other organs are starting to shut down." 

When the nurse left the room, Ben didn't know what to say or do next, so he decided to go. Walking down the hallway, he heard sniffles coming from the lobby. Jackie sat near the window on a chair's arm with her head buried into Charlotte's chest. Her body was heaving up and down as she whimpered. Charlotte looked at Ben and patted her head a few times. 

"Jackie, I know it's a shoc—"

"How? Why? Why can't I just say goodbye to Daddy in peace?" Jackie yelled.

Charlotte continued to nuzzle her as the sobbing increased.

Ben headed past the reception desk and out the door, thinking that it would be better to remove himself. 

The elevator door opened, and Ben jumped in, hoping to escape the entire situation, but when he turned around, Charlotte startled him, stepping into the doorway, preventing it from closing. 

"Look, you can see that he doesn't have much time left."

"I'm really sorry," Ben said, and he reached for the open door button. "I'm so sorry for everything that your family is going through." 

"Thanks," she said, looking down and then back up. "You should know that we aren't bad people…We mostly just have a problem with your mother. Especially our brother Joey." 

Ben had no idea what she meant. He assumed that they didn't like his mother because she was "the other woman." 

If you could call a 19-year-old babysitter, 'the other woman,' Ben thought.

"OK, well, I've never thought badly about any of you. I only wish all of you the best," Ben said.

He felt a bit of shame over the white lie. Well, I mean, I never hated any of them, he thought. 

The elevator doors started beeping, and ignoring his depressed finger on the button. Charlotte was undeterred by the door, continually bumping into her small frame. 

She took a deep breath and said, "We might pull the plug soon. You can come back for one more if you schedule it first."

"OK," he said.

"You're welcome to the funeral, but under no circumstances should your mother show up."

Ben knew that his mom was a troubled young woman back then, homeless and struggling with her mental health. But Charlotte was talking about her like she were some kind of monster. Rage started to simmer in the back of Ben's mind, and it began to bubble into the front.

"I'm not even sure—"

"Also, please don't come to the reception. You can see that it's just too hard for us." 

Ben held back what he really wanted to say, what he wanted to scream at her. Instead, he pulled his finger back from the button, leaving her to fend off the doors for herself. 

She stepped out of the path this time, and they closed with a welcome clank. 

Ben walked out the front door of the hospital, stung by the freezing night air. He called his mother on the dark walk across the parking lot to his car.

"How did it go, Honey?" His mom asked. 

"You were right," Ben said as he used a credit card to scrape away the unexpected layer of ice from his windshield.

"He looks terrible. Tube in his neck. He can't stay awake…I don't think he’ll be here much longer." 

"That's what your uncle told me. Thank God he found my number and let us know," she said. 

"Jackie and Charlotte were there."

"Really? What happened? Did Jackie know about you?" 

"They were nice enough for a second. Charlotte dragged her out and apparently told her. So I guess she still didn't know." 

"What happened?" 

"You mean aside from me walking through the lobby and seeing her sobbing?" 

"I'm so sorry, Honey. It's not easy, but you would've regretted it if you didn't go." 

"Charlotte. I need to talk to you later about her."

"Why, what did she say?"

"Never mind, we can talk more tomorrow. I just want to get back home," Ben said as his door creaked open, and he sat on the cold seat. 

"Alright, Honey. Well, drive safe. The roads are slippery." 

Turning the key in the ignition, Ben sat in the car, watching his breath condense to fog as the wipers threw off loose ice fragments. He couldn't remember his mom ever saying a crossword about his father. Growing up, she'd only repeat that he never missed a child support payment and always sent birthday and Christmas gifts. Ben always suspected that her rosy outlook was more for his benefit than to credit his father. 

No longer seeing his breath, he shifted into drive and scrolled through his playlist, tapping on the old Ray Price song. His mom loved it because his father sang it to her back then.

"Don't look so sad. I know it's over. But life goes on, and this old world will keep on turning…" 

His eyes filled with tears without warning, and he began sobbing, thundering out decades of emotion. His body was wracked with sobs, and he had to shift back into park. 

"What's going on?" He shouted. 

He grabbed a tissue from the glove compartment, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose. Putting the car back in drive. He noticed that the song had already made it to the chorus, the only words of the song that his mother ever sang.

"Lay your head upon my pillow. Hold your warm and tender body close to mine." 

"My God, this is such a sad song! It's a total break-up song!" He said.

The singer is in a doomed relationship begging to focus on "the good times." He often wondered why his mom treated the song as a precious family heirloom. Ben never had the heart to point out the real meaning. Considering the circumstances, he never told her how the chorus sounded quite creepy. 

Warm rays of light pierced through the blinds, reaching Ben's face. His preset coffeemaker was already percolating in the kitchen, sending the aroma of fresh coffee wafting through the air. Everything conspired, attacking his senses and nudging him into wakefulness. 

He opened his eyes, saw an old box before him, and realized that he had fallen asleep on the couch. When he got home from the hospital, he had pulled down the box of dusty old photos, letters, and other keepsakes. Ben twisted his fists against both eyes, grabbed a few of the old letters from his dad, and walked to the kitchen. 

The letters were all penned on lined paper torn from a spiral notebook with all the jagged pieces on one side. He had to use all of his powers of perception to translate the cursive scrawled across the page. 

Ben often joked that he hadn't just inherited his father's looks but also his penmanship. 

"He does it with his right hand, and now I'm carrying on the tradition with my left," Ben would say to his mom. 

He poured some coffee, sat at the breakfast bar, and swirled in cream as he unfolded one of the letters. Over the years, his dad used the same formula. An update on family or business matters, something about his horses, a response to something Ben wrote, and some inevitable expression of guilt. 

 Just as he prepared to read a letter, his phone rang beside him. 

"Hel…hello?" 

"Ben?" 

"Yes."

"This is your uncle Charlie, Carlton's brother." He said with a clear accent from the sticks up north. 

"Hi. Thanks for letting us know about my Dad's condo—."

Uncle Charlie continued with the rat-a-tat-tat pace of a Tommy gun. 

"Yup. Look, this is a hard way to talk to you for the first time—"

"It's OK." 

"Well, I wanted to let you know that your dad's wife and kids decided they're gonna pull the plug tomorrow.”

“Oh…I’m sorry."

"Yeah, it's a toughie. But look, if you want to see him one more time, you should go there today at 4."

"Sure, I can do tha—"

"I don't know what's wrong with them, but they don't want to be there during your visit. They also keep insisting that your mom not come to the funeral." 

"Yeah, Charlotte kinda made that clear last night." 

"I don't get it, my boy, but you go say your final goodbyes."

"Thank yo—"

"Don't you mention it. Bye." 

Uncle Charlie hung up, and Ben felt overwhelmed by the whirlwind conversation. He assumed that he had already had his last visit with his father, but now he had to prepare himself all over again. And this time, it felt way more complicated after the interaction with his half-sisters. 

Ben looked in his closet, wondering what to wear to the hospital. He rushed for the last visit, but now he had at least some notice. 

"Great, one more thing to stress about," he said, slipping his hands into the hanging fabric.

"Something dark? But it's not a funeral…Yet." 

The more he looked for the perfect shirt, the longer it took to find it. The actions of his siblings monopolized his mind and soured his mood. He didn't have the capacity to think about clothes.

"What the hell is wrong with these people, anyway?” Ben said. "Poor delicate little flowers. Can't they bear to see my mom after all these years? Can't they even take having me around? Or what? They'll have a breakdown?"

His face reddened as his voice bounced back out of the closet at him. 

"I'm the one that grew up without a father!" 

Ben sat on the bed, shook his head, and tried to regain control. 

They've had our father their whole lives. But, including last night, I can count on one hand how many times I've even been in his presence.

Ben's phone began to ring again. Already drained, he looked down and saw "Mom."

"Hello?"

"Honey, so how are you doing?"

"Charlie just called, They're pulling the plug tomorrow, so I'm going there at 4." 

"Are you OK?" 

Ben stood back up and started pacing around the room. He had something to say. He had some things to ask his mom, but he didn't really know how.

"They don't want to be there when I visit. Apparently, it's just too painful for them. Poor little things," Ben said. "They're soooo generous, allowing me to come to the funeral, but they forbid me from coming to the reception!" 

"That is rotten! I shoul—"

"No. Don't! Don't do anything, Mom. They don't want me there. I'm not going." 

"OK, but it's just not right," her voice cracked.

"I know, but let them live with that. This is about my dad and me. I'll go see him one last time today. I'll say goodbye, I'll go to his funeral, and then I'm done…" He whispered. 

"OK. Well, I'll let you get rea—"

"One more thing Mom."

"Yeah?" 

"Last night, Charlotte really came on strong against you showing up anywhere. I mean, so over-the-top." 

"Really?'

"Yeah. I get that the whole thing is touchy, but why such hostility?"

Ben's mother paused for an unusually long period. He could hear breathing that usually precipitated tears.

"Mom? So what is all this about? Do you know?" 

"Honey, I never told you this. I don't think I've ever told anyone."

Ben lowered himself back down onto his bed, bracing himself on the nightstand. 

What in the hell is she about to say? He thought. 

"You know I was a distraught young girl. Abuse. Homeless. And your Dad and Vivian…" Her voice started to break. "They took me into their home. Made me a live-in babysitter and housekeeper…Felt like a family." 

Ben's facial muscles tightened in scores of little painful knots.

"When I got pregnant, it turned everything upside down. Your Dad and Vivian got in their share of fights before, but it got so much worse…." She stopped again to catch her breath.

"Just relax, Mom. Take your time," Ben said.

"It ended the way I knew it would. Vivian told me to get out. Your Dad told her that they couldn't just dump me on the streets in my condition. Vivian said she didn't care. Maybe it would be good if I…if I lost the baby." She said it in such a hushed voice that Ben strained to hear. 

"I understand why she was mad, Mom, but wh—" 

"I'm not finished."

Ben braced himself again for whatever might come at him next. 

"So I finally felt like I had a family—a home. Now I might lose everything. And I mean everything." She said between quickened breaths.

"I went crazy, son. I just went crazy for a few minutes. I turned into some kind of animal and started yelling and screaming. I threatened the lives of their kids."

"What! Mo—" 

"I loved those kids. But I threatened them…." Ben's mother now gasping for air.

"Mom. Is that it?" Ben asked.

"I…I pulled a knife from the kitchen and held it up to Joey." She said through sobs. 

"Jesus Christ, Mom!" Ben yelled in disbelief.

He knew about his mom's troubled past. He knew about the homelessness, abuse, and struggles with mental illness. But in his entire life, he had never seen her act in any violent or abusive way. She had been a loving mother and a kind person to everyone. She overcame her past; over the years, she even found regular work as a nanny and housekeeper. So many of the kids that she helped raise over the years still loved her like a second mother. 

Who is this person she's describing? He thought. 

"Did they call the police? Did you go in-patient? What happened?" Ben asked.

"No…They… Didn't want to broadcast it." She whispered between sobs. "It was a different time."

"Your father got me to put the knife down. The kids were screaming. Terrified. I was terrified…Guilty. And your dad had no choice but to pack me up and take me away." 

Ben heard his mom's uncontrolled sobbing, and it moved him with compassion for her, even after hearing such a horrific story. 

"Mom. Calm down…Breathe…. Now I understand." He said.

"I know. I know. I told myself that they were young. Maybe they got pas—" 

"Well, they clearly didn't." He said. 

"But Mom… You've been in this world for almost seven decades. Those were minutes. Terrible minutes, yes. But minutes from an entire lifetime."

"Thank you, Honey. I know… I know I've done at least one…good thi—" 

"More than one, Mom. A lot more." He said.

Walking through the lobby, a buzz of activity passed back and forth all around him. A pregnant woman walked past him as he stood in the center of the room. No one seemed to be waiting for her, and he wondered if she was there all alone. It looks like it's just her and the baby, he thought.

A line of visitors was forming behind the reception desk; he bypassed the line trying to recall the color-coded trail he had followed last night. 

"Yellow. Blue. Green. Elevator," he whispered. 

The same nurse sat at the station when he arrived at the hospice wing.

"Hello," Ben said, sucking in his lips as if he were trying to prevent his nerves from escaping.

"I'm here to vi—"

"Oh, I remember. It's not been that long ago," the nurse said with a chuckle.

"Let's get you checked in, and I'll take you back."

Ben hunched over the counter while the nurse tapped the keyboard. 

The nurse rose from the squeaky chair and motioned for Ben to follow him. 

"Your father's nurse is the only one in there right now."

When Ben entered the room, a wall of light pouring through the window hit him in the face. As his eyes adjusted, he saw his father sitting up with his eyes fully open. His nurse hunched over him and turned her head.

"Oh, look, Carl! Your son's back to visit!"

Ben watched as she turned back and started working with the ventilator tube. 

"Now, Carl, first, I have to clear this fluid out. It will only take a second or two." 

Her body partially blocked his view, but Ben could hear her working, and, worse, he could see his father almost gasping. His father's eyes widened, and his entire body tensed. Ben felt faint like he couldn't catch his own breath. 

"OK. It's all done. Sorry, I know it's tough," She said as she stroked his shoulder. 

"But now, you can enjoy your visit with your son!"

Carl gave a vigorous nod.

Ben thought about how weak his father looked just last night. It didn't surprise him when he got the news that the family was taking him off the ventilator. 

But now, he seems fully alert and engaged.  

The nurse walked out, flashing a kind smile at Ben. He almost wanted her to stay in the room. He felt such an awkwardness hanging over the place and thought that her presence could hold it at bay. 

Carl looked up at the muted football game on the TV, and Ben could tell his father felt the same thing. The few times they met, it always started with these uncomfortable moments. Now the same dynamic felt magnified beyond calculation. Ben stood frozen in the same spot of the room since he entered it. He couldn't have been further from his father without leaving. 

"Still a big sports fan?" Ben said, trying to break through.

Carl nodded, smiled, and looked back at the TV. 

"I should give you some…Uhmm…Updates. Since my letter last year."

Ben's voice seemed to give Carl permission to look at him a little longer. 

Ben delivered every mundane update that he could pull out of his mind. He could sense that his talking somehow pulled their connection through the decades and the awkwardness. 

When Ben ran out of things to say, he noticed that neither had looked away in several minutes. He felt like they were trying to communicate so many words that had still gone unspoken. Instinct moved him close to his father's bedside in an unplanned moment. Putting his hand on Carl's shoulder, perhaps touching him for the very first time, he started speaking from his heart. 

"I want you to know that my mom has never said a bad thing about you. Ever. And I've only wished the best for you and your family."

Carl blinked, gazed softly at his son, and all tension left his face. 

Ben bent toward his father, leaning in with his eyes just inches from his father's.

"I want you to know that I'm OK. We're OK. Everything is OK." 

Carl's eyes started to get watery, and Ben's followed.

"Dad," Ben said, surprising himself. 

He always referred to Carl as his "dad" but never imagined using that title to him directly. 

"One more thing…" 

Ben inhaled the tenderness that had now enveloped the room.

"I want you to release any guilt you may have about me or my mom. Please just let it go." Ben's voice cracked, his father's eyes closed, and tears streamed down his face. 

Ben placed his hand on his father's forehead, like a priest bestowing a blessing, and said, "Let go. Be free. Be. Free." 

Ben lowered his head and kissed his dad's forehead, and felt deep gratitude for the miracle that they had both just experienced together. All of his nerves and worries about meeting the moment dissipated in that room. For once, he was able to stop thinking and just act as his spirit moved him. It guided him through all of the clutter and complexities. It gifted both of them with something good, something sacred.

In the mid-1990s, I lived in the tiny house behind the Taco John’s described in the story.

The poor house looks like it’s fallen on hard times.

During that time I was working as a certified nurses assistant at the state hospital, which also gets a couple shout-outs in the story.

The World’s Largest Buffalo is a real thing in Jamestown, North Dakota!

The Motown produced 1985 movie, The Last Dragon was not only real but a favorite during my teenage years.

The clothes would be out of place almost anywhere, but here it just seemed bonkers. He wore a black uniform with white rollback cuffs. The white loop closures fastening his jacket were stretched to their limits near his midsection. My editor told me that he wore a new martial arts outfit every day and just walked the streets of Jamestown.

Dozens of trips through these kinds of towns, and the weirdest thing I can remember is a group of high schoolers hanging out at the gas station like it was a dance club. Not to mention the clothes: Wranglers so tight you could almost read the brand of chew stuffed in their back pockets. Extra-large hats and belt buckles that looked all the more gargantuan on their lanky frames. But that's easy to explain: what else is there to do in these towns? Compared to this guy, those kids looked completely normal.

I cursed my boss for sending me an hour away to interview this local nut—what a waste of my time and talents. I wanted the art and lifestyles job, but since I was right out of college, I had to settle for community reporting. It would've been perfect for me. I could've reported on art and practiced my own. I could've made contacts and maybe got some of my photography exhibited somewhere. Instead, I've spent four years running around on the editor's whims, highlighting the most mundane things in far-flung communities. All of this effort just to entertain subscribers in the outer reaches of our circulation. I spent all of my time on the endless flat highways with nothing to see but farmland and an occasional grain elevator. Zero time spent on my passion. Never a chance to create something compelling and break into the local art scene. 

I stationed myself in front of the Taco John's because a local told me this weirdo lived in a small house behind it. As he marched down the sidewalk, he started thrusting his arms forward in alternating strike and block gestures. Each movement brought a repeated cadence. "Oohoow" on the inhale and "ahhhhaaa" on the exhale. It had an almost musical beat to it. 

I'm not the timid type. Most aspiring journalists aren't, but I have to admit, the closer he got, the more jittery I felt. I kept thinking about how I was prepared to sue the paper if I ended up in the hospital from a karate chop to the throat. It might not be all that bad. I could retire 40 years early, and maybe if I was lucky, the editor would get fired. 

Mimicking his technique, I breathed in deep and exhaled words at him when he got within earshot. 

"Excuse me, sir?" 

He stopped, tilted his head, and raised his wild eyebrows as he examined me.  

"Hi sir, I'm sorry to bother you," I said. "My name is Ethan Gundersen, and I'm a community reporter for the Fargo Forum." 

He gave me a slight bow and said in a raspy but higher-pitched voice than I expected., "I'm Ted Hagen."  

I was still thrown off my game, but at least I knew that he wouldn't be attacking me. At least, not immediately. Scanning people happens to be one of my talents, and I could tell that Ted enjoyed destabilizing me a little.

"Well, I suppose I should tell you why I'm bothering you."

He nodded and raised his large palms, welcoming me to continue.

"As I said, I'm a reporter from the Fargo Forum." I showed him the press credential hanging around my neck. "We are planning a feature on 20 fascinating people in North Dakota, and someone recommended that I come meet you." 

 "We might as well talk at my home. It's right behind the restaurant." 

I didn't mention that I already knew where he lived because we were off to a great start. I just followed him as he guided me around the corner and to the small wood-paneled block of a home. 

"You know, this once was a schoolhouse," he said as he walked in the already-open front door. Back in Fargo, like most places in the country, we lock everything. But in these smaller towns in the Dakotas, people don't bother. 

I nodded and took my pen and pad out of my backpack. 

"I've always told my neighbors that I should make it a schoolhouse again," he said. 

I resisted an eye roll and stepped through the door into his living room; it looked pretty good for an aging bachelor. Actually, it was already better and bigger than my apartment. The flat widescreen TV in the corner, beige renter's grade carpet on the floor, a full bookshelf against the wall, and a black futon with a red patterned blanket draped across the back.

"I guess I expected some martial arts stuff in here." 

"Balance is a key to martial arts. Besides, you haven't seen the rest of my house," he said with a broad smile that triggered a web of wrinkles across his face.

I nodded my head and chewed on the tip of my pen in thought.

I felt an uncomfortable thread of envy growing. I was still living like a college student, sitting on a second-hand couch tapping laptop keys in my studio apartment with a 

TV tray table for a desk. At least if he died, you would know that he had lived there. 

Looking at his home, I found myself underwhelmed at this point. I'm not exactly sure what I was expecting when I came inside. A padded room, perhaps? 

"You have quite a library here."

"I wouldn't have learned most of the things that I know if I hadn't been a big reader." He walked over to an end table and grabbed two books. "These are the two that I'm reading right now. I've read Zen and the Martial Arts so many times, I've lost count," he said while flipping through the dog-eared book filled with notes and yellow highlights. 

"So, you're a Buddhist then?" 

"Methodist!"  

"I'm surprised. Based on... everything," I said as he ignored my comment and showed me the other book.

"This one is new." He held up Be Water, My Friend by Shannon Lee.  

"Is this author related to Bru—"

"Yup, this is Bruce Lee's daughter. It's all about her father's teachings. I'm still reading, but it's real good so far."

"So, you're a big Bruce Lee fan?"

"I'll let you be the judge," he said as he opened the door to the tiny bathroom and went through to his bedroom on the other side.  

Posters, like wallpaper, covered every inch of the room. The walls, the doors, and even the ceiling layered with martial arts posters. Most of them pictured Bruce Lee in various poses. Others looked like old Chinese movie posters with martial artists and actors that I didn't know. 

"Ho-ly shit!" I found myself without other words as I looked around. 

What normal adult would have a bedroom like this? 

The last time my parents visited, my mom hassled me for the barren walls in my apartment. "No wonder you're not taking pictures lately. This place must suck the inspiration right out of you!" My Dad grunted in a way that a stranger wouldn't notice, but my mom and I knew exactly what he was saying. He didn't buy all the art stuff. He always pushed me to move to the Twin Cities, put in my dues, climb a proper corporate ladder, even if it was only at a newspaper. Ignoring but mentally noting my Dad's protest, I told Mom that I didn't spend enough time there to worry about decorating the walls. 

If my walls looked anything like Ted's, my mom wouldn't be merely disappointed. She'd try to have me committed. 

"So the answer is, yes," I finally said as I continued to pan back and forth around the room. "You're his biggest fan."

Ted laughed out loud, not catching any of the scorn in my voice. 

"This is my fanatic zone. I have at least one poster from each Bruce Lee movie." 

"What about the others?" I asked. 

"They're all the official posters from movies that really connected with me in some way." He pointed toward the window side of the room and said, "Most are old classic kung fu movies."

My eyes met one poster that stood out from the rest: "Barry Gordy's The Last Dragon." It had to be an American karate movie from a more recent decade. In the center, it had a young man performing a kick, shirtless and wearing white karate pants. His upper body was ripped with lean muscle, and it glistened with a rich golden-almond glow. 

I must have stared at it for a noticeable time because Ted walked over and looked at it beside me. 

"This one came out in 1985. The critics panned it, but it's become a cult classic. I admit, it's campy, but there's somethin special in the message. The main character is on a quest to find something he calls the "golden glow." Honestly, it's one of my favorites. I've memorized it."

"Memorized?" I asked. 

"Yes," he said, blushing a little. "I've literally memorized all of the dialogue, all of the Motown soundtrack. Everything." 

Looking at the poster and hearing Ted's brief description, it all somehow sounded familiar. Then it came to me. Dad went out with a work buddy to see this movie, and I demanded that he take me with them. I was too young to know what was happening in the film. I only remember the glowing thing and thought that part was cool. It may have been the last time Dad ever took me to a movie.

Ted led me out into the kitchen toward the back door. 

"Want a pop or anything?" He asked, waving his hand toward the fridge. 

"Nah, I'm good. Thanks," I said. 

 "Let's sit outside if you'd like to chat some more." 

I'm not sure what I expected but again, what I saw caught me off guard. It felt like I just stepped out of his home and into a dream. A wooden privacy fence hid an impeccable Japanese-style garden. There were precisely clipped shrubs all around and a path paved with small stones leading to a fountain in the middle. The trail continued to a miniature Zen sand garden raked with intention. A small pagoda-type structure stood with a large mat and a heavy bag dangling inside in the far corner of the yard. 

"This is really something, Mr. Hag—."

"Ted. Let's go sit on the mat. It's where I meditate and practice my art," he said as I followed him on the path. 

I noticed a definite design in how the small stones were laid, and my eyes were fastened to them as we walked. 

I thought it was visually stunning, but it also screamed excessive compulsive disorder.

He lowered himself into a crossed leg sitting position in one motion while I, a much younger man, had to brace myself with an arm as I brought my body down.  

"Where did you learn the martial arts?"

"I'm self-taught." 

"Oh, I guess I assum—"

"I've always been fascinated not only by the martial arts but by the entire philosophy and culture behind it. For me, it isn't a sport or a hobby; it's a way of life."

"Do you practice a particular style?" I asked, tapping my pen on the pad.

"No, I just mix together whatever works for me. But I'm always learning."

"Do you do this full-time, or do you work somewhere?"

"I grew up in this house. When Mom and Dad passed away, they left it to me free and clear," he said as he held his palms together in a prayer motion. "But I work part-time at the state hospital. It's enough to pay for the basics." 

I had to believe a state psychiatric hospital would vet its employees thoroughly. However, I still wasn't totally convinced this man was stable. 

"I hear that you walk all around town. Is there a reason for that?"

"The best way to get from one place to another is to walk," he said with a wheezy cackle.

"Well, I guess a car would be easier, wouldn't it?" I asked with a smartass smirk of my own.

"Quicker maybe, but not easier. Walking isn't so bad. It gets you where you're going, but it also strengthens your body and feeds your mind."

I nodded my head while writing the quote in my notebook. 

"I admit, our winters can make walking a challenge, though!"

"You know what they say: the cold weather keeps the riff-raff out," I said, smiling.

"Don't worry, we have plenty of our own riff-raff," he said. "You should hear what it sounds like living behind the restaurant on weekends." 

I sat for a pregnant moment, trying to figure out the best way to phrase my next question—the most obvious question.

"Why do you always wear martial arts uniforms? I mean, that is the thing that everyone notices. Is there a reason?" 

"It's my passion, Ethan. My way of life. My art. Why not show it?" 

"Fair enough," I said. "Do you mind if I take some pictures before I go?" 

He nodded his head and rose with the same fluid movement. I reached in my backpack as I propped myself up with an elbow and felt for my camera. When my fingertips touched it, my reporter's mind shut off, and creative instinct activated.

"Looks like you got a lot of use out of it," Ted said, pointing to my dinged-up Cannon. 

"I've had this since maybe junior high. Must've taken thousands of pictures with it. It feels like a part of me now."

Ted's lips thinned to almost nothing as he smiled back at me and started performing kung fu movements. 

I hadn't had the chance to practice my photography in a while, but I found myself quickly in sync with him. It felt like a dance. He thrust his arms, and I pivoted to one side and snapped. He kicked with his leg, and I moved to the other and captured it. By the time he started striking the heavy bag, everything had happened in perfect unison. He moved, let out a "kiyaah" cry, and attacked. Dust exploded from the surface, and I clicked rapid fire. The chain squeaked, and the pagoda groaned like music as he kicked the bag, and I zoomed in and out, capturing the moment from every angle. I found myself on the ground, looking up with tunnel vision at his face just before his final flurry of fists struck. 

It seemed that we were only doing it for seconds, but I had at least 40 photos captured. I showed him the small screen on the back of the camera, and he nodded as I moved through them at a rapid pace. It seemed like animation. 

"Not so bad. It looks like I'm not the only one practicing my art today," he said as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. 

Ted looked different now; he almost had an aura about himself. In fact, the setting sun did cast a kind of halo behind him. I didn't say anything but brought up my camera and snapped one last picture of him, trying to capture the moment. 

As we walked back into the house, I still had my camera out and took a few additional shots of the backyard. When we went inside, Ted allowed me to take a few pictures of his bedroom. As I made my way to the front door, he told me that he had to start getting ready for work, so we said our goodbyes. 

When I first met Ted, I thought he was insane, but he grew on me after spending some time with him. Was he a total flake? Yes! But he was also happy, content, and passionate about his art. In that way, I had to envy him. Heck, I might even say that I liked him. This trip did not go as I had expected…but in a good way. 

I reached my rusty Pontiac parked a block away and tossed my backpack in the passenger seat. I turned the key, and as the engine revved, I decided to take a little spin through Jamestown before going back home. I've passed through town on the interstate but never stopped, so I wanted to get a better feel for it before writing the profile. 

I drove up 18th Avenue to the state hospital grounds, isolated on a hill overlooking I-94 on one side and the rest of town on the other. I followed the road circling around the campus, with the hospital complex at the center and a ring of small transitional living homes along the outside. I wondered where on campus Ted would be working tonight. I came back down the hill and drove past the Jamestown Art Gallery near Highway 281. Before getting back on I-94, I stopped at Jamestown's prominent landmark, the World's Largest Buffalo Monument. I read a sign from my car. The concrete giant stood at 26 feet and weighed 60 tons. It was named Dakota Thunder in 2010 but had been standing watch over town since 1959. 

"Long streak, fella, but there is a new guardian in town…and he wears kung fu clothes," I said as I turned around and made my way to the onramp. 

When I got back to my tiny apartment, I sat at the card table in my kitchen, looked at my notes, and began writing the first draft of my Ted profile. I kept getting distracted by the noise coming from nearby NDSU housing. Here I am still living this close to campus all these years later, and what have I accomplished? Where am I besides a sucky studio apartment? Maybe I should've just listened to Dad. Perhaps I should've forgotten about photography and moved to Minneapolis. Maybe it was worth it to abandon what I love in exchange for some dignity.

I exhaled, leaned back against the metal folding chair, and started looking at my pictures, hoping to snap out of my doubt. Instead of inspiring me to write the profile piece, I found myself focused on the individual images. I analyzed every element, the composure, the light, and the placement of objects in each one. Studying them like they were holy scriptures, I waited as if I expected a divine meaning to be revealed. 

I put down the camera, walked across the room, and listened to my old loveseat groan as I plopped down. Impulse, or maybe it was just boredom, drove me to turn on the TV. I found myself searching for that movie that Ted loved, "The Last Dragon." I paid to stream it, convincing myself that it qualified as research and could be reimbursed. 

This definitely was the movie that Dad took me to way back when. I still didn't remember much about it, so I felt like I was watching now for the first time. It was the 100% truth when Ted said that it was "campy." I felt the 1980's assaulting me in every way as I watched, and I can't say that it was my cup of tea. On the other hand, it revealed a much better view of my subject. The main character, "Bruce Leeroy," dressed in all traditional Asian attire throughout the movie. He was socially awkward but fully committed to the martial arts and the entire philosophy behind it. The film centered on Leeroy's quest to find a mysterious new master that would help him reach a new level and obtain something he called the "golden glow." He looked in all the wrong places until he eventually found that he only had to look inside himself. 

I went back to the kitchen table and pulled down my laptop, and started typing. This movie seemed to be a much more significant part of Ted's life than I initially imagined. I mean, he had totally ripped off Bruce Leeroy's odd choice in attire and shared both his dedication and his awkwardness. I have to admit, though, that Ted, like Leeroy, had entirely accepted himself and dedicated himself to his passions. 

My revelations about Ted after watching the movie inspired me. I pounded that keyboard with the cadence of one of those catchy Motown tunes. I didn't pull punches about how odd Ted still seemed to me, but it felt like I balanced it with equal parts fascination and respect as I wrote. I wanted the reader to get a complete view of my subject. The world is full of people that half-ass everything, sell-out over the years or give up on their dreams. Ted stood on the other side of the spectrum. He jumped into his madness with both feet and to hell with what anyone thought about it. As I wrote, I couldn't help but admire him in that way. I certainly hadn't mastered that particular art. 

My original goal was to finish the first draft when I got back from Jamestown. Still, I found myself continuing into the early hours of the following day. Finally feeling satisfied, I attached my draft to an email and sent it to my editor. After getting some sleep, I again examined my pictures from Ted's house and thought that there were at least five good ones. But I kept coming back to the simple final headshot, the one with the yellow aura bursting above his head like a crown. It wasn't just the sunlight that made it special. The light, the look on his face, the shine of the beading sweat on his forehead. Together it all packed quite a visual punch. I attached it to another email to my editor and suggested that it accompany the profile.

Later that afternoon, I made it to the Forum newsroom, and that ruddy-faced bastard spotted me hiding in a corner. He waved me over to his office. He was smiling, but then again, this guy was always smiling. Sometimes I felt like he missed his real calling. With that fake smile, he could've easily made it as a sleazy used car salesman or maybe a pitchman for a personal injury law firm. He could fire you or promote you with the same sing-song tone. 

"Hey, son, take a seat. I read that profile," he said. 

I hate it when he calls me "son." 

"Take a seat." He said again, waving me to the green pleather-lined chair in front of his desk. 

"Oh, what do you think?" I asked. 

"Loved it! Boy, they weren't kidding. That guy is a fruitcake!" He laughed. 

Even though I still thought that Ted was an odd duck, I found myself offended on his behalf. 

"Look, my boy, I think it's some of yer best work!" 

He had a small army of sports bobbleheads guarding a corner of his desk. He reached behind them and picked up a printed version of my Ted profile. 

"I've already finished editing it. Take a look."

At the top, I read the title "The Lost Dragon." It seemed needlessly demeaning to me right at the jump. Using something that was so formative for Ted and transforming it into some kind of a pejorative. A joke.

As it turned out, the title was the least offensive thing about his edits. He pulled out all of the balance that I had worked so hard to strike in the piece. He kept all of the crazy and eccentricities. He pulled out all the dedication, passion, and appreciation that I weaved throughout. It felt more like one of those ugly political hit pieces. My hands were shaking as I read. 

"Hey, I never said that he was a patient at the state hospital!" I said, looking up at him for the first time. 

"Read it closer, kid."

"Ethan," I said with a purposefully exaggerated scowl.

"Right. But my edits don't actually say that he was a pati—"

"Come on. That's what you're going for! You're making a joke. Making him into a cartoon."

He looked at me for the first time in four years with anger in his eyes. I never knew that his fuse was that short. Even in my anger, I felt a moment of fear. I'm not sure if I was afraid of being fired and failure or that he might reach out and punch me. 

"Listen, Mr. Gundersen! You better think long and hard about what you say next. Long and hard, do you hear me?" 

I glared at him but managed to keep my rage inside.

"I took a big risk, hiring you right out of college. You've done a lot of good work since then…this piece is some of the best. Do you really want to risk insubordination, your promising career on for this? For this guy?"

I wanted more than anything to smack him in the face or maybe demolish the prized bobbleheads nodding away on his desk. Harmon Killebrew, Kirby Puckett, Adrian Peterson, and all the rest were about to go sailing across the room. But as mad as I may have been, I just sat there. I only registered my anger by the look on my face and my refusal to answer his question.

After a few moments of him waiting for me to answer, I could see his levels of anger dial back down as quickly as it ignited. The color on his face began to cool back down to his regular red blotchy complexion. 

"Look, Ethan, I'm the editor, and you are a community reporter. Your job is to go into the community and to report. Mine is to edit."

Coward that I am, I gave up on the battle. I gave up on my own standards, and I gave up on defending Ted. In his office, in those moments, I decided to prioritize my career, even as I detested it. 

He looked down at his desk, adjusted some papers, and looked back at me.

"Go back to work…I think we're done here." 

I had a million smartass comments stored up for him in my head, but I left it all unspoken as I turned and silently walked out the door. 

For weeks following the meeting, I stayed as far away as I could. I didn't want to engage with him anymore, and I'm sure he didn't have any genuine desire to speak to me. I thought I could just let it blow over. But then I saw the print version of the profile and found myself seething all over again. This time it felt even worse. 

I didn't expect him to make any changes to his version of the story, but I still held out some hope that he might adjust a bit. Nope. The final version was exactly what I read in his office. The most insulting part of the printed version is that he cropped my favorite photo of Ted. He cut out the golden glow from the sun. The only thing that stood out was Ted's frizzy hair and an out-of-context look on his face that made him look mad. What he did to the piece was terrible enough but misusing my photography, my art, to hurt someone…I just couldn't take it. 

I started reading colleague's entries for the "20 Most Fascinating People in North Dakota” feature, thinking that maybe he treated the others in the same shabby manner. Nope. Even the self-taught stunt pilot from Ellendale had a profile dripping with editorial admiration. If that crazy bastard's sanity wasn't questioned, how could he do it with Ted? At least Ted wasn't risking his actual life.

I wanted to quit right then and there. But I thought about my Dad. He already wasn't proud of my career choices and my mom wasn't a fan of my living arrangements. If I quit, what would I do? Move back in with them and let the shame become permanent? Instead, I called HR at the paper and told them that a family emergency had come up and I had to use up some of my banked personal days. Really, I just needed time to think. To reassess. Everything.

I sat in my car trying to summon some courage, but I kept playing all the worst-case scenarios through my mind. I tried interrupting the thoughts by focusing on a guy walking his jolly chocolate lab down the street in front of me. Massive tongue hanging from her mouth and her body soaking wet, dripping a trail behind it. I sprung out of the car and pulled out the wrapped package with care. I walked up to the door, feeling my pulse thrumming in my ears. I gave a quick tentative wrap on Ted's screen door and waited. 

A shadow appeared in the doorway like a dark ghost. I assumed it was Ted, but I couldn't really see him. He just stood there for what seemed like a millennium, not speaking or moving toward the door. Those moments felt like a full-blown panic attack might be imminent. 

He finally opened the screen door and seemed to study me with squinted eyes. 

"Uff da!" He said, dialing in his focus on me. 

"Ted. I wanted to come here pers—" 

"Uff da, Ethan."

"I know. I wanted to apologize. In-person." 

"I've never been interviewed by a newspaper, but I didn't expect that." 

"I can't tell you how sorry I am, Ted," I said. "My name was on it, but that wasn't really mine." 

He shook his head up and down as if he was trying to process what I meant in the most positive way. 

"My editor changed a lot…The entire tone." 

"I see…"

"I want you to know that I fought him on it…I was so angry when I saw it that I haven't been back to the office since."

"What? You didn't have to quit over me, Ethan."

"I didn't quit. Yet." I said. 

"Good. I was caught a little flat-footed for sure. I normally don't care what people think, but I was getting harassed quite a bit when that piece first came out."

I felt like I wanted to cry right then. I just couldn't believe that I had contributed in any way to bringing down this happy-go-lucky soul.

"Kids at the restaurant found out that I lived over here and yelled all kinds of nasty things late at night. Maybe the worst part was going to work and having patients at the hospital telling me that I'm the one that should be in a room up there." 

"Ted. I'm really ashamed. I'm so sorry." 

"I know…Why don't you come in," he said, waving me through the open door. 

I stepped into his living room, trying not to scuff the large rectangle package in the doorway. 

"So if you do quit the paper, what will you do?" He asked.

"Well, I'd try to find something that involves photography…or at least something that will let me practice it on my own time." 

He nodded, and I caught him beginning to focus on the large package under my arm.

"While I've been away from the paper, I've been focusing on photography. I can't tell you how liberated I've felt, even though I don't know what will happen next."

He smiled at me with approving, almost fatherly eyes.

"I even made contact with the art gallery here in town and asked if I could exhibit some of my stuff."

"In Jamestown? Over near 281?" He asked in surprise.

I nodded and couldn't hold back the smile. I wondered if he already knew where I was going with this idea.

"I guess this is as good of a time as any to give you this gift," I said as I handed him the package. 

"Oh Ethan, that wasn't necc—" 

"Yes! Yes, it was!"

I watched him open it and felt excitement. I had no idea how he'd react to the gift or to the final bit of news that I wanted to deliver.

He tore at the Kraft paper, and after striping it away, he soaked in the image with a straight face that made me worry. It was a professionally framed photo of himself, my favorite one of him, in the yard backlit by the setting Dakota sun. The silence continued to hang over the room, and each moment made me more unsure. I thought it was one of my best photos ever, but maybe he didn't like it. If he didn't, it would derail my other plans. 

He finally spoke in a whisper, reading the bottom right corner. "Ethan Gundersen, October 17, 2021, one of ten." He looked up at me as if he were in shock but didn't say a damn word. He just went back to examining the photograph, tilting it in the light cast from the lamp across the room. 

Trying to fill the tortured silence, I forced out a tight chuckle. "Look, Ted, you've got the glow! You've got the golden glow!" I hoped my reference to "The Last Dragon" would penetrate the silence, and it did. Finally, something did. 

Ted burst out into laughter that made his eyes water. I wondered if they were tears born in humor or if he was moved by the image. Maybe a bit of both, I thought. Hearing his explosive cackle helped release a lot of the pressure that I'd been holding since the profile ran. 

"Good one, sir! Well done indeed! I havta tell you, Ethan, this really is special. It's touching."

Relief flooded me to the core, and I finally managed to relax. 

"I'm so glad you like it, Ted!" I said with swelling pride. "With your permission, I'd like to include it in the exhibition. Along with a couple others that I took here."

"Really? Of course! How could I refuse such an honor?" He said.

"The others are good, but this one is my favorite," I said. 

He put his right hand over his heart and looked like he was at a loss for words. 

"One more thing Ted."

"You have more surprises? I don't know how you could top this, Ethan!" 

"On the opening night of the exhibit, I would like you to be my personal guest."

"For sure," he said, managing a slight bow while still holding the large frame. "But only if I can wear one of my special Chinese silk robes."

"You can wear anything you want, Ted."

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