Tag: christianity

Poem: Desire (that girl I once knew)

Desire (that girl I once knew)
(by Veronica McDonald)

Desire’s changed.
She used to be sort of sexy
like sweet-smelling trash
with heroin-chic cheekbones
and pouty cigarette lips.
A loud laugh often played on those lips
muddled like it was underwater
under the wave of noise that came in
an unending hum.
Her purple, anorexic fingers
poured Kamikazes and tequila shots
down my throat in bursts of fire
that woke that Thing living inside of me
like she’d smacked it with a hard slap
of glitter and nail polish.
And that Thing would move
into my hands, making them
pull on the man smiling at me
grabbing his hair, his belt loops
pulling on his hips.
And my ears would fill with music—
not sweet, but hard, tribal
banging in time with the pounding
in my chest.
My nose would fill with the stench
of scotch, smoke, sweat, him
my eyes catching muted lights
glimmering against hot skin.
Seeing her now
the Thing stirs, anticipating her familiar smack
but she’s different, so changed I didn’t
recognize her at first.
Her smile’s big and warm wriggling with
nicotine gum.
The long glittering nails are missing from
hands that remind me of Grandma’s—
soft, tissuey, reaching for everything
as if it were fragile and precious.
She is light— light as air, light as
a breeze, as a violin song playing
for the sky.
Arms outstretched she reaches for Him
eyes only on Him
and it’s all for Him
only Him.
Without looking, she strokes
the Thing inside of me with the tip
of her finger and suddenly
I want Him, too
because everything around Him
is crisp and clear and fresh as a spring
Because He’s pure
Because He’s truth
Because He’s home.

Photo credit: “Woman Holding a Glass” by Paul Gavarni (Public Domain)

Short Story (Fiction): Damascus

Damascus

by Veronica McDonald

I once had a dog named Damascus. I don’t know for sure why Dad named him Damascus. I especially didn’t know when I was a five-year-old, squawking kid who was constantly picking his nose and sometimes eating what he finds (you can’t trust what that kid knows, trust me). But now that I’m older and all and educated by some standard—at least thirteen years more educated than that pathetic kid—I would guess that Dad named him Damascus on account of his “road to Damascus” experience. Dad’s experience, not the dog’s.

I guess Dad was some kind of brilliant atheist once, before he fell for my pure-as-vanilla Christian mother and had some kind of religious “awakening;” Some radical, open-your-blind-eyes kind of thing. Except when he explained it to me, it didn’t sound all that radical. Not like the way it happened to Paul the Apostle, where a blinding light of God Almighty tells you point-blank He exists and, now that you know…you know…go do something important with that information. Naw, not at all like that. The way he tells it, he fell head over heels for this Christian girl, even though he thought all Christians were dumb. And when he took her out to dinner he had a whole spiel ready about how the cosmos were all there is and ever was and ever would be. But she looked so calm, so happy, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. And while his guard was down, she said something to him so simple—too simple really—that I didn’t believe it when he told me. Continue reading “Short Story (Fiction): Damascus” →