The Broken Cross
This is the long-awaited conclusion to a piece first run by Wild Violet on September 24, 2010. While it was never our intention to wait so long to run the second installment of John Hitchner’s piece, sometimes real life intervenes. In this case, I had just brought home my newborn baby, and was in the midst of “baby boot camp.” By the time we resumed our production schedule, my baby-frazzled brain completely overlooked the fact that we had not run the second installment. While going through old files, I was recently reminded of the omission. So here, at long last, it is! ~...
Read MoreIzamal
(continued from an earlier issue; read part one) Comrades Outside the restaurant I said, “We must go quickly to find this man at the University.” We set off at nearly a trot, and after asking directions from a street vendor, we found our way to the steps of that library. As Gustavo had said, there stood a large man with a thick middle. His Yucatecan shirt was tucked in at the waist, making him appear even stouter. Eusebio Diaz appeared to be uncomfortably warm. Small beads of perspiration dotted his forehead as he said, “Yes, I am the one you seek. Let’s get out of this...
Read MoreFeatured Works: Week of Oct. 2 (Belief)
This week our contributors take on belief, in its many manifestations. “If Rather Perpendicular” by John Zedolik contemplates the imagery of heaven. “No Greater Love” by Tom La Cascia shows how belief can be wrapped up with love and hope. “Izamal” by Wes Oldham is part one of a piece about the friction between ancient Mayan culture and...
Read MoreIzamal
Where do I begin? How can I explain my actions? Where does memory fade and when do we forgive the heinous acts of history? I only know what I know. And I cannot stop the sequence of events that must occur. Itzam`na (“Dew from Heaven”) whispers in my ear, “We are the Maya and this is our land.” I am Luca. I was born in 1970. I am a poor Mayan child, now just ten years old. We worked hard, my family and me. My father had died when I was five. Still, we got by. My mother raised us up in the church. The Catholic Church. How beautiful that Mission was! We felt special to...
Read MoreNo Greater Love
During the early stages of a very serious romance, my girlfriend Ann and I took a trip to St Augustine, Florida, to visit friends. We included a side trip to the Ponce de Leon’s Fountain of Youth Archaeological Park, the area discovered in 1513. After an awesome tour of the park, we rested on a bench and sipped a cool drink. Across the path from us was a makeshift sign that read: WATER FROM THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH $.39 LIMITED QUANTITY MONEY BACK GUARANTEE Next to the sign sat a shabbily dressed middle-aged gentleman. A large dog rested its chin blissfully on the man’s...
Read MoreIf Rather Perpendicular
If we imagined the divine as horizontal instead of vertical, would saints have wheels—or skis, in northern reaches? Would worshippers look into the distance with leveled eyes and imagine their loved ones beyond the line of trees, hills, or concrete? And would houses of worship be tunnels whose ends projected their sacred symbol, to the vanishing point where vision failed and faith necessarily took over entirely, in that realm of metaphor perpendicular to ours and our privileging of up and those wings awfully useful to reach...
Read More