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suddenly. She thought to call to
Dad, to tell him Mommy was on the television, but her breath
hitched in her throat.
    So tired.
    She watched instead, heard her mother talking
about the little girl she’d seen. Another red sign came on the
screen: JESSICA SCOTT FOUND!
    The newscaster said that Jessica had been
missing for over seven years. That was longer than Lauren had been
alive. Her mom had found the lost girl. They both looked so
happy.
    It filled Lauren’s heart with joy. Her breath
caught once more, and her mother’s smile shepherded her away.

MADONNA IN THE GRASS

    Flash Pan Alley 2007; Translated to Finnish
as “Ruohikon Madonna” ASSA, No. 2, 2008, Edited and Published by
Juri Nummelin.

    “There she is.”
    Papillion muttered the words, breathing
deeply. His eye was pressed hard to the scope of his rifle, the
fine cross lines breaking the scene below into quadrants. Upper
left, a grassy field. Bottom left, parking lot. Bottom right, a
line of people, sweating, stinking masses gathered to pay homage.
Upper right, the prize. Nestled deep on a hard wooden table,
surrounded by bleeding flowers, a sheet of metal imprinted with the
image of the Virgin Mary.
    A scam, he thought, then instinctively lifted
his right hand off the trigger and crossed himself. Papillion may
be a heathen, but he was a respectful heathen. What if it wasn’t?
What if somehow, the hand of God had come down and touched the slab
of iron, imprinting the face of the mother of the Lord into the
very molecules? Who was he to say that it couldn’t have
happened?
    A realist, that’s who. A man who knew it was
a falsehood, a lie perpetrated to force the means to an end.
    He settled his finger back on the pull and
used his falcon sight to follow her progress.
    Long, wavy black hair cascaded down her back,
a subdued headband held the unruly mess off her forehead. She was
dressed in a white skirt with eyelet lace along the hem that just
skimmed her knees, a white button down oxford cloth shirt with a
yellow scarf tied around her waist. The straps of espadrilles wound
around her slim ankles, and Papillion licked his lips. He’d always
been a leg-man. And the sister was a beautiful example of what a
woman’s legs were supposed to look like.
    He watched her move through the crowd, saw
their deference to her. Lucia. She was a powerful woman. A woman
that more than one faction wanted dead.
    Papillion could retire after this hit. But it
was a delicate operation. He needed to wait for Sister Lucia to
announce the hoax. Then the shooting could be blamed on one of the
faithful on the ground, someone so overcome with the emotion of the
appearance of their holy mother that a declaration of foolery would
tip them over the edge.
    Fatima, this was not.
    ***
    Lucia stared at the face of the holy Mother.
She waited, tuning out the noise, the heat, the fetid stench of the
unwashed. Was she in the presence of a miracle? Had a great secret
been revealed, a battle for good won? She waited, and felt nothing.
Disappointment filled her. Another hoax. The last time she’d felt
the presence of God was in a field, with no attendance other than a
small rabbit. There was nothing holy here.
    She rose, shaking her head. The faithful
moaned with hatred, denials were shouted. She simply ignored them,
walked back to her Jeep. A flash caught her eye, high on the cliff
rising to the heavens to her right. Papillion, she assumed. He’d
been waiting for a chance to take her out for months now.
    Lucia stopped. She spread her legs, spread
her arms, threw her head back. Presented herself to him, a target.
Waited to feel the slam of the bullet in her chest. When it didn’t
come, she smiled. An honest assassin, Papillion. Or smart enough to
know that when she found the real miracle, she wouldn’t be able to
hide her joy.
    She climbed into the Jeep, closed the door on
another falsehood. One day, she prayed. One day.
    ***
    One day, Papillion prayed. One day she will
find God, and I will