White Carnations in the Mountains

Mother’s Day had never meant much to Asia Riggs.

Not because she didn’t love her family—she loved them fiercely—but because she never understood why everyone insisted on celebrating her for simply doing what she wanted to do anyway. Raising her children wasn’t a burden. Loving Kane wasn’t an obligation. Building a home full of laughter and faith had never once felt like sacrifice.

Still, every year her family made a fuss.

And every year she let them.

That Sunday morning, Asia stood in the kitchen watching Kane struggle to flip pancakes while Everest stole bacon from the cooling plate.

“I saw that,” Kane warned.

“You saw nothing,” Everest answered.

Whitney laughed. “Mom, make him stop breathing on my food.”

“He’s breathing on all the food,” Montgomery added.

Galilea, the youngest, swung her feet from her chair. “Mama, are we really going on a trip?”

“Apparently,” Asia said.

Kane grinned, finally turned, spatula in hand. “Not apparently. “Definitely.”

His grin was too wide. Suspiciously wide.

Asia narrowed her eyes. “You’re all acting strange.”

“That’s because it’s a surprise,” Whitney said dramatically.

Asia sighed with playful exhaustion. “I knew I should’ve stayed in bed.”

“Oh no,” Kane said. “Today you are relaxing. No cooking, cleaning or mothering.”

“That sounds impossible.”

Kane said. “You will survive.”

By late morning, the Riggs family was piled into their old SUV climbing narrow mountain roads deep into the forestry hills. Pine trees stretched endlessly around them, thick and green beneath a cloudy spring sky.

Asia looked out the window uneasily.

“Kane… where exactly are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“That’s what kidnappers say.”

Montgomery snorted from the backseat. “Mom called Dad a kidnapper!”

The roads narrowed until finally Kane turned down an almost hidden dirt path lined with white wildflowers. The SUV bumped slowly before the trees suddenly opened into a clearing.

Asia gasped softly.

An old white church sat in the center of the mountains like something preserved from another century. Tall windows glowed warmly against the gray afternoon sky. Horses stood tied near wooden fences. Families dressed in simple clothes gathered outside beneath hanging lanterns.

Above the doors was a hand-carved sign:

The Church of Believers

Asia stared. “I’ve never heard of this place.”

“Most people haven’t,” Kane said quietly.

Whitney leaned forward. “Dad found it months ago.”

“There’s no internet listing,” Everest added proudly. “Dad had to ask, like, four people.”

“And one very suspicious gas station owner,” Kane admitted.

Galilea pressed her face to the glass. “It looks magical.”

Honestly, Asia thought it did.

The moment they stepped out of the SUV, cool mountain air carried the scent of pine, candles, and fresh flowers. 

One elderly woman handed Asia a white carnation.

“Happy Mother’s Day.”

“The white carnation,” she explained gently, “represents a mother’s pure love.”

Inside, lantern light flickered across worn wooden pews while soft piano music filled the sanctuary.

The air smelled faintly of cedar wood, candle wax, and old hymn books. Asia ran her fingers along the polished pew beside her wondering how many generations of families sat there before them.

A gray-haired pastor stepped forward.

“Today,” he began, “we honor mothers through remembrance.”

He explained the first tradition: Mothers’ Friendship Day after the Civil War, when women from both sides gathered together to rebuild broken communities.

“That,” the pastor said, “is the work of mothers. They mend what hatred breaks.”

Asia looked at her children and thought of every argument settled, every fear soothed, every quiet moment she held the family together.

Afterward, families gathered outside beneath towering pines. Long tables held candles and handwritten cards while strangers spoke like old friends.

Asia sat beside a woman named Clara whose son served overseas.

“I worry constantly,” Clara admitted.

Asia smiled softly. “Apparently motherhood is loving someone enough to fear for them forever.”

Clara laughed quietly. “Exactly.”

Nearby, Whitney and Galilea made flower crowns while Everest and Montgomery carried firewood for the evening bonfire.

Kane walked over and slipped his hand into Asia’s.

“So?” he asked.

“This is not what I expected.”

“Good or bad?”

Asia looked around at the families laughing beneath the mountains.

“Good,” she admitted.

Later everyone returned inside for the second tradition: a reading of Julia Ward Howe’s Mother’s Day Proclamation calling mothers together to pray for peace and healing.

When the reading ended, children handed carnations to their mothers.

Galilea tugged Asia’s sleeve.

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby?”

She held out three crooked carnations tied with string. “I picked the prettiest ones.”

Asia smiled. “You did?”

“Because you always pick us.”

Emotion caught hard in Asia’s throat as she hugged her tightly.

That evening the churchyard glowed with lanterns and firelight. Families shared homemade bread, stew, and blackberry pie at long wooden tables.

Montgomery leaned back groaning happily. “This is better than restaurants.”

“That’s because real butter was involved,” Everest answered.

Whitney rolled her eyes. “You think everything is better with butter.”

“Because it is.”

An older man nearby began softly playing an old hymn on a violin while children danced around the bonfire. Even Kane laughed when Galilea grabbed his hands and pulled him into the circle.

Asia sat quietly watching her family.

Kane laughing beside Everest.
Whitney helping Galilea clean pie filling from her face.
Montgomery arguing passionately about mountain lions.

Her family!

Kane noticed her expression. “What?”

Asia said, “I never needed Mother’s Day celebrated because being their mom already felt like enough.”

Whitney reached across the table. “Maybe today isn’t about convincing you you’re important.”

“Then what is it?”

Kane squeezed her hand gently.

“Maybe it’s about reminding you we notice.”

Asia looked around the glowing churchyard. Mothers holding flowers. Children beside parents. Strangers becoming friends.

Peace.

That’s what this place felt like.

Not obligation.

Just gratitude.

The old church bell rang once through the mountains.

Asia leaned against Kane’s shoulder while lantern light danced through the trees.

And for the first time in years, Mother’s Day no longer felt like a fuss she tolerated for everyone else.

It felt sacred.

Omnipresent God

It was winter and the sparsely furnished basement was so cold that it made Amanda Johnson’s teeth chatter. She glanced around at the people who filled the room. They all seemed so joyful with their hands and voices raised in praise to the Lord. Amanda knew she should feel the same way. She had once—back when she had accepted Jesus Christ as her Lord and Savior when she was a little girl. Now, however, she wasn’t that bright eyed, Spirit filled little girl anymore. Oh, sure she still had the Holy Spirit in her heart—one’s salvation was never lost after all. The problem was that she was now a sixteen-year-old human being who was experiencing real human feelings.

Amanda turned her attention back to her dad who stood in front in front of the congregation giving the sermon, but it was no use. Her mind drifted once again into her own thoughts. It wasn’t fair. That was the main thought that seemed to consume her these days. Only a few months ago, she had been proud of her father’s role as a pastor. Yet, that was before he and her mom decided to become missionaries with the IMB—the International Mission Board. Thanks to that decision, she had been forced to say goodbye to everyone she had ever known—her grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, not to mention Josh, her boyfriend of seven months. They were all back home right now in the middle of summer vacation probably at the beach or the pool or riding 4-wheelers while she sat here in a cold basement on the other side of the world. All she wanted was to go home where she felt safe. Was that too much to ask? Gone were the days of Sunday afternoon potluck dinners and outdoor games during Vacation Bible School. Never in her life had Amanda feared attending a church service, but here, worshipping God was against the law. Every time the church members got together, they were forced to do it in hiding so the wrong people wouldn’t find out. Suddenly, there was a creaking sound above them. Her dad paused mid sentence and the room grew deathly silent. 

“This is it,” thought Amanda, “we’re all going to be carried away and shot—just like the couple last week.”

They had been members of their congregation until last week when they had been caught with a Bible in their home. If Amanda had been scared before, she was completely terrified now. The creaking noise continued until it was followed the sound of the trap door that led to the basement being opened. Everyone held their breath. There was no time or place to hide. Whoever was coming down the stairs was going to find them. Amanda squeezed her eyes shut. This was it.

“Good evening, Ahmed. Come in and join us.”

At her dad’s statement, Amanda opened her eyes slowly. Ahmed was a man her dad had been talking to for awhile now about the Lord. He had also been praying for Ahmed to be open to the idea of entering a relationship with Jesus. It appeared those prayers were being answered with a yes. At least, Amanda hoped that was the reason her dad’s friend was here in the basement and not coming for the proof he needed to turn them in. When Ahmed took a seat, her dad resumed the sermon and Amanda took a deep breath. Maybe God’s Spirit really was omnipresent after all.

Catacomb Palace

The whispers of the assembly awoke me from my nap. I hurried into the shadowed crevices of the edge of the cave. They would crush me if they saw me. I can’t really blame them for being afraid of me. Some of my kind would bite them. I wouldn’t, but they don’t know that.

One by one, they came into view, giants they look to my small size. Cautiously they peer inside, then hurry into the tunneling catacomb where they meet. Soon, the sound of song drifted faintly from deep inside the cave. I began to sing my own little song as I worked.

She taketh hold with her hands,

In all the King’s lands,

In his palaces makes her home,

Or through the forest roam.

The flies were particularly plentiful today. I did what I could to catch them before they made it into the catacomb to bother the King’s children. I knew they hated my thick, sticky web, but I started it as high as I could over the door, hoping to keep it out of the way of their heads, while still catching flies.

“Ah ha!” A different voice caught my attention.

I froze. That was not one of the King’s children. That was one of the soldiers. Suddenly, I had an idea. As quickly as I could, I spun my web across the whole opening of the cave. That’ll stop those pesky flies from getting in, I thought. And keep someone else out too, I chuckled to myself.

The work didn’t take me long, me being large for my kind. Soon, the web stretched across the the door like a king’s seal forbidding entry.

I curled up for a nap in the center of my web, tired from the work. My body, the color of Aspen leaves in the wind, adorned the middle of the web like a jewel on a seal. The web, though not organized like some little spiders’, was woven between the rock textured like a letter in a language foreign to man’s eyes.

It didn’t take long before my feet tingled with the vibrations coming through the web of the pounding footsteps of the Roman soldiers. I tensed, hoping my work was enough.

“Ah! Crazy spider web got me right in the neck!” I heard one shout.

“Quit worrying about spider webs and stay on task, soldier!” That must have been their captain, I guessed.

I couldn’t help but laugh, though it isn’t polite to laugh at other’s misfortune. Some of the smaller spiders have that pesky habit of using long single strings to travel between trees and buildings, then leave that spider trail hanging in mid air to annoy people as they walk through the area. Thankfully, I don’t do that. I stay in one place to build my web. Good thing too. My webbing is extra thick and tough.

“Which way did they go?” the captain shouted.

“I thought I saw them go this way,” replied the voice I had heard spying on the King’s children earlier.

“Well, they didn’t go in that cave.” Another soldier waved his sword in my direction.

I stifled a chuckle, pretending to be asleep.

“Yuck! Look at the size of that spider!”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been seein’ things again and dragged us out here for nothing.” The captain growled.

“Let’s get outta here.”

My web shook again as they all marched away into the distance.

I slept peacefully for some time while the King’s children continued their meeting deep inside the caves halls. Songs drifted towards me again, breaking my slumber. I mussed again over the words from Proverbs from which I had composed my song. “The spider taketh hold with her hands, and is in the kings’ palaces.” Now, I was too big to hide in a palace. Not being a regular little house spider, I couldn’t just hide in any little crevice and be forgotten by those who hunted me.

Thus, I was stuck out here, spinning my web over the entry of the cave where they buried their dead. Yet the King’s children came here to pray and worship the Creator. In the place where they laid their dead, they celebrated the One who gave new life. It was here that the church, the Bride of Christ, met in secret, in a place the heathen were afraid to go. It was His house where His children met to praise Him. It was like a palace of sorts; His palace. Indeed, I wouldn’t trade my place here for the grandest palace on earth.

I take hold with my hand,

Here in the King’s land.

In His palace make my home,

Ne’er through the world roam.

The sound of foot steps disturbed my mussing. I hurried out of sight. The King’s children were coming, and they wouldn’t like me to be in their way as they left. Too bad I couldn’t pull my web out of the way. They would have to contend with that.

“Look at that giant web! It’s covering the whole entrance!” one of them exclaimed.

“That was fast.” A little boy commented.

“Hey, look out there. That looks like…”

“Soldiers!”

“They must have seen the web and thought no one could be in here!”

“The spider saved us!” a little child exclaimed.

“Our Savior can use even the smallest creatures to do His mighty work, dear child,” on of the elders said. “Indeed, the small and weak are often His very choice.”

(Fiction)

688 words. Sci-fi, "Forlorn Church" 

I creep forward, past the crooked “Do Not Enter.” sign on the corner of Avenue X, brushing some of the vines away to reveal a round hole in the barbed wire. I remove my backpack, placing it next to me, and reach through, planting both arms in the mulch on the other side. I grunt, using my arms to steady my weight and lift a leg through the gap.

No pain scratches up my leg this time.

All good.

I bring my other one through. My whole body lands in the mulch and dirt on the other side, and it smells like something has died.

It’s possible.

I reach back for my bag. It halts mid-grab and I play tug-of war with the gnarled fence until it breaks free. I survey the damage and find a small rip, Part of my bag must be caught on the wire now.

Shouldering my backpack, I take a cautious step under the bristle-willow trees, avoiding the various cans and other obscure remains of... Designer, please not one of your creatures.

My body shudders, and I duck beneath a curtain of bristle-willow leaves, my ponytail becoming caught fast. I fight through the brush and bracken, and emerge scratched and sore on the other side.

Happy Creation Eve, I whisper aloud.

I can almost picture the Designer leaning back in his great big chair and smiling. Would He be? Certainly not at this wreck of a building. The blue chapel sags under the weight of a wrecking sphere’s indent, and various plants climb its walls. How blessed free of technological advancements this place is.

How free of distractions, save one.

I inch forward, listening, looking. When I’m sure no one is around that shouldn’t be, I cross the threshold of the building. The door’s gone now. Nobody stands beside it, ready to nod or curtsy when worshippers enter.

“Hey.” A knowing voice says from inside.

Thalia.

I smile and curtsy, dropping to the rotten floor beside her. The building creaks, joining its voice to her welcome.

“I saved another light from Ms. Thimble’s.” She opens the lid of an octane evo-torch and presses the button so it emits a light glow, illuminating our faces in ethereal blue. She looks worse than I’ve seen her in months. Her cheeks are hollow, her hair matted. A barrette hangs crooked from the strands framing her face, which is littered with bruises. Yet, her eyes are alive with starlight.

“The Designer of the Universe, spoke the skies into being. We owe Him our lives, for ours He renews.” We spoke in unison, each word a promise. Each syllable- a fervent hope.

“Dear Designer, dear Father, we raise these praises to you alone.” I continue, raising my hands in worship, Thalia along with me.

It’s as if the melody of two voices breathed life into this place yet again. I could imagine the days when the Designer’s pews were filled with saints, and best of all- a man stood up on the stage to talk about how we were set free.

Oh, I pray we can be set free.

Suddenly, a crashing sound breaks the moment. Thalia and I freeze as outside, the woods come alive with sounds and voices. Shouting voices.

She stoops to cover the evo-torch, but misses. I fumble for it, pressing the button. My sigh of relief is shattered by the feel of a rough hand clamping my shoulder and hauling me to my feet. Likewise, Thalia is grabbed by another officer.

“Don’t you know the Designer isn’t real?” They chortle. “If He was, He’d keep his people out of this church. Like you’re supposed to be.”

“Do you realize the ridiculousness of that statement?” I spoke up. “Keeping people out of church is the exact opposite of His wants. You’re the one who needs to realize something.”

I earned a smack to the face and a rough shove as the man handcuffed me.

It was good while it lasted, I sneak a glance back at Thalia. A smile spread across my face, and she smiled back, the sparks in her eyes reflecting mine.

One week to go!!! I can't believe I went from having no short stories in my repertoire to four within a single month. Here's to the final push!

We'll Meet You There - Jess R. Plowman
Team Crab, 955 words

     When they touched down on the surface, their first time on solid ground in six and a half years, no one spoke or dared to breathe for the better part of a minute.
     Their anticipation of the landing, the discussions they’d had as they surveyed the small moon and planned their descent, suggested this moment should bring a sense of relief, hope, even victory.
Instead, the eight men peered through small windows at a barren, gray horizon and all they felt was finality. The end of the road. This was the rest of their lives.
     It was Ivo Stain’s place to break the silence. He recited:
     “Man puts his hand to the flinty rock and overturns mountains by the roots. He cuts out channels in the rocks, and his eye sees every precious thing. He dams up the streams so that they do not trickle, and the thing that is hidden he brings out to light. But where shall wisdom be found? And where is the place of understanding?”
     Ivo paused and clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Brilliantly done, Martius.”
     Martius rose from the pilot’s seat and seemed about to say something monumental. Instead, he announced he would EVA to scout for anchor points.

     They watched Martius through the external monitors, crowded around a small metal table in the cabin. Less than a decade ago, they had been the most celebrated minds on Earth. Now, they would never see it again - exiled by the power of Ivo Stain’s magnum opus, the fusion engine.
     Martius’ radio crackled through the cabin.
     “Ivo? I need you to look at something, can you grab a suit?”
     Wojic interrupted in reply. “I’d love to stretch my legs if you’ll have me, Martius.”
     “Send Ivo please.”

     When Ivo reached the bottom of the ladder, Martius was fixated at a point on the horizon, shielding his eyes from the glow of the planet overhead. He did not speak over the radio; he waited for Ivo to get close enough to hear him through the thin atmosphere.
     He pointed forward. “Am I hallucinating?”
     Ivo followed the line of his brother’s arm.
     At the top of the ridgeline, stark against the black sky, a human figure in a spacesuit waved. Ivo gasped.
     Martius repeated, “You see it?”
     Ivo waved back. The figure changed its movement to a great sweeping motion, beckoning them over.
     “What do we do?” Martius asked.
     Ivo’s ever-quiet voice was barely audible through the suits. “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”
     Martius stared at him. “We follow?”
     Ivo shrugged. “What else could it be?”

     They radioed the crew to come after them if they weren’t back in three hours. They did not say what they thought they were pursuing.
     After 40 minutes’ walk, they were close enough to believe the figure was solid and real. When the last twenty meters of the incline were too steep to climb in a space suit, the figure directed them along the base until they reached a small staircase that had been cut into the rock. When they were close enough, the figure spoke. “Ivo and Martius Stain?”
     It was a woman’s voice. The brothers were too astonished to reply. She laughed.
     “Follow me to the chapel.” She gestured down the small crater they now overlooked. At its center was a black stone church with a glass ceiling, buttressed with gothic spires. Ivo put his hand over his heart.
     They walked in her footsteps to the door of the church. It slid open and closed behind them with a sudden rush of air. The entry was an airlock. Before they passed into the sanctuary, the stranger took her helmet off. She was petite with tight auburn curls in a ponytail and looked to be in her mid-forties.
     “Thank God we found you! We couldn’t be sure the trajectory in the records was honest. But if it was, this moon would be the only nearby celestial body you might find habitable.”
     Ivo and Martius followed her lead in removing their helmets. Ivo’s gaze was fixed on the vaulted ceiling.
     “What is this place?”
     “We call it Reconciliation Chapel. The base below us is also called Reconciliation, as is the moon - after our hopes for what we would accomplish here.”
     Ivo’s voice was barely a whisper. “I never believed I would set foot in a church again.”
     The stranger nodded. “We knew it would be important to you that we build this first.
     “Who are you?” Martius asked.
     “My name is Cora Motley. My father, Rhys Motley, is the chaplain here. He is also the great great grandson…” the stranger’s voice caught even as she said it “...of Delilah Stain.”
     Martius dropped into a pew. His breath rasped as a tear began to fall.
     Delilah was five when he left. The good things of life had come to him so late, and been ripped away so soon.
     “Your families never stopped fighting after your exile,” Cora explained. She turned to Ivo. “Kaya hid all your notes. When the political landscape cooled, your grandsons reassembled Mensdeus Industries. They reinvented your designs within three years. With the power of fusion, we’ve unlocked the stars. It’s how we were able to come here.”
     Martius had his head buried in his hands.
     “How long has it been?” He could have asked at any point in the trip but until then, he couldn’t bear it.
     “263 years,” Ivo answered. He had been thinking of nothing else.
     Cora nodded. “With fusion energy, we’ve established stabilized wormholes that bypass time dilation. It’s how we were able to beat you here. You were all pardoned 150 years ago. Would you like to go home?”