Cynthia Larsen lives in southern Vermont. Her historical novel, LOT'S DAUGHTERS, has been cursed by God to forever live in no-man's land. Got hates the novel (he comes out looking like a real asshole), but Cynthia still likes it and hopes one day someone else will, too. Her short story recently won the WOW! Flash Fiction Contest, and her work is forthcoming in Liquid Imagination and SmokeLong. She can often be found lurking in Zoetrope's Flash Fiction Wing.

Conversations with Jesus (April 20, 2011. Issue 27.)

She is popular on the streets, calls herself Mary Magdalene. Here she is just Mary. She sits in the back row, hymnbook splayed open in her lap.

She can feel him here; it’s why she comes. He’s sitting next to her, the pew hard beneath them. He waits until the minister’s tone is fierce and the audience is rapt with attention. Then he takes her hand, guides it slowly under the book and between the folds of her skirt. His rough carpenter hand is entwined with hers. Soon there is hot breath and the silent clenching of thighs. His release is always timed with hers, forgiveness flowing over her like a shroud.

Afterward she is thirsty, thinks of the iced tea she will soon share with the rest of the congregation. The minister’s wife will grasp Mary’s hands and her candy-apple lips will pull back from her teeth as she says how pleased she is that Mary has come.  Mary will stare at the wide expanse of her gums, pink as the inside of a woman, knowing her mouth would take an entirely different shape if she knew where Mary stood waiting at night. If she knew why Mary came here.

The minister has closed his book and they all stand to sing. Mary's legs are shaky and she is grateful when he takes her hand again and steadies her. His long hair brushes her shoulder and his beard tickles her neck as he leans into her. “Your skin is alabaster,” he whispers. “It is the underbelly of the sheep that is always the softest.”