Fishtail Redman, Chapter 24: Restart

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

Relocating to Morgantown put Parker Redman in a precarious situation. He was removed from the conflict his presence had caused around Grafton, yet now was in a place where he knew nothing. He had no allies, contacts, relatives, or history with the metropolitan area. Only the name of Krista’s cousin, written on a piece of scrap paper. Because he had spent years wandering the American landscape, this hardship did not cause him to worry about staying on track. He had no clear path to tread, so moving in any direction seemed proper. But more perplexing, perhaps, were the dreams and visions he had been experiencing. Some voice from afar was calling out to him, with a purpose still mysterious and undefined.

 

Solving that riddle was his first order of business.

 

He decided that attempting to visit his friend’s relative, without being announced beforehand, would be unwise. The young woman was certain to question any stranger on her doorstep, particularly one covered with motorcycle tattoos, battle scars, and road rash. He needed an introduction of some kind, which hadn’t been discussed in depth during their trip. That would take place at a fortuitous time, he felt certain. But until then, he chose to stay anonymous.

 

A local phone book offered clues that would be more directly useful, for the moment. In its pages were listings of churches, other neo-religious groups, and student affiliates. There, he was able to scan through names and locations, for something that seemed friendly. Below many lines of text that represented mainstream parishes and faith communities, he found a spiritual center run by believers who had grown unhappy with regular, Christian denominations.

 

“Exiles for the Almighty – A collective dedicated to promoting Bible teachings in a non-judgmental fashion. We strive to follow Jesus as he lived and ministered to his people. No politics, no put-downs, no scorn for those who are struggling. Just the love described in 1 Corinthians 13, and elsewhere within the word...”

 

Parker jotted down the street address on his note paper. It would be his first attempt to make connections in the shadow of West Virginia University.

 

On Sunday morning, he arrived for their worship service, expecting some sort of typical arrangement. Perhaps songs, prayers, and a message delivered at some point within that framework. In addition to a communion ritual, depending on their chosen habits. But when he entered the crude, warehouse sanctuary, everyone was seated in a large circle, on the bare, concrete floor.

 

Members were quick to note his entry, and offered a welcome chant, in response.

 

“JESUS IS LORD! JESUS IS LORD! JESUS! JESUS! JESUS!”

 

Brother Narvel Adkins stood up to address the crowd. Yet his attention immediately shifted to the newcomer in their midst.

 

“Friend, let me welcome y’all to God’s house! This might not look like such a place, but I believe that he dwells in the hearts of everyone here. That’s the requirement for a spot to serve as his ground zero. In other houses of worship, ya might hear names like ‘reverend’ or ‘pastor’ being thrown around. Fancy titles that carry distinction, and dignity for those that hold them in person. But I prefer to be thought of as a common shepherd. I am simply a guide, and nothing more. No better than anybody else in this little confab of ours. I humble myself before Christ, and hope to serve him in an appropriate manner. That is my only desire. Accolades and honors mean nothing in this world. Giving the glory to him, means everything. So, I preach his word, as it is written! And seek righteousness in his name!”

 

The others in attendance raised their voices to give acclamation.

 

“AMEN, SHEPHERD! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

Parker was slightly embarrassed when the community leader invited him to speak. He had not expected to participate so soon. Observation and study had been his goals.

 

“Y’all are only a stranger here, but once. Therefore, tell us about yerself, friend. What brought ya here, this morning? What fills yer heart with fire?”

 

The shaggy biker got to his feet, and adopted a stance with both hands clasped together, behind his back. One he had learned as a youngster, serving at the Lord’s table.

 

“Well, to be honest, I spend most of the year riding around on an iron hoss. I like to be in motion, or as they say, to be in the wind. But this winter has presented a challenge. My Harley chopper is in a garage, owned by a cousin. I haven’t ridden in a few months. That puts me in a hard place. I don’t like being stalled. For a month or two, I worked on the motor, rebuilding everything. Getting my cycle ready for spring. But there was a missing link in there. And I’ve been having flashbacks of a sort. You see, I grew up as the son of an old, country evangelist. Someone who lived his faith every day. And no matter how hard I’ve tried to run from that legacy, to hide from it, to escape from it – those teachings are still in my head, rattling around like spare change in the pocket of my leather jacket. I need to make peace with that way of living. Moreover, I need to make peace with myself...”

 

Adkins nodded with an expression of understanding. Then, bowed his head.

 

“Friend, I think y’all need to make peace with God the Father. Do that, and those cares and concerns will fall into line.”

 

The obedient flock repeated their chant of reverence.

 

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

Parker had turned pale. His voice became hoarse, yet remained persistent.

 

“I’ve offered my testimony a couple of times, in the last few weeks. I hope as an exercise in witnessing for the faith, not to draw attention to myself. Maybe none of you have lived as I have lived. Or perhaps, your journey has included some of the same pitfalls, the same mistakes, the same sorrow over feeling like an orphan. While knowing, of course, that I did it all to myself...”

 

The shepherd of exiles opened his Bible and began to read, in a soft but deliberate tone.

 

John 14: 1-4, “’Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you may also be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going.’ Thomas said to him, ‘Lord, we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?’ Jesus answered, ‘I am the way and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really know me, you will know my Father as well. From now on, you do know him and have seen him.’”

 

Silence took hold. Then, there was a final appeal to heaven.

 

“There it is, the way is narrow, but clear. He is the way. If you have received him, then there is no reason for fear or sorrow, friend. Believe and rejoice!”

 

A final burst of emotion echoed as their unconventional service concluded.

 

“AMEN!”

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 23: Morgantown

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

Secluded at the garage venue in Grafton, Parker Redman could simply wait out the winter season, and then flee on his Harley-Davidson chopper. A blissful event set to occur when roads around the area were clear, and mountain vistas became more inviting. But for those in his small social circle, this intermediate period was not so comfortable. Chattering comments about his public interpretations of holy scripture were growing louder. His testimonials had attracted interest from some on the fringes of society, who were thought to be beyond the grace of a loving creator. Yet for many in the theological mainstream, he represented a heresy founded on bad impulses. His tongue was considered to be too loose. And his view of old traditions, not respectful enough for the liking of those exalted as leaders within local church communities.

 

Prayer services persisted at the travel plaza where Krista Pearl was employed. Also, in town, at various locations where concerned citizens gathered to ponder issues in an open forum. Then, there were more intrusive visits, at the home of Bodean and Angelette. With the eventual result being that hiding out below his cousin’s abode no longer provided enough anonymity to be safe. He had been toughened up like an old piece of leather, over years spent living by his wits, from the hand-stitched seat of his motorcycle. But for the few relatives and friends who were affected, this situation had aroused too much conflict.

 

Finally, his part-time companion from the truck-stop offered a suggestion that resonated with value. Her yellow Jeep appeared in the driveway on a morning when sunshine and warmer temperatures had the bounty of snow starting to recede.

 

“Feesh, I’m gettin’ flak from the boss at work. He don’t like all this controversy. Now, I’ve got a good record so far as my job performance, and attendance. But I could use a breather from hearin’ about yer friendship with me. Don’t take this the wrong way, I’m not kickin’ ya to the curb. Consider it as a kind-hearted suggestion. I’ve got a cousin goin’ to school at WVU, the atmosphere in that part of West Virginia is different. There are folks from all over gettin’ themselves educated. And the church scene is more diverse as well. If y’all really want to jump back into that lane, it’d be a good place to start. Out here, people are too set in their ways. Meanwhile, that scooter of yers will be just fine sittin’ in this shed...”

 

Parker raised his eyebrows. Her plea felt like a kiss-off. Yet he knew that what she said was undeniably correct.

 

“You want me to hitchhike to Morgantown?”

 

His adviser nodded and softened her facial expression.

 

“Not hike, I’ll give ya a ride. Load up yer duffel bag. Make sure to pack that special book, I reckon it’ll come to good use hangin’ out with the students and faculty. They’ll all have plenty of questions about Papa Podmore, and yer childhood experiences. See, somebody like yerself has... how do they say it... street cred. Real credibility to talk about hard times and the need to be saved from a life of sin. Y’all might be surprised who’ll come to listen!”

 

The lonely biker hung his head with regret.

 

“Not that I ever planned it that way, of course...”

 

Krista threw her arms around his ribcage. She had turned red, and felt tears in her eyes.

 

“I know yer like a damn dog, always findin’ a way to survive. Y’all have run through blind alleys before. It’ll be good to know ya are somewhere more hospitable. Not that folks here ain’t kind to strangers, but I think ya are too used to livin’ in the fast lane. Why duke it out with these hard-headed, sticks-in-the-mud? Let ‘em have their glory. Go find the treasure yer daddy had in mind. That’ll mean more than anything at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, in this hillside shack. Which I know is where y’all will land if ya don’t break outta this stale routine.”

 

Her insightful remark chilled him with its authenticity. He could not argue the point.

 

They left for the university enclave, a few hours later. He always traveled light, so fitting his few possessions into her cramped 4x4 was not a challenge. It teetered along the route toward Clarksburg, and then headed north. Wind gusts were picking up throughout the morning. But bursts of solar warmth made both of them feel invigorated. Upon reaching the student dorms, there were bulletin boards and posters advertising private rooms that still remained available.

 

Parker took the rucksack in hand, and got out before his benefactor had a chance to express her gratitude for their partnership. She was slightly miffed by his quick exit.

 

“Dang it Feeshtail, ain’t ya gonna kiss me goodbye, or nothin’? I figured y’all might at least show some gratitude!”

 

He was stoic at their moment of separation. Though silently, he wished that they might have stayed together, under different circumstances.

 

“I’m obliged to you, ma’am. But I hope this won’t really be goodbye. Call it a detour, maybe. There’s something in my head, it’s been banging around for weeks and months now. Whatever it is, that vibe won’t leave me alone. I’ve got to follow the lead, wherever it takes me. So, you have my thanks for the ride, and for being a friend when I needed one. I won’t forget that, trust me. I don’t get close with too many people...”

 

Before she could lodge a complaint, he had disappeared. For the moment, their irregular courtship had ended.

 

Krista sat on her sofa that night, sipping from a tumbler of sweet tea. The television flashed fleeting images in the background, but she paid little attention. Her home had returned to its quiet state of isolation. An empty nest, vacant and emotionally cold. Not the sort of environment she would have chosen, if given options.

 

After finishing her beverage, she said a short prayer, before going to sleep.

 

“Take care of that man, Lord! Let him do good fer a change. Let him be worthy of yer grace. Let him shine with yer holy word. And if it’s yer will... bring him back to me, again!”

“Wonder”

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

I always wonder

When words bang around the bone circumference, inside my head

From wall-to-wall, intense and noisy

How it does not upset my balance

With a bout of vertigo

I stay on course, safe and steady

Already versed in such pleasant distractions

A childhood effect which I recall with pride

My fingers used to go numb

Sitting at an Underwood portable, still on my father’s desk

A single bulb glowing in the corner

I liked to steal his chair, late at night

And pretend to type

Eventually, this playful pondering became an obsession

Gibberish and nonsense turned to timely thoughts

I would peer at the blank pages

Intent on making them come alive

And in the process, revealing myself as a budding wordsmith

A confessor, speaking truth

At least within the conscious confines of a naïve kid who had much to learn

I made grammatical errors and spelling flubs

Failings that were polished and put right

With enough practice

And precision

Pencil marks and ink-white

A dictionary at the ready, to check for clues

Arms arched, and hands akimbo

Untrained and unaware

That I lacked the usual skills associated with such pursuits

Had I known better, surrender might have stalled this quest

But I did not face such a test

I kept tapping keys

With an encyclopedia volume, held between my knees

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 22: Confrontation

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

The Mountaineer Travel Plaza had always been a safe space for Krista Pearl. When she was battling marriage chaos at home, before her ex-husband went to jail. When her son was coming of age without a dependable father figure in the household. And when she struggled to live alone on a single income, upon being left with an empty nest. Her co-workers were friendly and supportive. Regular customers and professional drivers seemed to appreciate her candor and cheerful demeanor. Yet as her adopted friend with the garaged, Harley-Davidson chopper became known around that area, this comfortable situation shifted to something more severe.

 

After a busy weekend, when winter temperatures thawed slightly, a delegation of religious dignitaries visited her workplace. They were direct in criticizing her choice of companions. Along with offering strong opinions about what constituted a Christian walk of faith. This confrontation came as she was about to go outside for a moment off-the-clock.

 

Reverend J. Fortrell Hageschutte stood in front of their hot dog stand, which was fortified with chili, cheese, toasted buns, and various condiments. He had a burly appearance that made him visibly imposing. With a booming voice that served him well when in the pulpit at his sanctuary.

 

“If you’re on a break, ma’am, I’d like to discuss that biker fellow you’ve become attached to, recently...”

 

The hourly clerk was headed to her Jeep, for a smoke. But paused politely.

 

“Is that any of yer business, mister? I don’t reckon y’all actually know each other. Maybe that’s fer the better, though.”

 

The clergyman snorted with indignation. He did not care for her tone.

 

“Miss, you know what a good reputation means, especially around these parts. We like to think of ourselves as being a little bit closer to God here in West Virginia. That is something that does not happen by accident. We’ve got to be vigilant about it. And you always seemed to be one of us, until now. But there are whispers at the Taylor County Nazarene Worship Center. Loud, droning whispers that can’t be ignored! People wonder about the man you have brought to services in different congregations across our area. He does not conduct himself with the deference and care that we might expect as community leaders. His look is not one that comports with a clean, scriptural life. Furthermore, I must say that his attitude about the Bible is arrogant, and out of line! I don’t need to be lectured by anyone regarding Jesus or the Holy Father. I have a personal relationship with both of them!”

 

Krista smiled patiently. Her break was about to end, without a single cigarette. Yet she wanted to finish their conversation.

 

“Congrats on all yer success, pastor! I know plenty of people from the church come here fer coffee and donuts, gasoline or diesel fuel, and whatever else. I like to worship with y’all sometimes. Though I have attended services at other places, like with my kinfolk in Philippi...”

 

Hageschutte stiffened at the mention of that other group.

 

“THERE’S ANOTHER POINT TO BE MADE, MA’AM! I THINK THOSE INDIVIDUALS PLAY A LITTLE LOOSE WITH GOSPEL TEACHINGS! THEY’LL LET ANYBODY SIT IN THEIR PEWS. NOW, I KNOW GOD’S HOUSE IS OPEN TO ALL, BUT IT HAS TO BE WITH SOME STIPULATIONS. YOU CAN’T JUST HAVE A BUNCH OF OUTSIDERS TAKING OVER, WHEN ELDERS AND DEACONS ARE ALREADY APPROVED TO GUIDE THE FLOCK! COMING TO WORSHIP MEANS BEING SERIOUS ABOUT THE BIBLE AND ITS COMMANDMENTS! WE DON’T INTEND TO BE A SOCIAL CLUB! NOT AT ALL! WE ARE A CONFABULATION OF THE FAITHFUL! A PLATOON OF SERVANTS TO THE LORD!”

 

His target had to return to her duties. So, she gestured toward a big, logo clock on the far wall.

 

“Reverend, my oddball buddy grew up with a dad just like yerself. Brother Podmore Redman, y’all might have heard about him? An old country preacher, he called himself. Still active right until the time he was called home, in Kentucky. That wild son of his knows more about the good book than ya might imagine. Now, I know he’s covered with tattoos and road scars, and whatnot. I think even a healed-over bullet wound on his belly. That makes him attractive, in a certain way, though. There’s somethin’ about bad boys that soften a girl’s heart. But I ain’t fooled by horse poop! I know the stink of that mess. I’ve been through some hard things, too. Like raisin’ a boy pretty much on my own. He’s a Marine now, I’m proud of him! And proud of myself fer helpin’ to make it happen! But... I’m outta time fer small talk. Got to go back to work and earn my keep. Have a good day, sir. Maybe I’ll see ya at church again...”

 

The evangelist huffed and frowned before turning on his heel.

 

“If you show up again with that man on your arm, we might have a problem letting you through those doors. Keep that in mind, miss! Keep that foremost in your mind!”

 

A line had formed at the front counter. There were truckers waiting to pay for showers and fill-ups. Plus, local patrons with Mega-Mugs of fresh brewed caffeine. She did not look back when returning to her register.

 

In their parking lot, the gaggle of outraged believers circled a crew-cab pickup that carried signage for the Nazarene center. There were members of several other denominations present as well, including Methodists, Presbyterians, Baptists, and even a Lutheran group. Sunshine peeking through the clouds had brightened their spirits, and given encouragement for the protest. But now, it seemed that their effort had stalled. No one was paying attention.

 

Hageschutte shook his head before sliding behind the wheel of his Chevy Colorado.

 

“We stated our case, brothers and sisters. Maybe, for the moment, that was enough. God’s children cannot be silent, not today or tomorrow, or ever! When more challenges come, we will continue to show our faith. We will put our shoulders to the stone! We will testify for a risen Christ, and a loving creator! Amen, I say! Amen!”

 

The throng of religious demonstrators agreed with his declaration. A chant rose as they departed.

 

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 21: Introspection

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

In the downhill garage behind his cousin’s house, Parker Redman returned to find that the single stand of shelving next to its workbench was empty. He had completely run out of cigarettes, whiskey, and salty snacks. Only a half-empty jar of instant coffee, and a few cans of Vienna sausages remained. Yet for the first time in many years, he did not feel anxious about ditching his vices, at least for the present. His mind was focused on a reanalysis of what had gone before. From the time of his birth, until this moment. He could not erase the scars of having walked away from his birthright, and heritage, to seek a meandering path toward no particular destination. This choice made him who he was, in every way. But he now realized that damnation did not have to be a component of that reality.

 

From the Bible for Bikers, he began to read aloud, with no one else present to hear.

 

Acts 2:1-21, “When the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. Suddenly, a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. They saw what seemed to be tongues of fire that separated and came to rest on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them. Now there were staying in Jerusalem God-fearing Jews from every nation under heaven. When they heard this sound, a crowd came together in bewilderment, because each one heard their own language being spoken. Utterly amazed, they asked: ‘Aren’t all these who are speaking Galileans? Then how is it that each of us hears them in our native language? Parthians, Medes and Elamites; residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya near Cyrene; visitors from Rome (both Jews and converts to Judaism); Cretans and Arabs – we hear them declaring the wonders of God in our own tongues!’ Amazed and perplexed, they asked one another, ‘What does this mean?’ Some, however, made fun of them and said, ‘They have had too much wine.’ Then Peter stood up with the Eleven, raised his voice and addressed the crowd: ‘Fellow Jews and all of you who live in Jerusalem, let me explain this to you; listen carefully to what I say. These people are not drunk, as you suppose. It’s only nine in the morning! No, this is what was spoken by the prophet Joel...’”

 

The willful misanthrope felt himself beginning to tremble. His hands could barely hold the worn and tattered manuscript, which still carried greasy fingerprints from past readers. Other penitent souls, who must have flipped through its pages while wrenching on their roadgoing beasts. Or maybe, when gathering in humble venues like the repair shack where he was staying, to ponder holy scriptures.

 

He continued to vocalize from the book, after regaining his composure.

 

“’In the last days, God says, I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your young men will see visions, your old men will dream dreams. Even on my servants, both men and women, I will pour out my Spirit in those days, and they will prophesy. I will show wonders in the heavens above and signs on the earth below, blood and fire and billows of smoke. The sun will be turned to darkness and the moon to blood before the coming of the great and glorious day of the Lord. And everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.’”

 

Upon finishing this familiar passage, he sat with his engineer boots dripping melted snow on the concrete. His joints ached from the cold. Yet the propane, shop heater warmed him gently with a glow of blue flames. He reflected on hearing his father preach about this incredible story, many times over. But now, the selection caused him to wonder.

 

“What is the point, papa? I don’t get it! Why did I open this Bible and see the description of Pentecost? How does that connect with me?”

 

Instead of jonesing for smokes and liquor, alone, he decided to climb the slick hillside, once again. His short journey was easier because of footprints left from his previous excursion. It proved easy to follow his own tracks through the frosty drifts. And use exposed branches and tree trunks to aid in his ascension.

 

Angelette was busy in the kitchen when he arrived at their back porch. She had biscuits baking in the oven, and a Lodge, cast-iron skillet of sausage gravy simmering on the stove.

 

“Howdy Feeshtail! Could y’all smell vittles cookin’? There’s plenty fer everybody, no need to sit down in that old garage, feelin’ hungry. I never turn newcomers away from our table!”

 

Parker was still in a solemn mood. Both from his visit to the Dadisman Road Christ Fellowship Church, and the impromptu reading in Bodean’s shed.

 

“Angie, I was sitting on a parts crate down there, and did some reading. Not about discontinued models of Harley, Indian, Ariel, Matchless, BSA, BMW, Norton, or Triumph, but from that odd translation of the Bible your husband kept on his shelf. As a matter of fact, I took it to church with me, yesterday. But when I held it in my lap, this afternoon, that volume fell open to the second chapter of Acts. And I still can’t figure out what the upshot of that coincidence might be...”

 

His cousin’s spouse wrinkled her nose. Then, she wiped White Lily flour on her apron before offering insight.

 

“Feesh, what does it talk about there, that’s the story of Pentecost, right?”

 

Her house guest nodded and sipped from a mug of coffee that had been brewed in an enameled pot on a back burner.

 

“Yes, that’s right...”

 

Angelette smiled and delivered her own opinion, candidly.

 

“See, I remember Papa Podmore teachin’ that lesson from his pulpit. Yer dad always had a way of puttin’ things in plain English. It says that everybody heard the message in their own tongue, that was a miracle, right then and there. Y’all gotta think it shook people up pretty good! But he said that we can make that same miracle happen nowadays, by ministerin’ to folks in their own language, face-to-face. Now, if some dude came in here to Grafton, with fancy duds and a big hat, and a long car, we might be suspicious of his intentions, right? But if he looked and sounded like a Mountaineer, some good ol’ boy straight outta the hills, then we might react differently. That’s part of preaching the gospel, according to the old feller. It’s bein’ able to talk with those who wouldn’t hear the word, otherwise. I figure that’s probably why they printed that book yer carryin’ around. Not as a joke or an insult, but because somebody on a bike can speak to others from the same tribe. Yer own identity matters when spreadin’ the message. Which might be a reason fer ya to find that chapter, by accident.”

 

She checked the pan of biscuits, then stirred her gravy before offering a conclusion.

 

“Think about it, maybe that wasn’t really an accident at all!”

 

“Elixir”

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

A curious creed is the norm by which

This republic rolls forward on Cadillac hoops

Sometimes I think about raising a stink

But quickly realize that there is no use

It’s a game controlled like a circus act

With performers vying for the attention of eyes

The one who boldly shouts with glee

Will receive a ransom, recognized

The validation seen and heard

Comes from a pantheon of precious pricks

Needlepoints that pierce the skin

And inject an elixir, expertly mixed

This treatment prescribed by dudes on deck

Trained and taught in the carnival school

Learning how to herd the flock

With a staff shaped by the golden rule

Few can see beyond the veil

Fewer can argue about the cause

But at the end of this patriot parade

There’s a finely printed, legal clause

One that gives up details in dots

Carefully arranged on a soldier’s shroud

Mapping out a hegemony, in force

Before speaking all those truths, aloud

Boasting bravely, above the crowd

The champion of this show delights

In holding sway on the grandest stage

A plateau perched behind the lights

His arms raised in a victory vee

One that cannot be mistaken for loss

He’ll hop a train ‘round the midway track

And finish with, a festive ring toss

The decoy is a live-action spree

A shell game, sleight-of-hand illusion

A trick of light and lies, reflected

Usefully usurping the logical conclusion

A clear head might tilt back in awe

A strong will could rightly prevail

Yet generally, the yield of service

Is a bovine squeeze in a galvanized pail

A bit of honey, milked from the bee

Enough to feed a hungering gang

Who give supplication to a sire

That will later be, convicted and hanged

Statues stand upon this spot

Bearing testimony to the deeds of men

Tomorrow they’ll fall upon the earth

Only to be resurrected, again

Roulette wheels spin and chart

The progress of a proper population

Groomed and guided to the target

Where arrows fly, with much elation

The bullseye hit, the wrong is righted

Stains go pale with a bit of bleach

The memories of battles borne

Disappear deep into the breach

The republic rots when neglect is nigh

Therefore, the garden must be tended

If needs arise, those stately sots

Will see that the constitution is amended

Gavels swing and bells will chime

To mark this achievement of regulation

A cadence kicked by combat boots

A metronome for the nation

No tears my friend, it is not just

To cry upon the graves, alone

While dismembering their sacrifice

Like scattered stars and broken bones

The final rest is ours to seek

And ours to lose in a sweet release

Of exhaled breaths and exalted dreams

A penance paid for warriors of peace

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 20: Revelation

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

Sunday morning at the Dadisman Road Christ Fellowship Church was lightly attended, due to winter weather that made traveling up the winding road a challenging chore. A few vehicles were parked in front of their main building, with more across the road where an old schoolhouse once stood. Others came from neighboring homes nearby, because it had proven to be an easier trek using a tractor, or on foot. Yet the sanctuary resonated with lively conversation, and greetings being exchanged. It was a venue founded on faith alone. Otherwise, the little chapel was not known for any social standing among peers in the county. It did not attract visits from travelers, elected officials, or notable citizens. But as Parker Redman arrived, he could feel a sense of kinship with the unfamiliar flock. The group exuded authenticity, and kindness. For the first time in many years, he did not feel out of place in such a setting.

 

Quietly, he took a spot on the last pew, with the tattered copy of his ‘Bible for Bikers’ in hand. As the worship service began, a song leader stood in front of their pulpit, and called out a number from his sacred collection. The chosen hymn was ‘To the Work’ by Fanny J. Crosby. One instantly familiar from past days spent listening to his father preach to believers in the Ohio Valley, and beyond.

 

“To the work!

To the work!

We are servants of God

Let us follow the path

That our Master has trod

With the balm of His counsel

Our strength to renew

Let us do with our might

What our hands find to do

 

Toiling on, toiling on

Toiling on, toiling on

Let us hope, let us watch

And labor till the Master comes.”

 

 

The schedule of their gathering had been altered slightly, because although enough members were in attendance, none of the regular speakers had been able to get through snow and ice that hampered the meeting. So prayers, scriptures, and a cappella selections were alternated to fill the span. When it was time for communion, men from the congregation took their places at the Lord’s Table. A fellow dressed in faded denim, with a longish, gray beard, read from the Word of God. Then offered a humble petition over the ceremonial feast.

 

Luke 22: 14-20, “And when the hour was come, he sat down, and the twelve apostles with him. And he said unto them, With desire I have desired to eat this passover with you before I suffer: For I say unto you, I will not any more eat thereof, until it be fulfilled in the kingdom of God. And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and said, Take this, and divide it among yourselves: For I say unto you, I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God shall come. And he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them saying, This is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me. Likewise also the cup after supper, saying, This cup the new testament in my blood, which is shed for you.”

 

Parker felt his chest tightening. He whispered the familiar phrase under his breath, which was carved into the front of their wooden table.

 

“This do in remembrance of me...”

 

Those who were serving dispersed the cups of grape juice, and matzos, among everyone in the pews. Heads remained bowed with reverence. Then, the senior officiator spoke in a solemn tone as he concluded the ritual.

 

“Separate and apart from the Lord’s Supper, we now take up a collection to support the benevolence of our church. Give according to your ability. We ask that God will bless us, as we support those in need, and continue to do his work.”

 

Normally, there would have been someone to offer a Bible lesson before the invitation was given, an appeal to those who had not yet received the Holy Spirit into their hearts, and been baptized. But as that dramatic moment arrived, there was some confusion. Elders of the group were not represented in a sufficient number. No other clergyman had been appointed, after the death of Solomon Ike, their spiritual anchor for over 30 years.

 

With a hint of hesitation affecting his voice, Parker stood up and clasped his copy of the good book in one hand.

 

“Friends, I might be a stranger here. But let me introduce myself as a son of Pastor Podmore Redman, who traveled extensively throughout this state and others in the region. Some of you might remember him, as a scholar and theologian. Or perhaps, as a volunteer at soup kitchens and county fairs, cookouts, and ramp dinners. He performed many weddings and funerals around West Virginia. But I knew him by a simpler title. I called him my papa...”

 

Silence filled the sanctuary. Krista Pearl was seated with cousins from the local community, but she did not draw attention to herself. There were a few gasps of surprise as he strode forward, to the lectern. He opened the biker volume gently, and took a deep breath before beginning to preach.

 

“You might notice that this translation is the NIV, the New International Version. Now, like many of you, I grew up with the King James Bible. And that rendering of the scriptures is still familiar. Part of my foundation as a young believer. Right at the roots of my experience. But I want to be clear for this new generation. Because the word needs to ring out not just with old-timers and those of a longstanding faith, but also, with the inheritors of tomorrow. I’ve seen plenty of church groups go by the wayside, because their people got old and frail, and there was nobody to take over. And part of the guilt there lies on those like myself. Yes, I turned away from the message. I confess that sin, here and now, in front of you! But there’s a candle lit somewhere, deep in my soul. A spark that could not be extinguished. Not by fate or misfortune, or a refusal to obey. That is why I came here, to share fellowship, and this sermon, with you. I am a backslider, stained and dirty. Not an example of goodness or light. I do not deserve any respect and would not want anyone to follow my path. If you might have also fallen by the wayside, however, then I want to say that the forgiveness of a loving God has not forsaken you. Let me read from these dog-eared pages, if I might...”

 

He turned to a passage that caused tears to drip from his eyes.

 

Ephesians 1: 1-10, “Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God, To God’s holy people in Ephesus, the faithful in Christ Jesus: Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight. In love he predestined us for adoption to sonship through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will – to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves. In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace that he lavished on us. With all wisdom and understanding, he made known to us the mystery of his will according to his good pleasure, which he purposed in Christ, to be put into effect when the times reach their fulfillment – to bring unity to all things in heaven and on earth under Christ.”

 

Parker raised his hands overhead, as if to awaken the entire assembly, at once.

 

“When you hear that message, what does it mean? Did Paul intend to speak about half measures, or a limited-time offer, a one-off deal maybe? A special kind of pass given to certain individuals, but not others? I ask you to read that verse again. ‘To bring unity to all things in heaven and earth under Christ.’ All things, it says! All things! Ponder the might of that promise, brothers and sisters! Does it sound like a sales gimmick? Like something you would hear buying a used car, or a timeshare? No indeed! It is the word of a loving savior. The word of our creator, handed down. It is our reason to worship here today. Because those who have strayed from righteousness, and allowed themselves to trade the light for darkness, still have hope. That hope lies in the gospel. That hope lies in embracing the truth, and proclaiming it openly, as ministers of the word. Even when we have fallen short of his glory...”

 

Members of the congregation were stunned. To hear such a message from someone they did not know was enough of a surprise. Yet to hear it delivered by a shaggy, sloppy, tattooed rebel in a leather vest and chaps, was unbelievable.

 

The song leader stood up as if on cue. He began to wave his hand like a choir conductor.

 

“All things are ready, come to the feast!

Come for the table now is spread;

Ye famishing, ye weary, come

And thou shalt be richly fed

Hear the invitation

Come, whosoever will;

Praise God for full salvation

For whosoever will...”