Gauntlet #2: "Banner Over Ashes" | Fall 2014

t
graphically
christian
#2 | $2.99
GAUNTLET
M A G A Z I N E

Welcome to The Gauntlet.
Art by Tom Pollock Jr.

Editor’s Note

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Fear & Jesus
Land of the Broken
SOUL OF THE FREE
SURROUNDED
.............................. 1
.............................. 3
.............................. 5
A Mighty Rainstorm
............................ 7
ANYTHING BUT CHRIST
Sowing Seeds in
Sinking Sand
............................. 9
.............................. 11
What Goes into the Fire
.......................... 13

Fear
&
By: Jonathan Matos
Fear and Jesus; perfect mates
When horror holds me fast, and shakes
To free me from His love’s embrace
To keep my soul from feeling safe
My Jesus also holds my fear
Whispering sharply in its ear
Just loud enough for me to hear:
“I think you know your place, my dear”
Jesus

For when I flirt with fear, alone
God grows jealous for His Son
For worries, wonder, and suspicion
Christ would call but tribulation
We are spared our judgement day
And yet, we fret, we even pray
“Please, Lord, any other way!”
The cock crows thrice, we cannot say
A single word, in our defense
Adultery is our offense
Fear’s chastity is broken when
We fear not God, but only men

LAND OF THE
BROKEN
*
SOUL OF THE
FREE

There is a land that is broken
Where souls cry out to be freed-
Alone, without hope, abandoned,
Helpless, bound in desperate need.
Broken people. Broken healers.
Broken followers. Broken leaders.
Broken in poverty. Broken in pain.
Broken in wealth. Broken in gain.
Man in his ambition. Man in his privilege.
Man in his sufficiency. Man in his heritage.
Man in his struggle. Man in his sin.
Man in his omission. Man chasing the wind.
Truly life's a mystery and God’s way past finding out.
Truly all man is as grass to fade and to fall out.
A God we cannot fully understand or comprehend or take in,
A world and humanity we cannot always find good within,
Drive us to Jesus, back to His sacrifice.
He alone would live and give His own life
As the perfect Son of God, Deity come down
To dwell among us, to wear a sinless, blood-stained crown.
What then, under the sun, is the whole duty of man?
But to live justly, love mercy and walk humbly in God’s plan?
To run the race before us day by day.
To walk in His steps, stay on the narrow way.
To thank Him for loving and for claiming our hearts.
To obey and follow and each do our part.
To respond to His beauty, despite absence or evil we see.
To keep our eye on the prize and our feet forward running free.
In the Land of the Broken rises the Soul of the Free.
No soul is left undone when God declares it free.
Jesus Christ is with me.
He claims me for His own.
He wields royal power for me.
He bids me sit beside Him at His throne.
He places in my hand strength-
What I need to work today
He places on my face a smile-
What I need to laugh and play
He places in my heart love-
What I need to care and give
He places in my mind truth-
What I need to worship and live.
He places in my soul a Savior-
Who I need to save me from my sin
He places on my head His crown-
What I need to run the race and win.
Nothing shall separate us from
God’s pure and powerful love.
No omission or commission,
Nothing below or above.
No earthly void, no human choice
Can stop the cry of the soul’s voice-
Ransomed, set free to do His will!
Purchased, redeemed and in Him filled!
Free to live.
Free to learn.
Free to love.
Free to discern.
Free to hope.
Free to dream.
Free to feel.
Free to see.
Free to want.
Free to think.
Free to do.
Free to be-
All he was created to be,
Restored to human dignity,
A creature expressing the Creator’s glory-
Worshipping, existing, living His story.
From the Land of the Broken flies the Soul of the Free!
No man can imprison the Savior inside of you and me!
Only remember! All God has done!
Only remember! He's already won!
Only remember! In the broken, in the need,
Only remember! We’ve already been made free!
The soul can never be silenced!
It will for all the ages sing-
Jesus is the only Savior!
Our land is healed-
Let freedom ring.

Today
God is with you
Holding your hand,
Right beside you,
Working His plan,
Giving you grace
To meet this day,
Walking beside you,
Step by step,
All the way.
Each day as we wake up
We see His warm face
Greeting us with a smile
That can't be replaced.
Daily doubt flickers.
Daily strength grows thin.
Turn on your faith;
You're surrounded by
HIM!
Surrounded
In Him you live and move
And have all your being.
In Him you exist
In Him you sing!

Be surrounded by truth.
Be surrounded by love.
Keep your eyes on Jesus;
You're safe in His love!
Are you afraid?
Are you alone?
Missing your family?
Missing your home?
Turn on your faith;
Like a switch flip it on!
Put on His grace;
Like armor leave it on!
Stayed plugged into Jesus.
Stay plugged into grace.
Stay plugged into power.
Stay plugged in the race.
Daily doubt flickers.
Daily strength grows thin.
Turn on your faith!
You're surrounded -
By HIM!!!
Saved and secure
By grace astounded,
Boxed-in by Christ,
Safe and Surrounded.

Ist
Kings 18:41 - 45
Elijah prays for rain
"I hear a mighty rainstorm
coming"
Have you prayed for rain? Have you
waited for an answer to prayer, a solution,
an end to a season, water where there
is none?
Something's coming. There's never nothing
happening.
A Mighty Rainstorm
God works in mighty ways. Yes He works
in small, ordinary, regular lives and
methods. But He sends mighty
answers too. He can make mighty
His answers to prayer. He can do
above and beyond what we
could ever ask or think. He can
send a thunderstorm when
we just asked for rain.

We
serve the God of the sea.
The God who turns the
cloud into life-giving dew
from heaven.
The God who installs divine
power in man to do His will
The God who makes His name
known to false sources of power
The God who takes care of me and you.
Elijah's God is our God.
It is a fearful thing to serve Him.
And it is wonderful because He will take care
of those who are on His side, who play on His
team, who do His will.
"Look out toward the sea"
Expect to see the answer
even if it looks small or far
away. Watch it rise. It will grow
bigger as it gets closer.
Look. Look expecting to see that
answer to prayer. Look toward the
direction where the answer will
come from. Look because God
is sending an answer.
Look in faith.
Sometimes when we do see the
answer it is so far away or it seems
so small in comparison to what is
needed that it doesn't even seem like
an answer. Or when we see it we are in so
much shock we just can't believe there's
some sign it is actually happening so we
don't prepare for the fullness of its impact!
"If you don't hurry the rain will stop you"
When God sends a mighty answer, we may need
to hurry to do our part. It is possible to be
swallowed up in the blessing because it is so
powerful that it becomes dangerous too.
Mighty weapons meet mighty needs but
can do mighty deeds for good or bad.
Sometimes that giant shower of blessing
can prevent us from another goal
if we become bogged down in its
torrent.
Special strength to run ahead
of the "storm"
There are cycles in life and
in our world. The water cycle
is an amazing thing. When
Elijah prayed for rain he did not
expect to look straight up and see
a drop fall. He knew the cycle. Water
would gather in clouds over the ocean
and then make its way inland to drop its
contents on the earth. He looked to the
first place in the cycle for the first sign of the
solution. Where does this cycle begin? The
end of this cycle is what I am praying for, so
where does it start? That's where I will look.
"...a little cloud about the size of a mans hand
rising from the sea"
Elijah prayed for rain, but from afar no rain
could be seen...but a cloud could! And
clouds bring the rain.
God
will instill His divine
enablement within
us to run ahead of our
problem and our solution
and to a place of
safety that He directs us to.
Can you see something or someone
or some situation that will bring
what you prayed for? Maybe what
you prayed for directly is not at
your doorstep yet but that
"small cloud" has appeared
and it has the potential to
bring your answer.
God, help us to trust you today.
In the drought and in the storm.
In the dust, in the mire,
In the wind, in the fire.
Send your torrent
Send your flame
Mighty rain or fire
All spread Your Name!
Jessica
Contreras

ANY
THING
BUT
CHRIST
art by steve sanders

World Without Water
World
Reprinted from Gauntlet Magazine #1
Without
By: Jonathan Matos
Water

The day the water disappeared, I
had the dream again. Sometimes it was
like a hurricane, destroying my sleep and
leaving my mind to drift here and there
for its meaning. Other times, it would
visit while I was awake, like an
unwelcome puddle one steps in after it
rains. It would flow in and out, cold and
clear, dripping through my conscious like
a memory. But not my memory.
In the dream, I'm on a small boat.
(I'm not a pirate or anything; that would
actually make sense, it being a dream
and all.) There are other men with me, I'd
say there's about a dozen of us. I include
myself with them because we're all
wearing ... I don't know what to call
them. Togas, maybe? Whatever it is, it's
not modern. None of these other guys
are talking, either. I mean, they seem to
be speaking, but I can't hear what they're
saying. All I can hear is the water lapping
against the side of the boat with
increasing fervor. I look up and notice the
sky is royal blue and the clouds are a
hodge podge of salt and pepper.
This is not where the dream gets
bothersome, for me at least. I've heard
enough nightmares from my son to
know some people are bothered by the
headlines: Hurricane Sandy and Suzy and
Bobby making people afraid to trust the
water. I work on a tour boat, so I've
learned to accept water as an essential
part of life. Water is constant, its ebb and
flow can carry you anywhere you want if
you respect it. It has a great power all its
own, but it tells you what its going to do,
what its doing. Feeling it bristle
underneath the boat, like a trusty steed,
comforted me, even if I had no clue
where on the water I was.
But the dream always goes the
same way. Just as I feel the sea buckling
the boat, I look out and see someone out
in the water. Before I can say anything, I
notice all the other guys freaking out.
The wind picks up, and the waves
increase in speed and intensity. I notice
we're pretty far out, but I can see we're
close enough to the shore to get back
before the ship is damaged. As long as
the men around me know what they're
doing, I'm sure we can discuss the
weather with intelligence, and decide
whether to turn back or keep sailing.
After, of course, we save the man I
thought was drowning.
But he's not drowning. He was
never even swimming. I look at the faces
around me, frozen, pale. One of them
seems to be hyperventilating. I run up to
the edge of the boat and I squint. Now
that the man is only about forty yards
away, there's no denying it. I watch the
waves strike his knees, wetting the fringe
of his robe. He's not in the water. He's
walking on it.
I don't know about you, but I can
usually tell I'm dreaming. But dreams
happen in a strange territory of the mind.
It feels like being on a boat: you know it
isn't natural for the ground to rock back
and forth, but a different part of you says:
“Its okay for now. We're going
somewhere. This feels unnatural, but
when we get to dry ground again, we'll
forget the discomfort. Heck, we might
even enjoy the ride.” So, this dream: I
know it, for the most part. I'm Peter. The
guy walking on water, that's Jesus. I've
heard this story a dozen times. Being in it,
though, taking that otherworldly hop
onto a moving valley of liquid and
having it hold me up, its an amazing
experience. And just like trusting the
water when I get on a boat, I'm willing to
take that leap of faith if I know its taking
me somewhere.
But the dream doesn't add up. I'm
not Peter. I'm not even a religious zealot.
Before this dream started, I'd been going
to church maybe three or four months. I
enjoyed hearing messages.
reprint, ongoing series, short story

World Without Water
I couldn't understand why people had a
problem with going to church. I
associated all that hot air with the
problems big, inland cities have. Beach
towns are different. We enjoy life. The
small inconsistencies didn't matter to
me. The meaning behind the stories was
solid. The experience of church itself was
a lot like walking on water. The ocean of
words that made up the Bible got lost on
some people. But, even if it was for a little
bit, I was happy coasting on the surface.
But then my church started this new
program to get people to “disciple” each
other. I thought making disciples was
what people like Jesus and Buddha did. I
had no problem listening to my pastor
talk about God when it was about inner
peace and happiness. Specifically, I liked
the ideas of “casting your cares”, like a
fishing net. Why not let God do all the
worrying for you? But the story I keep
dreaming about, about a Jesus who
expects a follower of his to walk on water,
I don't know if it really happened, but I
don't see the point of it.
The waves start beating me in the
face, sometimes leaving a bit of saltwater
for me to gurgle on. The magic of the
moment slowly fades, and suddenly my
weight returns. I'm flailing through the
dense green around me, staying within
feet of the surface. Bubbles escape as I
call out for help, and that quick a hand
breaks in and reaches for me. I gladly
grab hold of it, but no sooner am I pulled
from the darkness than I awake, as
breathless as when I was submerged.
What bothers me most about this
is never being able to complete the story.
Whether I believe in it or not, whether I
remember it well enough to re-construct
it: none of this bothers me. I just want to
finish it. I want to see Jesus when he pulls
me up. I don't know why I can't see him.
It was this thought I awoke with
that Sunday morning. I decided I might
find some comfort looking at the ocean
from the sliding door of my vacation
home. To escape the discipleship class,
I'd skipped off to our beach house near
the marina. I thought some time to
myself would help me decide how much
of Jesus I could stand to take since my
son started going there.

It was nice meeting the local people, but
I needed to decide for myself what I
believed. I'd never been one to take life at
face value. Going to this place, it was like
these people were dealing in a different
currency. Most people I knew were fairly
well to-do. These people were no
different, but they didn't care about
hedge funds. In fact, they went out of
their way to make sure the next guy
wasn't struggling to make ends meet.
But, like I said, this didn't mean
anything if what they were selling was a
fairytale. My “vision” wasn't helping
matters. It just reminded me how much
of the Bible seemed like all those Disney
stories where your dreams come true. I
wanted to be a NAVY Seal, and God gave
me asthma and a bum knee. How was I
supposed to relate to Peter, who was at
least fit enough to dive headlong off a
boat?! I had a hard enough time meeting
my wife and son’s expectations, I couldn't
be part of a community that would judge
me for not “participating enough”. I was
no leader. And if this was what it meant
to be a disciple, I wasn't sure I was that,
either.
“As I looked out my window, past the
patio, past the walkway, and beyond
my wildest imagination, there was
nothing...”
As I blinked through the bright,
morning haze, I thought for a second I
was still dreaming. A few pinches and
jabs to my arm convinced me I was
awake, but I couldn't believe it. As I
looked out my window, past the patio,
past the walkway, and beyond my
wildest imagination, there was nothing.
Well, there was something: a valley of
darkening sand receding into a casserole
of seaweed and jagged rock. But where I
expected there to be miles and miles of
blue, there was nothing. I blinked,
moisture still lapping microscopically in
my unbelieving eyes, but the ocean, the
clouds, every hint of water was gone.
CNN was going for six minutes
before the news hit. A blonde
anchorwoman's voice wavered, but she
managed to recover to confirm the news:
all the world's water vanished overnight.
A young weatherman faltered through
the random possible theories: global
warming, nuclear terrorism, and they got
worse from there. No one seemed to
have a clue what they were talking
about, so I turned off the TV and sighed.
You didn't need to be a rocket
scientist to know this would be
devastating. Like an idiot, the first thing I
thought of was being out of a job. It took
a minute or two to sink in that humans
can only survive a few days without
water. That meant my little vacation from
reality was actually the beginning of the
end.
But, like I said, I've never been
able to take things at face value. If the
water was gone, I wanted to know it for
myself. This felt like a strange impulse: I'd
seen the miles of dry land for myself. I
heard the news people say the water
wasn't there. So that meant it was gone,
right? I had to know. I had to feel the
nothingness between my toes.
reprint, ongoing series, short story

If it meant trekking across the globe,
checking every well and climbing into
every chasm, I would track down the last
drop of dew if it killed me. It wasn't a
fact that the water was not really gone,
but was now just transparent, was too
ludicrous to air immediately, or
warranted more scientific verification.
“As I raced down the shore line, I was
certain I still heard the gentle undulation:
the small, simple noise I’d often
taken for granted.”
World Without Water
mental thing. Of course I would be
comforted knowing perhaps I and
everyone I knew might actually survive
the coming week. But there was
something wrong to me about such an
elemental part of life being gone.
Certainly even Darwin couldn't explain a
molecule deciding it didn't need to exist.
It had to be somewhere. This couldn't be
as simple as it looked.
I thought the matter through
long enough, and decided I had to
investigate. I opened the sliding door,
and noticed I still felt the same misty air.
The saltwater musk remained, and I
notedthat the sand seemed just as damp.
As I raced down to the shore line, I was
certain I still heard the gentle undulation,
the small, simple noise I'd often taken for
granted. Finally, just when I expected it,
my bare foot made contact with the cool,
fresh substance my eyes couldn't see.
The water was invisible.
It was so frightening, I almost
screamed, but ended up swallowing. I
then r ealized that if all the water was
gone, my soul would have gone with it. I
splashed around, skipping like Scrooge
on Christmas morning. It occurred to me
the news people must have
sensationalized the story. The truth, the
I didn't really know what to think, or how
to explain it, but it seemed all that
mattered was that the water was there
like it always was: gently, quietly present,
except now it was even clearer.
Suddenly, it didn't matter that I
never got to see Jesus in my dream. The
fact that he rescued me every time was
enough. Every day, he offered his hand,
and if I took it, if I accepted that gentle
nudge I'd become so familiar with, that
would be what mattered.
I looked up and saw a blank, blue
sky, and thought maybe I'd never see a
cloud again. I remembered all the
afternoons I'd wasted trying to find
something in them. For some reason, this
broke my heart, knowing I was looking
for something that wasn't there. As an
invisible stream sprang from my eyes, I
imagined for a second Christ looking into
Peter's face, tears falling into the surf, as
he asked: “Oh you of little faith. Why do
you doubt?”
Check out Part 2,
“Sowing Seeds in
Sinking Sand”
on next page...

Sowing Seeds in
The water was so clear, even though it
was invisible, I began to see a shimmer of
crystals. The tingling around my feet, the
sloshing in my ears, they began to take on a
visible quality, like wisps of fog in the air. I
could nearly see it, nearly taste: the substance
that was in me, that held me up, that was my
salvation.
And then I wondered who else knew. I
wondered how many people tried their
faucets, only to hear the familiar hiss of the
rushing flume. I wondered if the news
stations had picked it up yet, or if they were
stuck sensationalizing it. I couldn't imagine
that could last long. I decided then if anybody
needing convincing, I'd be the one to do it.
It took some doing, but I broke from
my reverie, and lifted my feet from the
unseeable liquid. I turned to march back up
the beachhead. I stopped almost instantly
upon spotting what looked like a giant worm
peering out from the sand, wildly clawing
with pink teeth at the nearby ground. I
thought its face was malformed to resemble a
human hand, until I quickly realized it was
someone buried alive!
As I raced over to him, I noticed the
sand around him took on a syrup consistency.
At the time, I had no time to think. I just
grabbed the man's wrist like I was choking a
cobra, gripping and pulling as hard as I could.
I felt like I did when I was fishing with my
cousin. The tug of the sand, its gummy feel of
resistance, reminded me of all of us pulling
up a trawling net, the weigh of a thousand
squirming bass and gallons more of water.
Then, I was so angry about the cold, the
burning sensation in my palms, in the
dampness in the air and every inch of the
vessel, as if I was being attacked. Now, as the
By: Jonathan Matos
Sinking Sand
(the sequel to Gauntlet #1’s “World Without Water”)
man gasped for breath, all I could think about
was Jesus call to be a fisher of men. I felt
grateful to be there when I was needed. The
harsh collision of my back to the solid sand,
and the impact of the man falling, on top of
me, felt like my wife squeezing my hand in
her final push: the pressure of release.
We both laid there, wheezing, myself
completely stationary, the other man shifting
the sand around my feet in sporadic spurts. I
pushed myself on my elbows to see he was
moving his legs, as if trying to return feet first
into the strange vortex of sand. He soon lay
still, sighing as I realized he was simply
reassuring himself of his freedom. I laughed,
then, both at his persistent instinct to doubt
his instincts, and that I hadn't recognized him
until now.
“Tom!”
Tom stopped flailing around and
nearly froze, a half a second, as if I flicked a
switch inside him.
“Tucker? Is that you?”
By the time he'd gotten that all out,
along with the last coughs laden with briny
dust, I was already on my feet, bearing my
own sand-caked form, but taking the full
light of the sun. Even as Tom brushed the
gritty film from his eyes, and I wiped some
dust from my shirt, he already knew it was
me.
“Tucker - - can you . . . what on earth is
going on?!”
Tom looked at my hand, as if he was
hoping I was handing him the answer. But
after a few more gasps at the cool sea breeze,
Tom grasped with both hands, and let me
pull him up. But then, as soon as he was level,
his voice flitted up and down, like a lost and
confused seagull, drenched in oil.

“First the water's disappearing, and a
… a pit of - - quick sand, or God knows what,
sucking me down. What is happening here?!”
I could feel it, too, like a sailboat being
caught in a whirlpool, my mind was spinning,
attempting to account for each new
phenomena, and what it might have to do
with my reassurance in God. More and more,
my epiphany seemed to be mocked by the
growing absurdity of my circumstances. My
mind was still drifting when I heard Tom
again call out: “Ouch!”
He exclaimed a few more things I
won't mention before I was able to calm
him down. He was hopping up and
down on one foot, swimming
through the air until I caught his
arm and steadied him. Without
a word he lifted his foot to
reveal the granules of blood
cascading from a small cut on
his heel. I might
have mistaken the material for
sand, if not for its bright red
glint, and strange way of caking
around the wound.
I suddenly saw Tom's finger,
out of the corner of my eye, pointing at
a small black object laying in the sand. I
looked Tom in the eyes, seeking permission
to let him go and investigate. He nodded,
and I immediately bent down to pick up the
object, which, surprisingly, I was more or less
familiar with, yet not as often on the beach.
It was an arrowhead: likely a
mismatched item from one of a dozen
nearby novelty stores along the boardwalk.
Every now and then I would suggest some of
the merchandise didn't make sense for the
area, and the owners would smile and nod
and not change a thing. I preferred finding
arrowheads on one of the few times my boy
wanted to go camping. Nearly six months
before finding Tom on that beach, we found
one in the Jersey Pines, and I told him a
Buddhist parable about an arrow, half out of
interest, and half to avoid “that church down
by the ferris wheel”.
In the story, Buddha described a man
who is shot with a poisoned arrow. The man
is rescued by a friend, who offers to take him
to a surgeon. However, the wounded man
refuses to seek treatment, and instead wants
to know about his attacker – how tall or short
he is, what color his skin is, what his name is
and what his clan affiliations are, and
continues to ignore the wound until,
eventually, he dies. I told my son that Buddha
used this story to teach his followers to focus
on alleviating suffering, rather than
concerning themselves with questions about
the afterlife or the soul or the gods. He said
the important thing was treating the
wound.
My was only fifteen at the
time, but, surprisingly, he
debated the story's moral. He
said, “Well, wouldn't the
doctor need to know what the
poison on the arrow was, so
he could treat the wound.” I
didn't have an answer, so he
continued: “And if the attacker
was never caught, wouldn't they
need to find out what his name
was or what he looked like, so they
could prevent another attack?” He then
brought up a Bible passage I hadn't heard of
before, about putting on the “armor of God”,
things like salvation, faith, and knowledge of
God's words, to protect from Satan's arrows.
I looked at the arrowhead in my hand,
too light to be a real arrowhead, let alone one
from Satan's quiver. And yet, I knew the same
curiosity that forced me to find out the water
was still there was pulling me even further. I
wanted to know what this craziness was
about, and how I could protect my family
from it. I wanted to know my enemy, and put
on the armor.
“Tom … I never thought I'd ask you
this, but do you want to go to church?”
To Be Continued . . .

Prologue: The Gifted
by Melissa Matos
The day began as it always did for Terri. The sun rose, shedding a gray light through the cracks
in the cramped and crooked lean-to that Terri shared with her twin brother Tye. Terri opened her eyes
and shivered in the gray mist that wandered up from the nearby swamp. She sighed, quietly, and then
she rose, pulling her thin dress into place around her, and shook her brother awake.
Tye blinked his eyes open. They were red, and a bit puffy. But Terri had other things to tend to.
Before he was even fully awake, Terri pulled him up to a sitting position, and started checking him.
She looked over the back of his neck, behind his ears, under his arms, made him stretch out so she
could look over his legs. Tye let her move him however she needed, without protest, but without
helping. His movements were mechanical, routine.
Now and then, she found a small black lizard, attached by its mouth to his skin. She would
pluck it off and toss it back into the marsh. There were only a few today. Some days there were more,
some days less. His skin, in the areas they favored, was covered with small red circles from their bites.
When she had finished checking him, she ran her hands over her own neck, legs, arms, and removed
a few of the lizards from herself. That done, she crouched down, helped Tye climb onto her back, and
carried him out of their shelter.
They lived with the other children, and a few older homeless people, on the edge of the town
of Redleaf. As they left their small shelter, they joined the group of others trudging into town to sit by
the gate and beg. She carried him to the gate, finding their usual spot that got shade most of the day,
and set him down. She stood beside him, staring as wide eyed as she could at those coming through
the gate, as they both stretched their hands out in a silent request.
Breakfast Terri had no worry about. There was a stout washerwoman who went out of the gate
every morning, and every morning she had a warm little roll of bread for each of the children who
begged at the gate. The rest of the day, however, was always uncertain. As the road became more
crowded, it became harder to attract the attention of those busy with their own cares in the town.
Today, it seemed that no one would notice them at all, and they passed a long day in the sun and dust.
Terri tried to keep her attention on the people on the road, to keep her eyes turned up at them,
so that someone would see them and give them food or water. But as the day went on her attention
wandered. Large men, small men, men driving carts full of hay and barrels, and sometimes laughing
children, it all ran together in her mind in a dusty haze.

The lizards had followed them up from the marsh. They liked to lurk in the shadows around the
gate. There were others sitting around them at the gate, that didn't bother to remove them any more.
It made the other lizards brave, and a few more latched on throughout the day. When they came near
her or her brother, she tried to shoo them away, but she wasn't always fast enough. As the day
reached its hottest point, she stopped really trying. She would make a few shooing movements that
the lizards paid little attention to as they climbed under their clothes.
One of the carts passed very close, nearly running over Tye's legs. A man, a beggar, who
tended to lean against the wall beside them through the day, shouted after the people driving the
cart.
"Watch there! Bad enough you have no pity for those that have nothing, have you no mercy,
either?" The man kicked a stone after the wagon, and it went skittering along the road. Terri had noted
the man before, warily when he had first appeared there, but soon she looked forward to his shadow
beside them. She had noticed the lizards never bothered him. At his words she shook away what
lizards had attached to her, and pulled what she could from her brother.
When the man smiled down at them, she managed to smile back, and dip her head in thanks.
He set a mug down, between where he stood and where the twins sat. Terri stepped out and grabbed
it quickly, bringing it back to her brother and making him drink the water. He had not even blinked
when the wagon had passed in front of him. Tye stirred a bit as the water hit his lips, and he drank
slowly. Terri took what few drops were left, and then set the mug back down for the man to take.
The shouting and scuffle drew attention to the beggars by the gate, and for the rest of the
afternoon, Terri and Tye were given water, bread, even an apple. The lizards did not return to their
section of street.
When the sun dipped out of sight beyond the town's wall, Terri stooped again to allow Tye to
climb onto her back. Tye didn't move. Terri took a deep breath, and looked back at her brother. His
eyes were glazed and staring. There were no lizards on him that Terri could see, but she knew some
could be hiding under his dusty clothes, and she also knew that the lizard's bites could still be
effecting him. It had been a long time since either of them had bathed, and the bites would continue
plaguing them until they could.
"Do you need help?" The man had moved closer to them, and was watching Tye with a frown.
Terri stared at the man for a moment, her mind still not moving very quickly. She tilted her
head and cleared her throat, which felt dryer than the road they sat on. "Why is it," she asked, her voice
quiet and a bit croaky. "That the lizards don't bite you?"
The man's frown deepened at the sound of her voice. "I suppose . . ." Terri couldn't tell if he
wasn't sure of the answer, or if he wasn't willing to tell it. His face seemed to flush a bit. "I determined
a long time ago, when I was not much older than you, actually, that I would never let them near me
again. They try to get at me, sometimes, especially at night. I find them near my bed in the morning.
But when I wake, I just . . . chase them off."

Terri gulped, and looked away. She thought it must be easier for a grown up to be so certain.
She had tried to fight them off before. It had always ended with waking in the morning covered in
bites, and not a few lizards. She shifted around and shook Tye's shoulder much the same way she had
shaken him in the morning. He blinked a few times, and finally focused on her. She motioned for him
to climb on her back.
Slowly, more slowly than she liked, Tye wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and pulled
himself onto her back.
"Thank you," Terri said to the man. "See you tomorrow?"
The man nodded, his brows furrowed, as Terri stood and carried her brother back to their
shack.
Terri barely slept that night. She had to do something. Things were getting harder. There was
a great terror growing in her mind that one day she would wake to find Tye lying so listless that no
amount of shaking would get him to move. And the lizards would cover him. She had seen a child that
used to live near them covered in lizards before. They had covered him some time in the night. Terri
had hurried past him that morning, and when she and her brother had returned at night, the boy was
gone. She had never seen him again.
The man at the gate had seemed so willing to help. Maybe he would teach her how he kept
away the lizards. But the problem was not with Terri, but with Tye. How could she get Tye to want to
keep away the lizards?
She rolled over to watch her brother sleeping. He slept fitfully, his legs twitching occasionally
in a way they never did when he was awake. The lizards could bite his legs a good deal, and he would
never notice when he was awake. There were two there now. They weren't particularly scary looking.
Just plain, small black lizards, no longer than her fingers, with rough black skin and whippy tales. They
were even pretty, in a way. How simple would it be to just let them stay, to fall asleep and not have to
wake up and chase them off ever again?
Terri sat up suddenly, and was surprised to hear herself croaking out, "No!" Several lizards
scattered away. "No! No! No!" she repeated, over and over, shaking her head and saying it louder each
time. Lizards ran in great numbers, from both Tye's and her own bed. She sat there, breathing heavily,
and holding back tears. It had been ages, it seemed, since she had cried. It had been ages since she
had felt anything so strongly that she wanted to cry. But now she was angry, and sad, and just wanted
to stomp around on top of every lizard she could find. So she cried the rest of the night.
In the morning there were no lizards.
The gate the next day was crowded and noisy, much more than Terri had ever seen it. Most
people were gathered just outside the gate, and seemed to be watching the road and talking
excitedly. Rather than setting Tye down, Terri slipped around behind the crowd, and out further to the
sides so they could see what was going on.

Redleaf was set on the top of a dusty hill in the middle of what a very long time ago had been
a lake. Tye and Terri and the other homeless lived down the hill at the back of the town, where what
remained of the lake had formed a swamp. But most of the area was flat, and open, and dry with the
red dust peculiar to the area. Coming toward the town on the main road were two men in long dark
red robes.
It was hard to tell why the crowd was so excited. People came to town along the road every
day. Terri tried to listen in, but she didn't understand most of what they said. They seemed to be
talking about gifts, mostly, and Terri wondered if the men were coming to bring gifts to the town
leaders.
"Do you know who they are?" The man from the gate was standing behind Terri, mostly
looking at the crowd, rather than watching the approaching men.
"No." Terri turned around. It felt as though Tye craned his neck to keep his eyes on the
red-robed men. "Do you?"
The man shrugged. "I'm not sure. They say that they are the ones who make the Gifted."
Terri's eyes grew wide, and she turned back so quickly that Tye had to tighten his grip on her
shoulders. Even in the hovels that she lived in, they had heard of the Gifted. Only ever in whispers, the
Gifted were mentioned, along with their amazing powers to do anything they wanted. And they were
coming to Redleaf.
The crowd grew quiet as the men drew closer, so quiet that Terri could hear the flapping of the
flags over the town walls. The men stopped a way back from the crowd, rather than try to press
through them. In fact, they seemed to be looking over the crowd for someone in particular. Their eyes
rested briefly on each person's face, then moved on. Their robes were simple, a long belted tunic, with
rough sandals on their feet. They wore nothing on their heads. Their faces seemed very similar, as
though they were brothers.
Finally, they saw Terri, and they began to move around the crowd towards her. Terri wanted to
run, but could not make her legs listen. Tye held his breath. The man behind them stepped around
them, to stand between them and the two visitors.
The visitors stopped, neither saying a word, but each pulling a small pouch from somewhere
in the folds of their robes. They were small velvet pouches, as deep red as their robes. They looked at
the man with plain, unemotional faces, and then turned their eyes to the twins, holding out the bags.
The man hesitated, looking from the visitors to Terri. His look, to Terri, seemed to ask a
question. Terri gulped again, thinking now that she had not woken up that morning. The lizards had
taken her and Tye in the night, and she was dreaming away the day as the lizards consumed them
both. The visitors continued to hold out the bags, patiently. She wondered how long they would stay
there, offering the Gifts. Not long, she imagined. Anyone else would have grabbed them right away.
Who wouldn't want one of the Gifts?

Tye finally took a breath, shifted his weight, and then reached out his hand toward the visitors.
Terri shook herself, surprised at Tye's reaction. He had ignored nearly everything for so long. She
stepped closer, giving a reassuring look up to the man who had befriended them, and also reached
out for one of the bags. As soon as she had taken it, she dropped to her knees. Tye rolled off her back,
and they pulled open the pouches, and dumped the contents onto their hands.
Each bag held a sparkling gold armband, with strange letters that Terri had never seen
stamped along the edges. She looked up at Tye, and nearly began to cry again. His eyes were so
bright, the way they used to be when he was younger, before they began living in the shack near the
swamp. Before she had a chance to say anything, or even think more about the change that had come
over him, he stood up.
Terri's breath caught in her throat, and she did feel tears on her face then. Her brother was
walking, walking in circles around her, and laughing. Soon he was skipping, and then running,
laughing louder all the time. Then suddenly he stopped, set the armband on his upper left arm,
stooped down, and lifted her off the ground.
As soon as he touched her, Terri's sight went gray, foggy. When it cleared she looked into her
brother's face. Or at least, it was a face that she understood was her brother, though he looked older,
several years older. He was hugging her, and they were standing together in a large field of flowers.
The field too, she knew to be a place she had been many times before, though nothing grew there
now. The field was the swamp that gurgled near their shack. Terry blinked, and the vision was gone.
Tye had set her back down on the ground, standing up now. The men in red robes were gone. Not
walking away down the road, but completely gone.
There was a deeper silence now than before. The crowd was staring at them. The man beside
them had an odd look on his face, a similar look as that of everyone in the crowd. Terri realized they
were afraid.
Tye didn't seem to notice. He put both his hands on either side of Terri's face, and looked into
her eyes. "You saw something, didn't you?" Terri couldn't speak. There was something hot stuck in her
throat. But she nodded her head. "Well, we have work to do, don't we?"
Terri nodded again, then looked around, ending by looking up at the man beside them. "We
have much work to do. Will you help us?"
Though the crowd still looked afraid, the man's face relaxed. He looked at the twins, and slowly
a smile appeared on his face. "Yes, I will."
The three walked back into town. Some of the crowd followed them. Some walked with them.
Together, they all marched back toward the swamp.

WHAT GOES
INTO THE FIRE
Written By:
Jonathan MAtos
Four long years spent earning one degree in Electronic Publishing, and another in Accounting,
had granted me the ultimately degrading position of crap architect. In one sense, I felt blessed to have
skills on both sides of the academic spectrum. The writer friends I had seemed to see math like a
foreign language, and the math-letes were inept at explaining with any complexity how they make
their calculations. I was gifted, both with a unique skill set, and the privilege of lying to my fellow
students and their parents. Soon I would build a force field of crap around the school so dense and
intricate that no one would even be able to tell if the school had anyone attending it.
Technically, I was a graphic designer at St. Paul's University, walking through the same
hallowed halls I had months before, this time as an employee. My latest project: this year's annual
report, chock-full of numbers I'd been told to check, and re-check, until I started finding $100 bills
slipped in among my proposed designs. I sat at my desk, staring at the 30-page document, half-full of
false information I'd invented. I knew the school deserved a second chance. The crime spree last year
was completely unprecedented. But it was still lying. I just pictured my parents' faces, their proud
smiles after hearing I finally had a job. My Mother told me she'd been praying for me, and I could see
her face shine, as if a light had turned on inside of her.
I couldn't let that light go out just yet, so I picked up the pamphlet, hot with all the cooked
numbers boiling inside of it, and dropped it on my boss's desk like a hot potato. Unlike my mother, his
look was cool, his lids narrowing slightly, as if freezing in place. I felt my heart constrict, like his cold
hands were wrapped around it, as he picked up the report and flipped through it without a word. Just
as quickly, I saw a smile creep up the side of his face, like cracking ice, and I knew I did what he wanted.
“You can go home now, Daniel.”
Every step back into my office felt like anvils were dragging me further into a lava pit, my skin
screaming in pain with nothing to keep me from sinking. Each breathe of air was fighting against it,
trying to find some coolant in the atmosphere to keep me from melting. Eventually, I found myself
outside, and the cold environment around me seemed fresh enough to wake me out of the hell that
was my new career.

As I walked back home, I caught a glimpse of the chapel, nearly the same image from the front
of the annual report. I tried to focus on the gray haze around me, but found it suffocating. The large
stone buildings surrounded me, constantly reminding me of the institution I now served. The church
bell rung, and as it echoed in my ear, I remembered the dishonesty of Medieval priests, who promised
passage to heaven if the bribe was big enough. I was a willing participant in this charade, causing
people to have faith in our school that was unfounded. It was almost blasphemous.
But then, I caught eye of one of the gargoyles, peering out from one edge of the stone
behemoth. I thought of their legend: how they were cursed to protect their dwellings for all of
eternity, and thought my situation was more like theirs. I hadn't asked to be in this position, and if I
didn't do it, someone else would. Like the dark magic that enslaved these creatures to their post, I was
locked into my situation by fate, and could not escape it.
I saw the light disappear on the horizon, and I thought the best thing for me would be to curl
up in my bed and let the artificial glow of the television lull me to sleep. There, I would greet the long,
dark abyss behind my eyes. I could feel the burning accusations simmering deep in my stomach,
being replaced by a deep growl as I anticipated a lukewarm TV dinner. I began trotting home, no
longer weighed down, but exhaling empty CO² back into the atmosphere.

When I finally raised my head to survey my 800 square foot castle, I saw someone banging on
our door. I quickly recognized our landlord, Roy, calling out a name I'd become overly familiar with
over the past year.
“Dennis! Dennis: I know you're in there.”
I made it up the steps and quickly gave a “hey!” to prevent any unwarranted neighborhood
attention. Roy looked startled, first above him, like the lightning bug swirling around him decided to
speak, then at me. His expression was usually quizzical, or like he was disgusted at something on your
face, but was embarrassed to tell you it was there. Now it seemed more like exasperation had bubbled
to the surface of his skin, and the only thing to keep it from escaping his pores was the strong arch in
his eyebrow and a constant twitch.
“Daniel, you have to help me out. Dennis isn't answering the door and,” he stopped, seemingly
trying to break momentum from his eye's rapid movement around my periphery to focus on my face.
His pupils finally stuck and he finished: “And I think we both know its time for him to leave.”
This was another cross to bear, a sword in my side that had been paining me for the last few
months. I voiced my fresh discomfort through a moment's hesitation, but ultimately swung my head
forward and said “I'll see what I can do” before I sidled up beside him. I snatched my keys out and
quickly clicked the door open. I looked back and assured Roy quietly I'd get this resolved in five
minutes, and he didn't need to accompany me. Then I skipped into the hardwood floor without
giving him a chance to respond.
I expected to see Dennis on the couch, watching Rocky for the eighth time in a year while
eating an omelet. He tried to eat the raw eggs but had since given up on proving his stomach was
suited for raw protein. Since then, Dennis saw himself as a master chef of omelets. He was always
bragging that no one at Bob Evans cooked them as good as he did, to the point where the chef would
request for him to take a break waiting tables to cook them instead. But minimum wage meant I was
more than half of the rent, and sometimes tips weren't enough for Dennis to cover his half. Because,
unfortunately, Roy didn't accept omelets as currency.
Instead, Dennis was sitting at our kitchen table, his eyes trained on a fixed point in the middle
of the table, as if his rent might suddenly appear there any minute. When I said his name, he jumped
up so fast I thought he might hit me, but I knew Dennis was far too gentle to do a thing like that.
Because of this gentility, I took the direct approach.
“Dennis . . . I don't think Roy is just going to leave without any money.”
His eyes reminded me of a dog I once had. I looked at him the same way I looked at that poor
thing when I was six and my father carried it, out to the door and straight to the pound, to put it to
sleep.
He pounced out of his seat, then strode quickly towards me. Again, there was an odd sense of
danger, but this time, it had nothing to do with him. I breathed steadily, unsure whether I might pass
out or have a heart attack, or if the warning was for my body at all.
“Danny . . . ” he started, his fingers curling as if he might touch me, but he couldn't decide how

to do it appropriately. “You know what I get paid . . . I know I keep missing the mark, but, I'm sorry. I
can't go back home. You gotta help me.”
I felt the pressure again, way down in my chest, and beside it, the vacuum that continually
sucked it away. I looked at Dennis, who jumped as he heard another bang at the door, and realized
the foreboding wasn't coming from him, but from inside me. I was waiting for a tipping point, when
the pressure would be completely removed by the vacuum. I was afraid that the vacuum would
remove all my vital organs and I would die without recognizing the pressure, but just as daylight
seems imaginary during the night, the pressure suddenly disappeared and I forgot it completely.
“I can't do anything for you. I'm sorry.”
Without looked at him, I turned on my heels and opened the door for Roy, who stomped
forward, breathing so hard I thought perhaps he was producing air from a steam engine somewhere
inside his large body. And yet, this powerful man stopped short of colliding with Dennis, holding out
a slip of paper which, I'm sure, had the word “eviction” written somewhere on it. It took three
uncomfortable breaths before Dennis finally grabbed the paper, and Roy exited the building without
saying a word. I closed the door behind him, a gust of autumn breeze whisking into the house, but I
was unable to feel it. This time, though, the force field I made wasn't protecting other people from
their guilt. It was protecting me from my own.
Minutes later, I could hear Dennis packing his things, but it all bounced off my ears like crickets
chirping in the wind. Eventually I fell into a dreamless sleep, and woke up the next morning feeling
the vacancy in my bones. More, though, I felt an aching, not necessarily pressure, but the absence of
it, like a phantom limb, begging remembrance. I found myself eating an omelet, tasting formless and
thin without the miracle of Dennis to bring fullness to the egg. The cheese was runny, too, and
nothing about it held together. The toast bit back and orange juice only brought phlegm from my
throat that wouldn't leave no matter how much I spit into the sink. And like the drain I found myself
staring into, the rest of Saturday was a space I had yet to fill with anything particularly meaningful.
There was a ritual my mother had raised me to practice, though I hadn't done it in years. We
rarely went to church, partially because my Dad didn't trust it, or perhaps he didn't understand it.
Either way, part of the tradition was to go to church when you weren't expected to. We would stroll
in, walk up to those candles, and I'd ask my Mom if we could light one. But she would just point to my
chest and tell me the light was in there. She would say that lighting a candle would do nothing for
anyone else or myself, but to letting my inner light shine: that would do wonders.
I would hum the tune in my head, (“this little light of mine... I'm gonna let is shine”,) as my
mother and sisters prayed, all without lighting a candle. But as I watched them, half-kneeling in the
orange glow of those candles, I would imagine it was the Pentecost. Like the disciples receiving the
Holy Spirit, in my mind, they would have little tongues of flame dancing over their heads, as if they
were the candles. But I wouldn't pray. I would just sit there waiting for them to finish, perhaps
wondering what it was they were doing, but not for very long before racing back to the car and yelling
if we could get ice cream.

But now what I would do, sometimes on a Saturday, but not always, I would go to the chapel
at St. Paul's, and half-kneel in front of the candles. I would wait for that thing to happen, that thing
they were feeling that I wasn't. But instead, what would happen is I would feel that pulverizing
burden, a vision of what I might be that I wasn't, an awakening that was not enlightening, but
troublesome. This time, though, instead of relying on my own feelings, I tried to envision myself as I
did my mother and my sisters. I pictured the flame licking my curly hair, like a slightly thicker burning
bush, eternally sizzling without being burnt. I tried to imagine that the grace the disciples themselves
felt was actually a tangible thing, but just as my scalp was unsinged, I didn't feel the fire within.
I turned to exit the church, a flood of aerosol escaping with every short gasp, when I noticed a
banner on the wall above the exit. It read, in rather festive letters, 'Love covers over a multitude of sins.'
I thought for a second, as I trotted outward into the mid-morning humidity, how odd that sentiment
seemed. I pictured Christ as a greasy-haired accountant, helping some mobster launder his money
through a massage parlor that doubled as a brothel. It was redundant: illegitimate mercy covering
illegitimate people. As I got in my car, I was overwhelmed, though, with my need for that verse to be
true. I saw in my mind, instead of me needing the flame of the Spirit above my head, a vault full of
imperishable gold that no fire could destroy. This illusion kept getting more real until it seemed all the
oxygen in the car was going to feed the fire instead of my lungs.
It seemed, then, irrefutable that I was wrong all along about what my sisters and mother were
doing. They weren't lying to themselves or anyone else, but they were submitting to something
outside of their control: a spiritual internal combustion that was less about avoiding the fires of hell
and more about avoiding an inner life devoid of warmth and light. I saw, then, there was something I
could do, to prevent myself from feeling like a counterfeit to my roommate, and my school, and
myself.
I pulled out my cell phone and was surprised when my boss picked up at home. I tried as much
as possible to be polite, but I told him how horrible it was what he was making me do, and how I
would never do it again. He was flustered by my statement, and even more flustered when I
suggested he turn himself in. The long buzzing of the dial tone was like music to my ears. It
harmonized with the beating of my heart, suddenly a live cauldron pumping energy through my
veins.
I used it immediately, driving to the bank to withdraw all the blood money, fully aware of the
ache being removed as soon as the cash was in my hand. I was amazed how quickly this burning
sensation within me grew, but by the time I was marching up to Roy's doorstep with Dennis' rent for
that month, I felt less like an Olympian carrying a torch, and more like the flame itself. Before Roy
opened the door, I made a quick prayer, and it didn't really matter what I prayed, because it all went
into the fire.

Like our zine? zine? our Like
Wordpress
GraphiclyChristian.com
or bit.ly/1fbEH7b
Facebook
facebook.com/graphiclychristian
Twitter
twitter.com/GraphiclyJon
Follow us on social media for updates on
our next issue, and subscribe to our site for
more writing, art, and other content!

How to Support
gauntlet
M A G A Z I N E
Submit to the Magazine
Send your art, photos, poetry, comics, or
short stories in an attachment to Jon at:
jdmatos@graphiclychristian.com
Support Us Financially
Your money could help the creation of
content that glorifies our Creator.
http://bit.ly/1mLNMYN
Write to Us
Comments? Questions? Cupcake recipes?
We’d love to hear from you!
contact@graphiclychristian.com