Free All Due Respect Issue #1 by Mike Miner, Chris F. Holm, Todd Robinson, Renee Asher Pickup, Paul D. Brazill, Travis Richardson, Walter Conley Page A

bridge crossed the wide, roaring River of Saints’ Tears. Piranhas survived on whatever, whoever, fell in. As one crossed they might hear the angelic voices of the sisters singing or the sad lament of their prayers, messages from Heaven reaching the sinners’ ears. From the near bank of the river, the chapel’s tower could be seen. Perhaps they continued closer while the fat gong of the bell called for noon prayers.
    It was a land of echoes. The trees a metropolis of monkey shrieks and bird calls, mixed with women’s whispers and jaguar roars, sometimes the sound of children at play, and always, always, the electric hum of mosquitoes in the air.
    Children?
    An orphanage. A school. Not all of the women who braved the dangerous trail through the deadly jungle were alone. Many carried a baby in their swollen bellies. The children, even before they were born, knew the taste of terror.
    Castaways. Women sent to the sad sisters to avoid scandal, they trudged into the heart of the steamy forest, hidden by the thick canopy, kept company by the warning growls of unseen predators, the bites of mosquitoes, the memories of the men in their lives, the forbidden acts. In their dreams they heard again the slap of skin on skin, each slap of a mosquito a reminder. They spoke to their unborn children, promises of a life free of evil, free of sin, they begged God for forgiveness.
    The daughters of farmers, politicians, policemen, gangsters. By the time they reached the thick tall gates of the convent, they were just desperate, pregnant girls.
    Like Ernesta. All she knew when her fingers squeezed the rusty, moss-covered gate was that she was hungry. Like the others before and after, she thought she was safe.
    The sisters found her at dawn, shivering, mumbling, sobbing. They half pulled, half carried her to a vacant bed in the infirmary. Brought her food. Another sad sister.
    She gave birth to a boy. Gabriel. Her angel.

    Mother Superior was so old it was hard to picture her as a young woman, impossible to imagine her as a child. As if she was created just as she looked now, a wise old nun. She was strict, but kind. It was said she ruled with two fists, one steel, one silk, and her voice contained both elements. Her voice singing the Ave Maria could make one want to die, just to glimpse heaven. Her voice scolding was as cold and sharp as an axe blade.
    She visited Ernesta when Gabriel was born. Asked to hold the newborn.
    If Ernesta stayed, Mother Superior informed her, the child would be raised in the orphanage, once he stopped breast feeding. The boy would be well tended to, and Ernesta could keep a close eye on him. Ernesta would join the order. Take the vows, wear the robe, devote her life to Christ. To a simple life of prayer and work.
    Strict and kind. Eyes the blue of a winter sky scrubbed clean of clouds by a harsh wind. Eyes the same color as her son’s.

    She stayed. Of course. After six months she took her vows, joined the order of Our Ladies of Sorrow, became Sister Ernesta. A gold band on her wedding finger with a cross carved into it. She was married to Christ now.
    Gabriel slept in the orphanage. A loveable rascal, he quickly became a favorite of the sisters who tended the children. On Friday nights, Sister Ernesta would read to the children, perhaps something from the Brothers Grimm, Hansel and Gretel, and Gabriel would sit on her lap. She breathed in the smell of her little boy, brushed a hand through his too long hair, read slowly, savored the feel of his weight against her. Her voice cast a spell on the children, lulled them unconscious. Long after he was asleep, Ernesta lifted her son in her arms, and carried him, cheek to cheek, to his bed. A soft whisper in his dreams, “Good night, my son.”
    They were safe, he was happy. She consoled herself with these facts until she nodded off on her tear-stained pillow.
    Dreams. Not safe in her dreams. She wore no robes in her dreams. In the sultry tropical nights, most of the