Writers on Wednesdays – my 'Reading for Writers' session!

Hello Darling Readers!

Just popping in during my January blog-break to say that I'm very excited to be hosting a Writers Victoria 'Writers on Wednesdays' session on January 27, all about 'Reading for Writers' (ummmm, yes, I might know a thing or two about this topic). 

Here's my tutor profile, and a little Q&A I did about reading and writing and my background.

If this sounds like something you'd been keen to partake in, I'd love for you to come along!  

The pertinent details of the session: 

• Date: Wednesday 27 January 2016 - 6:00pm to 7:30pm
• Where: Wheeler Centre, 176 Little Lonsdale St, Melbourne 
• Cost: $35 (member) $30 (concession member) $50 (non-member)
• Rating: All 

You will learn:

•  How writers can take positives from two maligned but successful readerships: romance and youth literature 
• About the dangers of only reading within your own genre, and how to avoid pale imitations 
• How to harness the power of purposeful reading 
• How to make a career out of reading through reviewing books and freelance writing 
• About readerships, community and the social side to reading in the digital age

Secret Night by Danielle M. Binks

Secret Night 

Your mother kept the night a secret from you for six years.

This slips out while you and your husband are undressing, sniggering together about tonight’s dinner at Ben and Theresa’s, and how ridiculous it is that they’ve decided not to teach their son to say please and thank you because they want him to be ‘spontaneously genuine’ in his interactions with others. 

Jed was saying how he didn’t think Ben was so airy-fairy, but he can just picture Theresa reading advice in a stupid New Age parenting manual and deciding it was genius.

So you said how sometimes perfectly sane people do silly things where their kids are concerned, like your mother keeping the night a secret from you for six years.

‘Come again?’ he asks, his shirt half-way unbuttoned.

You thought he hadn’t heard, but when you turn around to place your watch on the nightstand, you see he’s looking at you with doubtful eyes and a mouth that’s verging on a smirk.

 ‘My mother, she didn’t tell me that there was a night-time until I was six-years-old.’

Jed slowly pulls his shirt off and goes to hang it in the closet, and you notice how his belly has started blooming above his belted trousers, like the cap of a mushroom with his skinny legs the stalk.

He comes back to bed just as you’re settling in with Patricia Cornwell, and you can feel his eyes on you and a blush creeping up your neck, but you determinedly find your spot and stare at the words on the page.

‘Are you going to tell me?’ he finally asks.

‘Tell you what?’ you say, turning a page in the book.

‘Why Eleanor would do something like that?’ he replies, and after a beat adds, ‘and how she managed to pull it off for six years?’

A blush creeps a hot trail past your jaw to your cheeks, and you fleetingly think that you haven’t blushed this way in front of Jed since before you were pregnant.

‘I don’t know, she just never told me that there was a night-time and a day-time.’ 

You turn another page.

‘But, how?’ he asks, ‘why?’

Puffing out an angry breath you cut a violent dog-ear into the page and turn to look at him, resting on his side with one eyebrow quirked atop his wrinkled forehead.

‘I don’t know, she just never taught me that there was a day and a night or about stars and the moon and when it was bedtime she always shut the curtains in the house so I couldn’t see outside and she never said “good night” she’d always just say “sleep tight”,’ you huff again, ‘So I guess I always just thought that it was daylight, all the time.’

He doesn’t say anything for a moment and you end up just staring at each other for minutes, just listening to each other breathe, until you have to cut the silence; ‘okay? Can we drop this now? I’m sorry I even bought it up.’

‘Well, we would have never done anything like that if we’d had kids,’ he says, ‘and we’d have taught them their P’s and Q’s too,’ and then he’s flopping onto his back, leaving you to stare at him in the buttery glow of the Tiffany lamp.

 You must make a sound, because his head turns and then his hand is reaching to squeeze yours and he says something like; ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . . ’ 

‘No, no, no,’ you say, swiping at your eyes and rolling to your back but keeping your hand tethered to Jed’s. ‘It was crazy, and I don’t know why she did it in the first place and I never thought to ask her. I don’t even know why I've never told you, or anyone, it’s just a bizarre little piece of my childhood history. . . ’ and then you let out a breathy laugh that fishtails at the end, with a little hitch in your throat.

‘When I was little, mum made me cover my eyes whenever we drove past a McDonalds,’ Jed suddenly breaks the silence and you give a wobbly little smile as he continues, ‘fat lot of good trying to hide the place did,’ patting his paunch belly. 

Another moment passes with his hand pulsing yours, and then he’s sitting up again, crossing his legs, Indian-style. He runs his hands down your calves, but his brow is still wrinkled.

‘What?’ you ask, giving his pyjama-clad knee a tap with your foot.

‘How did she tell you?’

‘About night?’

He nods, keeps his hands running up and down your calves, ignoring the slight rise of growing hair. ‘You must have been scared when you first saw the dark.’

‘I always knew about the dark,’ you say quickly, ‘I knew that the lights went on and off in the house and I slept in a dark room, I knew about the lights going out I just didn’t know. . . ’ now that you’re saying it out loud, you hear how odd it is, how different your mother made you because of this one component of your childhood. 

Jed rubs your leg a little firmer, bringing your attention back; ‘Were you scared when she told you?’ 
And you think back to a day that was actually a night, years and years and years ago; when your mother woke you by tracing the arch of your eyebrow with the pad of her finger.

‘No,’ you say, ‘not at all.’ 

You stare up at the ceiling, ignoring the persistent crack that’s coming through the plaster; you admire the glow of the lamp on the dark walls and imagine your bedroom like a lighthouse on this darkened street.

‘She woke me up by whispering into my ear; “I have something to show you,” and her breath tickled, and I remember knowing it was a surprise. . . ’ you look up to see Jed staring at you, so intently, and you smile at him, ‘I suppose it was a surprise.

‘It was summertime, because I remember I was only wearing knickers and a singlet, and mum made me put on my slippers and she was wearing one of dad’s old t-shirts that she could never throw away, and it went down past her knees. 

‘And she took my hand and led me through the house, where all the curtains were shut, and she took me to the back door and told me to push it open. And I did, and I remember thinking there was another house attached to ours, hitched to it like a caravan,’ you turn and Jed is smiling with you, ‘because I couldn’t think why it was dark in our backyard, except that there was another house with all the lights switched off too.
‘Then she sat down on the little stoop, and pulled me between her legs and she told me to look up, and I did, and there were all these tiny holes in the roof where light was getting in. But then she explained to me, she said “stars” and I remember not knowing what she was talking about, but that word was the prettiest one I'd ever heard, and it was even nicer coming from my mum, saying it in a whisper into my neck. Stars, I thought, and then mum pulled me into her chest. . .’

You stop now. Because that first night becomes blurred, it ends with your mum’s breath on your neck, her arms holding you and the night sky before you for the very first time.

‘Why do you think she did it?’ Jed asks.

You give your head a little shake, and Jed uncrosses his legs and takes his place beside you, his side pressed against yours, and when he starts talking you feel the vibrations of his voice shaking your bones.

‘How amazing would it have been if she’d been able to keep the secret for longer? Imagine turning eighteen and your mum telling you she has a surprise. And at eighteen, when you think you’ve got everything figured out and you’re ready to bat any curveball – imagine in that moment your mum takes your hand and shows you night,’ he turns a little, and then his soft rumble is in your ear, ‘imagine thinking that you have everything all figured out, and then your mum shows you that you’ve still got so much to learn, that the world as you know it can still surprise you, because you’ve been living in daylight without ever knowing what was on the other side.’ 

You turn to your husband, his eyes shining and crinkled at the corners, his mouth beautiful and pink and as kissable as the first night you saw him.

‘Thank you for telling me,’ he says.

•

© Danielle M. Binks 2013

This story was Highly Commended in the 2013 Bayside Writing Competition 

'Abreast' by Danielle M. Binks

Lucy found the photo, and looked at her mum’s breasts for the first time.

It had been nestled between the pages of Cloudstreet, a white-edged Polaroid of mum sprawled in bed amid a tumble of twisted sheets. Her face is beaming beatific with the haze of morning pinking her cheeks; her shoulders are smooth and brown and perked below are two magnificent mammary mounds.

She is young in this photo, Lucy thought, a little bit older than I am now.

Her eyes are without webbings of crow’s feet, hair cut short and punkish with an easy smile. Lucy thought, she looks beautiful, and was surprised that tripping over this notion was the realization; I look just like her.

Lucy’s own nipples are the same dusky dark rose, with a light framing areola. Both of their nipples are flattened and large, and their breasts also look to have the same heft; a clearly comfortable C-cup that drooped when left without support.

Lucy wouldn’t say it of her own, but her mum’s tits were beautiful. They looked the way all those old romance novels described, the bodice-rippers her mum used to keep on the top shelf when Lucy was younger. She’d gotten her hands on a few when she was nine and fascinated by the bulging pectorals and tree-trunk thighs of the dashing heroes. In those books, boobs were always described like food – creamy and frothing above the lace edging of the gown. Or else they were painted painfully, all heaving and straining against the confines of the corset.

In this photo, Lucy’s mum gave all those damsels in distress and swooning sisters a run for their money.

‘Come help me bring the groceries in!’

At the shout, Lucy hastily tucked the photo back between the pages, and walked to the kitchen table where her school bag was slung.

Just as she was shoving the orange-edged book away, her mum came waddling in with hands full of plastic bags.

‘Luc, go to the car and grab the rest of the food please?’ she asked, tottering into the kitchen.

Lucy did as she was told, and when she came back inside her mum was already stacking soup cans in the pantry.

Lucy watched her. She watched her mother reach up, the shirt she wore clinging and stretching across her flattened chest. She watched her mum bend down and pick up another can, shirt gaping open in front to reveal no bra and nothing to hold even if she did wear one.

‘You right there, darl?’ her mum asked, and Lucy blinked at her, and then stretched out her arm to offer the can she was clutching.

‘Got homework?’

‘Yeah, English reading.’ Lucy replied.

‘What are you reading?’ her mum asked, bending and gaping again.

‘Cloudstreet,’ Lucy mumbled, transfixed by the emptiness down her mum’s shirt.

For a moment her mum stopped stacking, she straightened and smiled so beautifully at Lucy that she almost resembled that bare-chested punk from the Polaroid.

‘I love that one,’ said on a sigh. ‘I should read it again some time.’

Lucy just nodded.

‘I’ll have a copy on the shelf,’ her mum said, ‘feel free to borrow it if you want.’

•

That night, after dinner and the nightly news and mum and dad arguing over how to stack the dishwasher, Lucy went to her room claiming homework.

She locked the door, took off her t-shirt, unclasped her bra and cupped her breasts. She splayed her cold hands around the tender orbs and squeezed. They felt smooth as petals but fit to burst like water balloons. She jiggled and bounced them, watched in the mirror as they swayed and swung. She leant forward and let them hang like pendulums. She ran light fingers across her nipples and watched them pucker then extend. Biting her lip, she pinched and twisted then rubbed in circles.

She lay her hands over both boobs, spread like she was hand-painting, and then she pressed them to her chest. She tried to level them as much as she could, squishing them to her body to try and press the roundness to flat terrain. And then she looked at herself in the full-length mirror and tried to imagine not having boobs, just like her mum.

Lucy knew the story. She knew the little kid version and the grown up truth.

Mama was sick while Lucy was growing inside.

Invasive Lobular Carcinoma.

Mama didn’t want Lucy to get sick too.

An invasive cancer that spreads through the tissue of the breast.

So, Mama waited. She waited until little Lucy was ready to come out and then she decided to take her medicine.

The tumour spread.

Mama took her medicine and she got better.

Mastectomy was recommended.

Mama got better for good.

Lucy’s family photo album is stuttering; full of stops and starts and gaps. There are photos of her as a red wrinkled babe, swaddled in blanket. Pictures of her mum holding her close, and her dad smiling proud. Flip through a little farther though and you’ll see a single shot of her mum with tubes up her nose and a weak hand waving floppily at the camera, a tired smirk on her face.

And then there’s a pause. Hardly any photos of Lucy and her mum in the beginning years.

Lucy’s baby photos are posed with her dad or by herself; newborn in the bath and sucking on her toes, atop daddy’s shoulders and biting his nose.

Lucy has hardly any memories of her mum from when she was younger. She remembers wearing floaties in the pool with dad, and riding Puffing Billy with him too. But her mum is out of focus in these memories. She’s the person behind the camera, or waving from the platform.

Mum doesn’t swim they would say. Not today, pumpkin was her mum’s go-to reply.

One mummy memory Lucy does have is seeing beneath her bathers one day, at the beach, when Lucy was six and her mum was feeling brave.

Her dad was turning blue trying to puff up Lucy’s floating lady-bird toy, and mum had been sweating in the front seat watching him wheeze.

‘I think I’ll go in today,’ her mum said to no one.

Lucy squealed. Her dad stopped puffing and said something to mum that Lucy can’t remember now. And then her mum got the towels. She’d rigged them up between the car doors; the front door and back door opened and the windows wound a little down to tuck a towel between the two.

When she changed Lucy into her bathers and floaties and rash-vest her mum just did it in the middle of the parking lot, who cares who sees? But when her mum needed to get changed she had to make a fitting room in the car park.

Lucy’s dad was puffing and the lady-bird wasn’t getting any bigger. The waves were making the sound of sea-shells and Lucy could see other little kids putting their toes in the surf. She wanted to go in the water right now, so she went to tell mum. She ducked beneath the towel and saw her mum with bather bottoms on and nothing else.

Her mum had yelled. She’d grabbed the towels and wrapped herself up tight and then sat in the front seat of the car again, not talking to Lucy or her dad when they tried to coax her out to play.

Lucy never forgot knowing it looked painful.

The outline where her mother’s breasts once lay, still raised to give the impression of roundness, gone to waste.

The scar itself was puckered and pink, the width of a five-cent coin and slashed horizontal across the chest.

Slits instead of nipples.

•

One night Lucy was reading Cloudstreet on the couch in front of the telly.

‘Do you like it, Luc?’ her mum asked, pulling her eyes away from the dancing stars.

‘Yeah, yeah, it’s really good. I’ve cried a bit.’

‘Good,’ her mum smiled, and went back to watching the glittering starlets.

Lucy watched her mum watching the twirling woman in a rhinestone bustier, all big hair and white teeth.

‘You should read it again, mum.’

Her mum nodded.

‘No, really,’ Lucy said, and her mum looked over at her with a frown. ‘It’s just that it’s really good and I’d talk to you about it after, once you’ve read it again.’

‘Okay, darl. Leave it for me when you’re done and I’ll give it another read.’

•

And the next day and every day till the end of term Lucy bought her mum’s breasts to school, nestled between the pages of Cloudstreet.

She couldn’t say why. Why she wanted her mum’s cleavage with her when she read Fish and the Pickles’, the drowning and the Shifty Shadow. She didn’t show anyone her mum’s photo, as if! She just wanted it there, to remind her of something she couldn’t remember to never forget.

When Lucy got to the last day of term she bought the book home. She read the beginning again, then flipped to the end and got out her pen.

She removed her mum’s Polaroid from between the pages, turned it over and wrote; Do you miss them? on the back in a scratchy scrawl.

Lucy tucked the photo inside ‘Cloudstreet’, resting at the chapter of ‘Dwellingplace’.

 •
BELOW: Me, meeting John Marsden (taken right before I tell him that 'Checkers' is one of my favourite books, ever, and I start blubbering from the sheer weight of awesomeness that comes from getting to shake hands with one of your idols).
 

© Danielle M. Binks 2011

This story came second place in Express Media's 2011 John Marsden Prize for Young Australian Writers

'The Necklace in 2D' by Danielle Binks for the Sydney Morning Herald

The Necklace in 2D

"Graffiti girl's yellow necklace is dribbling down her bricked neck..."

☼

I wrote a short story for the Sydney Morning Herald's crowd-sourced novel, 'The Necklace'. My story doesn't quite fit into the official chapter timeline of the ongoing online novel, but the SMH editor's were kind enough to include my magical realism anyway. And I quite like that my piece is called a 'tangent'.

Surry Hills, Sydney.

'Is This A Miracle?' by Danielle M. Binks

Aidan was laying into Anna when he noticed the tattoo. His right hook was back and ready to let swing but this black marking stopped him.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing at the offending tattoo.
‘A bruise.’
‘When did you get that tattoo?’ He sent her sprawling with a backhand.
‘Bruise.’ she whimpered and pressed a hand to her gushing nose.
‘Bullshit.’
Aidan’s arm hung suspended as he continued to stare at the blackness that covered Anna’s upper-arm from elbow to shoulder, marring her pale flesh. He crept forward and bent down to get a closer look. It wasn’t entirely black upon closer inspection. The top was yellowish, and in the middle was a spattering of blue, and the face cast a purple hue…
Face - that was definitely a face!
Anna curled into a ball as Aidan bent even closer, sitting back on his haunches, head tilted slightly to the side as he continued to stare. A face with closed eyes, head slightly bent over clasped hands.
Aidan exclaimed, ‘You gone and got the Virgin on your arm!’

Aidan got out his camera phone and snapped a few photos. He went online and typed ‘bruise miracle’ into Google but all he found were pages promoting a cream for capillary removal.
He went to the Vatican website but their FAQ page said that no miracles would be reviewed by the Pope unless the person lodging the miracle had the support of no less than two archbishops. And even once a person found two archbishops to admit that they thought something was a work of God, the Vatican sent out their personal miracle-squad (otherwise known as the Congregation of the Cause of Saints) whose job it was to figure out if the supposed miracle had a divine purpose.
He did find a relatively helpful group on Facebook called ‘is this a miracle?’. People posted photos of what they considered to be miracles and other people gave their opinion. The group had 28,000 members and over 1,000 photographs had been posted. There were lots of photos of Jesus’ face on toast. One man posted a photo of a Ronald McDonald statue weeping red tears and someone else posted a photo of their own vomit and said that if you squinted your eyes and tilted your head, it resembled the baby Jesus.
Anna wasn’t the only person to have a bruise miracle – there were at least forty other photos of bruise faces, about fifteen of which were of the Virgin Mary.
Aidan was sceptical, but posted his photo of Anna’s bruise anyway.

That night when he thought she was asleep, Aidan rolled onto his side and bent his head to Anna’s bicep. His lips were so close that his breath tickled her skin as he whispered a prayer to the Virgin Mary bruise.
‘Dear God, Jesus in Heaven. Please let this be real. Amen.’
And then Aidan planted a soft kiss on Anna’s arm, right on Mary’s face.
For the first time Anna thought that her bruise really might be a miracle.

That night Anna’s Virgin Mary bruise photo was viewed 500 times and received nine comments, all of which said it looked like a tattoo. Although one person posted that the vomit had a better chance of impressing the Vatican.

While 500 people disregarded Anna’s bruise, the Virgin Mary’s eyes opened and she looked up.

The next morning Aidan rolled over and stared into Mary’s eyes. He sat upright and grabbed Anna’s arm. Mary was no longer meek with downcast eyes – now her eyes were open and her chin was lifted, almost as though she was looking up at Anna.
While Aidan posted new photos online, Anna stroked a reverent fingertip along Mary’s cheek and whispered ‘Hello’ to her miracle.

That night Anna’s Virgin Mary bruise photos received 5,545 views and 368 comments were posted.
While 5,545 slightly less cynical people viewed the photos, Mary’s lips curved and Anna was awoken by a tickle on her arm. She looked down to see Aidan’s face nestled in the crook of her elbow, his eyelashes fluttering against the Virgin Mary.

The next morning Aidan rolled over and hitched his breath when he saw Mary smiling at him. While Aidan took photos and went to the computer, Anna returned Mary’s smile.

The next night Anna’s Virgin Mary bruise photos were viewed by 10, 789 people, one of whom was Father Diego Vista in Barcelona, a member of the Congregation of the Cause of Saints. Father Diego had felt a familiar glow when he looked upon Mary’s face in a wine-coloured bruise.
The Virgin’s serene smile always had that affect on him; whether he was looking upon her stone façade at La Sagrada Familia, or seeing her clasped hands on a piece of toast. He felt less divinity towards the vomit, but in most forms the Virgin’s presence always had the affect of orientating him, and making him feel as though he was taking up space in this world.
When Father Diego looked at Anna’s Virgin Mary bruise, he felt the comforting pull of Her luminosity. And that was mostly how Father Diego determined whether or not something was a miracle these days. Of course there was a whole process that he had to go through - mainly in conducting testimonies and presenting various scientific studies to the Congregation councils. But really, Father Diego just followed his gut-instinct. He had come to rely on his own reverence more than the confessions of fame-seeking zealots.
In the early days of his Priesthood, Father Diego had traveled with his fellow Vatican investigators to every corner of the planet - all in the name of miracle. He had been to Portugal, Ethiopia, Budapest, and Namibia. He had seen cripples walk, statues weep and food take face.
But he had yet to see a confirmed miracle.
Most claims could be put down to medicine, hysteria or falsehood or simply the misguidance of hope. That relentless drive that people have to hold in their hands, or see with their eyes something that confirms their belief, and lets them know they are not alone. God Bless those people who think faith is about finding proof, rather than believing in the absence of it.
With the rise of the Internet came an increase in miracle claims. Any born-again with a camera-phone could now snap a photo of Jesus’ face on a urinal-cake and post it to the Vatican, fully expecting their claim to be taken seriously.
But Father Diego was fifty-five years old now. He wasn’t obliged to get on a plane and travel thousands of kilometres to Amarillo, Texas to tell a farmer that the Baby Jesus’ face did not appear on a cowpat.
These days he emailed miracle applicants to tell them their claims had been found wanting. He scoured online forums, viewed pixilated photos and grainy YouTube videos as part of his investigations.
It would take a lot to make Father Diego Vista leave his beloved Barcelona and travel for hours in economy class to conduct a proper inquiry. It would take a miracle.
It would, in fact, take 10, 789 people viewing one Virgin Mary bruise photo.
It would take the radiant pull of that purple-hued Virgin Mary bruise.
It would take Anna’s face, her jade-green eyes staring out in frozen calm, her quiet smile mirroring that of the Virgin Mary on her arm, to make Father Diego buy a plane ticket to Western Australia.

A phone-call came the following day from the Archbishop of the Syro-Malabar Church, explaining that he had contacted the Vatican.
That night, Mary’s hands unclasped and Anna fell asleep to the sound of Aidan’s prayers; ‘Dear God, Jesus in Heaven. Help me be better. Let this be real. Amen’

A letter arrived the next day from the Archbishop of the Ukranian Greek Catholic Church, saying he too had put in a request to the Vatican.
Mary’s hands began to drift apart.

And then on Friday night while Anna was vacuuming and Aidan was watching the footy, a knock came at the door. Anna switched the porch-light on and answered. As Anna looked up at Father Diego, Mary turned her hands and splayed her fingers.
‘Unless it’s the Pope with a cheque, close the fucking door!’ Aidan bellowed from the couch.
‘No cheque I am sorry, I just came to meet the miracle,’ Diego murmured, his words spiced with Catalan and his eyes fixed on Anna’s freshly blackened eye.
He was so tall that he had to stoop slightly at their door, so it seemed as though he was bowing to Anna. His nose was too big, his brown eyes too close together and curtained by shaggy black brows that looked odd with his whitened hair.
Looking at him, Anna felt as if someone had struck a match against her ribcage, she could feel an ignition of warmth.
Meanwhile, Mary made a fist of her right hand.
When Father Diego’s lips curved into a smile, Anna grinned in return. ‘Won’t you come in, Father?’ and she stepped aside to let the light in.

That night Father Diego explained to Anna and Aidan how a miracle worked.
‘Once a miracle is deemed as such the Vatican declares it to be worthy of veneration by the faithful.’ Father Diego’s voice whispered through Anna, and she felt her cheeks heat.
‘What does ‘ventilation’ mean?’ Aidan asked, around a mouthful of mashed potato.
Father Diego smiled tightly, ‘Veneration is permission for Catholics to deem something praise-worthy.’
Aidan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; ‘Can we charge people for their praise?’
Father Diego shook his head, made the sign of the cross and kissed his rosary beads.
Anna asked Father Diego what other miracles he had seen.
‘None,’ he answered, and smiled at her crinkled brow.
Aidan shoved his chair away from the table and left the room muttering under his breath about ‘fucking, no-good miracles getting my hopes up’.
‘But then, how do you know this is a real miracle?’ Anna asked, shrugging the arm that housed Mary’s face.
‘I don’t.’ Father Diego smiled. He settled a big callused hand atop one of Anna’s smaller ones, ‘People keep looking for proof, and I keep investigating in case they find it.’ Father Diego continued to smile, and Anna’s brow continued to furrow.
Anna gave a small shake of her head, ‘But, what’s the point? You haven’t found a miracle yet, what makes you think you ever will?’
‘Faith.’ Father Diego’s eyes were laughing at her, she was sure of it.
Mary lifted the middle finger of her right hand.
He squeezed her hand, and Anna squeezed back automatically while he spoke, ‘Faith that believers will see what they want to see, and gain strength from inanimate objects just to feel a connection to something bigger than themselves.’
‘What about faith in God to actually deliver a miracle?’ Anna asked, thinking of the time Aidan took a skillet to her back because she’d burnt his pancakes.
Father Diego simply said, ‘With God, all things are possible.’
Anna clamped a hand around her bicep, ‘What if this is not a miracle?’ she whispered, so quietly that Father Diego had to lean close to her mouth to hear her.
‘And what if it is?’ Diego whispered back.

Later that night Anna woke to Aidan’s fingers digging into Mary’s face. His panting breath scolded her skin as he whispered, ‘Dear God, Jesus in Heaven. Don’t you fucking play with me. If this isn’t real I don’t know what I’ll do to her. Amen.’
When he finally let her go, heaved onto his side and started snoring, Anna rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. She thought of Aidan’s swinging fists, and of the sound her ribs made under the heel of his boot. Then she remembered Father Diego’s words, like a fevered whisper in her head; ‘And what if it is?’

The next morning Aidan woke to the vision of the Virgin Mary giving him the bird. He screamed and scrambled out of bed as Anna peered down at the perfectly rigid middle finger that was undoubtedly aimed at her husband.
Once he’d composed himself, Aidan reached for his camera phone; ‘Thank you God, and Jesus in Heaven!!’ he said, lifting the phone.
Anna flexed her bicep, making Mary’s serene face stretch.
‘Hold still or it’ll come out blurry!’ Aidan snapped.
Anna reached out and plucked the phone from his hand.
He stared at her, slack-jawed, as she threw the phone against the wall.
‘Aidan, the Virgin Mary just told you to go fuck yourself. I think you should listen.’
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he growled, watching as Anna walked away from him.
She didn’t turn around as she replied, ‘Growing a bit of faith,’ and walked down to the spare bedroom she had made up for Father Diego.
Filling his doorway, Anna put a hand on her hip and thrust out her chin; ‘You’re looking at your first miracle,’ she declared.
Mary smiled.



© Danielle M. Binks & Express Media 2010