by Ryan Ridge
I'm standing in the stands of a minor league baseball stadium in the rain. Maybe it's late afternoon. Perhaps early evening. I've never been able to discern the difference. However, I've often been caught in the rain. Today it's been raining so long they called the game on account of it and now all the players and the fans have gone one by one to wherever they go when they're not playing or fanning. I am alone. It is especially foggy, this stadium. I descend onto the field and into the fog and round the bases. First. Second. When I turn second the fog begins to lift. Lifts some more. Altogether. When I turn third that's when I see her, the Virgin Mary, glowing beneath the beat-up stadium lights. She reclines at the mouth of the visitor's dugout, near the on deck circle. She is naked and her hair is dyed blonde but not down there. She is naked and she is spreading her legs. She is spreading her legs and she is calling me home. So I go. I go home and the fog returns. The fog returns and the fog returns. Home.
About the author:
Ryan Ridge shares a birthday with Johnny Carson & Weird Al. He has work in or coming from Abjective, Juked, >kill author, The Los Angeles Review, Upstairs at Duroc, and others. He lives in Southern California.