Evil

By Timothy Carter

Book of Stuart, Chapter 1:10. 10 And, yea verily, Stuart did commit the Sin of Onan in the shower. And this was witnessed by his own brother who did cry out unto their mother. And there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. 11 And the townspeople rose up against him and all Onaners, calling upon one another to tear the youthful sinners limb from unclean limb. And there was much pants wetting. 12 And lo, Stuart did join forces with the demon, Fon Pyre, and together they did set forth to discover the cause of the town's trouble. 13 And, hark! A pair of fallen angels would plant seeds of hatred unto the townspeople. And on the seventh day, Stuart did vow to rip the fallen angels a new one and layeth upon them an epic smacketh-down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flux
• Release date: Dec 8, 2010
• ISBN: 9780738722160

Timothy Carter

Timothy Carter’s short stories have appeared in several magazines throughout Canada, the United States, and Ireland. He is the author of Epoch and Evil? He patiently awaits the end of the world in Toronto, Canada.  

Book preview

America

prologue

These days, I do it in the shower. The warm water is relaxing, I’m already naked, and there’s at least the pretense of privacy.

Of course, I prefer doing it in bed. More comfortable, for one thing. I’ll lie there with a few strategically placed tissues, conjure up a hot fantasy, and put my fingers to work. Satisfaction guaranteed, every time.

So why don’t I do it in bed? It squeaks. Loud. Even changing position in bed causes more noise than my mom can tolerate. One time she actually burst in on me, and if it hadn’t been for my sheets she’d have caught me in the act.

Why don’t I lock my door? No locks. My mom doesn’t believe in the concept of privacy. Only the front and back doors to the house have locks. That’s right, there isn’t even a lock on the bathroom door. Mom, my sister Tiffany, and my brother Joshua barge in on me all the time when I’m on the john, but only Josh bugs me when I’m in the shower. And then only rarely. The running water sound sends a clear message the room is in use.

So now I choose the shower for my acts of self-pleasure. The running water cleans away all the evidence.

That’s why I thought I was safe that fateful Sunday morning. I closed my eyes, quickened the pace, and experienced my moment of bliss. Ahhh, satisfying. Then I was aware of the sound of the shower curtain opening. I looked, and saw Josh standing there, staring at my thing.

Josh! I screamed, covering myself with my hands. What’re you doing in here? Get lost!

Mom said to tell you we’re leaving for church in ten minutes, he told me, his eyes not moving.

Fine, I said. Now get out of here.

What’re you doing? he asked.

I’m taking a shower, twerp!

Your thing’s so big, Josh said. And stuff was coming out of it. Were you taking a whiz?

Yeah, that’s exactly what I was doing, I said, turning the shower off and snatching up my towel. Go away, will you? I don’t go looking at you when you’re taking a shower.

Why don’t you whiz on the john? he asked, not moving.

None of your business, I said, wrapping the towel around me. Now get out.

Does it always get pointy when you whiz? he asked. And how can you whiz in the john if it’s pointing up?

Just. Go. Away, I said, and I shoved him out the door and shut it firmly behind him. Then I jammed my foot against the door to stop him from getting back in.

I’m telling Mom you’re being mean to me, Josh said, and then I heard him walking away.

Thank God, I said, and finished drying myself off.

How could I have been so careless? I usually check to make sure the door’s closed before I go that final distance. If Josh told Mom what I’d done, I thought, things would get really embarrassing for me.

Little did I know. Then again, how could I possibly have known the storm that my simple act of gratification would set off?

1

My name is Stuart Bradley, and I live in the Northern Ontario town of Ice Lake. The population’s just under four hundred, and nearly all of them are devout Christians. I’m the only one who isn’t. I just don’t buy it. And I have other reasons for my lack of faith, as my youth group leader Mrs. Farmson would say.

But that’s not the only reason I stand out from the others in this town. One is my hobby, which thankfully very few people know about. It involves candles, animal blood, and chanting. I’ll get into that later.

Another reason I’m different is that, when it comes to the posters of scantily clad celebrities on my wall, I prefer Brad Pitt over Angelina Jolie.

Yes, I’m gay. I figured that out two years ago, just before we moved out here from the big city. I’m not in-your-face gay; I don’t act effeminate, I don’t dress fancy, I don’t go crazy for chick flicks, and I’m really not all that sensitive. But when it comes to who I’d rather be with naked, it’s guys. Just the way I am. Or, to put it the way I did to my youth group, it’s the way God made me.

That earned me a lot of points.

Surprisingly, nobody’s given me a hard time over it. And it was only even an issue once. But that, like my hobby, is something I’ll save for later.

• • •

The drive to church was silent and solemn. Mom drove, Tiffany sat beside her, and Josh and I sat in the back. Josh usually complained the whole way about all the things he’d be doing if he didn’t hafta go to church, and Mom and Tiffany would take turns dealing with him.

Today, Josh sat silently and stared at my crotch. Like he was waiting for it to do something. I crossed my hands over my lap and tried not to notice.

Tiffany’s lap was covered with her open binder and copious notes. She was a Sunday School teacher and took the position very seriously. Often she’d have to halt her in-car last-minute preparations to remind Josh of the importance of Sunday School, but not today. In fact, the car probably hadn’t been this eerily silent since the drive to Dad’s funeral.

Dad had been a free spirit, the polar opposite of Mom. He worked as an animator for a big studio back in the city, and he met Mom at a church event. He wasn’t as deep into the religion as Mom, and he always encouraged us to seek our own answers. He got on Mom and Tiffany’s nerves all the time because of it, but he loved us all and let us know it.

Then he was shot in a gang-related incident. Just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. After the funeral, we moved out here. We wouldn’t encounter that kind of violence in a rural environment, Mom had said.

Mom probably sensed that the mood in the car was similar to the funeral run, so she tried to lighten things up with some conversation.

So, what is today’s lesson? she asked Tiffany.

It’s embarrassing, Tiffany replied. The inspiration came last night. I was going to continue our study of Deuteronomy, but instead …

Yes? Mom prompted.

Can I tell you later? she asked. It’s really … hey! Isn’t that the Farmsons?

Just ahead of us, turning in to the church parking lot, was a gray minivan. Inside were the Farmsons, the most devout family in all of Ice Lake. Every small town has a family that is more holier-than-thou than the rest. The Farmsons were more than happy to fill that role.

They were also usually the first ones to arrive at the church, beating our priest, Father Reedy, by at least ten minutes. Not today, though. There were five or six cars in the lot already, making them uncharacteristically late.

Mom pulled up near their minivan and we all got out. Mr. and Mrs. Farmson approached us, with their son Jacob close behind. They were decked out in their Sunday best—suits that looked fresh from the dry cleaners, shoes so shiny you could use them as flashlights, and Mrs. Farmson wore a dress so conservative as to render her androgynous.

By contrast, we looked positively casual.

Hello there! said Mrs. Farmson, offering us a tiny wave. She was middle-aged but she acted much older, and much more frail. There was nothing physically wrong with her, as far as I knew. She simply chose to stand and walk like a balsa wood taco.

I trust the Lord has kept you all well, Mr. Farmson added. He was large and powerful, like a lumberjack. Which was appropriate, since he ran the lumberyard on the outskirts of town.

We are indeed well, Mom said, adding, Praise the Lord.

I groaned inwardly. The God talk had begun.

I left them to it and wandered off to the church. I had a bit of business to attend to before the service started.

The church was a large red shoebox of a building, and looked more functional than pleasing to the eye. No stained glass windows, no bell tower, and no steeple; only the large metal cross attached to the side designated the building as a house of God.

Just beyond the main doors was a passage that led to Father Reedy’s private chambers. There were two doorways: one to those chambers, and the other leading to a sort of kitchenette. I went in there, and was confronted with a large basin full of water.

Holy water.

I took off my backpack, opened it, and removed three glass jars. My hobby requires the use of holy water, and I was fresh out. I unscrewed the first lid and dipped it into the basin.

Hello, Stuart.

I nearly dropped the jar into the basin. I spun around and saw Father Reedy standing in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral.

I liked Father Reedy. A middle-aged man who still had all his hair, he was as cool as they come. He was of the opinion that Christianity should be a force for good, without judgment. He also thought that everyone’s spiritual journey was their own affair. I respected him deeply—he was the first person I talked to when I realized I was gay. It didn’t faze him. Nothing fazes him. Not even my hobby.

Do you have enough? he asked.

I was going to fill three jars, I said. Better to have too much than too little.

Indeed, he said. You know how I feel about that, Stuart. I worry for your safety.

I’m careful, I said.

See that you remain so, Father Reedy said, and he left me to it.

I was back in the church foyer a minute later. My mom and Mr. Farmson were taking off their coats while Josh and Tiffany chatted with Mrs. Farmson.

Stuart, there you are, she said. Tiffany and I were discussing our lesson plans. It seems the Lord wanted both of us to change lessons at the last minute.

So that’s why they were late, I thought.

So what’s the lesson? I asked.

The Sin of Onan, Mrs. Farmson said.

Something inside me went, click.

What’s that? Josh wanted to know.

You’ll find out in class, Tiffany said, her face going red.

It’s the sin of playing with your private parts, Mr. Farmson said, making the universal hand gesture for the act in question.

Stephen, please! said Mrs. Farmson, but her husband just laughed.

I did not. I looked down at Josh, who stared up at me in horror.

I’ll go find us a pew, I said, and hurried off into the church’s main hall.

2

Juda therefore said to Onan his son: Go in to thy brother’s wife and marry her, that thou mayst raise seed to thy brother. He knowing that the children should not be his, when he went in to his brother’s wife, spilled his seed upon the ground, lest children should be born in his brother’s name. Genesis 38:8–9

• • •

So, Mrs. Farmson said as she closed her Bible, does anyone have any questions?

Twelve teenagers, myself included, stared blankly back at her. We always did after a Bible reading, but this time our looks were glazed with a purpose. We all knew exactly what the reading had been about, but none of us wanted to say it.

We were sitting on plastic chairs in a small room in the church basement, a room barely big enough for all twelve of us. Our chairs were arranged along three of the four walls, with Mrs. Farmson sitting alone in front of the door. From that position she could see all of us while simultaneously blocking the tiny classroom’s only exit.

Normally I hate these youth group meetings, but today I was grateful. Josh had kept giving me funny looks throughout the first part of the service, and breaking away to join our respective Sunday School groups was a big relief.

When none of us answered her question, Mrs. Farmson tried to make eye contact. Paul, one of the jocks from the school football team (and my sister’s boyfriend), didn’t look away fast enough.

What do you think, Paul? Mrs. Farmson asked him.

Does … that mean what I think it does? he said.

What do you think it means? Mrs. Farmson asked.

Well … that part about … Onan spilling his seed, Paul said, his face turning red. It sounds like … you know …

Mrs. Farmson remained silent, the way she did when one of our answers failed to completely satisfy her. Paul looked helplessly at her, then at us, his face pleading, but the silence continued.

Playing with yourself, Paul finally said, very quickly.

Chester, the flabby guy sitting across from me, let out a giggle. Mrs. Farmson’s eyes snared him and his giggling abruptly stopped.

Can you elaborate on what Paul has just said, Chester? she asked sweetly.

I wanted to laugh, but managed to hold it in. That’s

Reviews for Evil

[iluvvideo · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I really had a hard time with this book. Now it is intended for a young adult audience of which I am decidedly not. I had a hard time following the plot which seemed to write the main character into a corner, then he mysteriously escapes. Yeah it's that type of story but ,c'mon! And the local priest knows about his 'hobby' of conjuring a demon and using it to discover, among other things, that God doesn't think being gay is wrong. WOW!If taken at face value and just read as fluff, it still comes across as incredibly formulaic. I wouldn't reccomend this book to anyone!

[lisagibson_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Stuart's day starts out rough when he gets discovered by his younger brother "pleasuring himself" in the shower. He had no idea how quickly things could get so much worse in his little Canadian town. Stuart is such an awesome character. His hobby is conjuring demons to question them regarding the realities surrounding his religious upbringing. Not your average hobby. One would think the townsfolk would be more concerned with the fact that Stuart is gay, than with his masturbation habit. Throw a couple of fallen angels into the mix and this story is rockin'. I read this in one day. Stuart made me laugh, I loved his wry sense of humor. I would recommend especially to boys ages 14 and up.