by Erica Shand
Mass would be letting out soon, and they would surely find the empty coffer and realize Jack was missing. Miles and miles down the freeway, he steered the rickety car with his knees. He grabbed the Bible's leather spine, threw it on his lap and opened to the front page. Roots, hold me close, he read his childhood handwriting. Far from his parents, far from the congregation and the gospel and the Good Word, those roots had been cut. Lord have mercy, they would pray for him, mercy for the rootless tree.
Erica Shand is a soon-to-be business degree holding graduate from UNC Wilmington, living every day in mortal fear of her creative juices expiring. She hails from New Jersey and wants you to know that not everyone is like what you see on Jersey Shore.