Message from Author

I just uploaded the updated chapters that were posted on Authonomy.com
The Interlude has not been posted on this blog previously so you will read new material.

I am switching All Saints' Day to private on the Authonomy site so this blog will be the only place to read the chapters.

As you know the novel is a work of fiction, but the messages from the saints come to me through meditation, journaling or dreams.  If the messages resonate with you, then take them to heart, if not, no worries.

Message from the Saints #7

From all the saints, but especially St. Jude:

"You cannot forgive yourself or anyone else without releasing your back stories and your personal history.  Liberate yourself by letting all of those stories go, stop rehashing them, stop reciting them to others and stop identifying with them.  Live in this moment and not the past.

Only then will you find lasting peace and the energy needed to engage in your life fully."

Message of the Saints #6

From all the saints: When you have security issues blocking your first chakra (root), clear the block with prayer, meditation and uplifting music. Yoga and chi gong practices also clear the 6th and 7th chakras.

Why do you start at the top chakras?

It works this way. You reconnect to the Divine Source/Love through the meditation/prayer, this allows you to speak from the heart (throat chakra), expand love and compassion (heart chakra), then to align your will with the Highest Good (solar plexus chakra), use your creative talents (2nd chakra) and clear the root chakra so that you feel safe and secure (financially too) in the world.

Singing spiritual-related songs also unblocks chakras.

Message of the Saints #5

From Francesco of Assisi:

If you focus all your attention on the platform, you will surely miss the train.

Message of Saints #4

Two transmissions from Jeanne d'Arc.

For the people of New Orleans: "Have faith my dear ones that you will rise up again, mighty, beautiful and glorious. Your oppressors will not escape punishment--justice will be done for the people of New Orleans."

For the oppressed people of the world: "Lift the yoke from your necks and free yourselves from mental and physical slavery. Freedom is only a few steps away. Keep loving your brothers and sisters, live your lives with integrity. Those that oppress you will soon suffer ten, no twenty times what they caused you to suffer. Justice will be served."

Message of the Saints #3

This one comes from Jeanne d'Arc, "The Messenger."

The message is for journalists, keepers of ancient/traditional stories, modern griots and troubadours.

"Your job is to carry the sword of truth, serve the truth and not a patron (if the patron does not live in integrity). You were brought to this planet to dig for, reveal and spread the truth. Seek only the Truth and it will set you and others free. If you achieve anything short of this mission, you failed at your job. Please take these words and this mission to heart. The planet needs you to succeed at this quest."

These messages come to me in the middle of the night. And I am told to share them with as many people as possible. Journalists and the journalistic profession are currently experiencing a bashing from corrupt forces. Thousands of newspaper journalists in particular have or are about to lose their jobs. There are plenty of tempting offers online, but discern and uphold what was once a noble profession. Remember the lineage of this profession. You carry the sword of truth and not the beggar's hat. Do not work for small change, do not give into corruption, no matter how desperate you feel and join with others of your profession, in fighting the good fight. Protect the lineage of journalism.

Message of the Saints #2

If you tell a lie, you might end up in jail.

If you tell the truth, you might lose your life.

But if you live the truth from the inside out,

You flood the world with light and clarity.

Message of the Saints

The saints have a message. The only purpose any of us has on the planet is this:

To Love One Another.

Welcome to All Saints' Day

Welcome to the blog for my novel, "All Saints' Day." I originally wrote this novel four years ago and it started the old fashion way, with pen and paper. Eventually, I blogged most of the chapters from the novel, but upside down.

The novel was a semi-finalist in a contest for authors with Amazon.com and now, after much revision, I am presenting the first ten chapters. Following those chapters is a Q & A and a Guide to Saints.

It is my goal to publish "All Saints' Day" and I hope that you can create a worldwide buzz for this comic spiritual novel.

Is there an innovative, think-outside-of-the-box agent out there to represent me? Ditto for a publisher? Time is of the essence.

Chapter One: All Saints' Day

1. Francesco di Assisi & Jeanne d’Arc--How Did We Get Here?



The Year 1427--a lovely peasant girl fourteen years of age skips through a meadow, her long red gown catches on a breeze and sails out behind her. A dashing dauphin rides up to the peasant girl and hoists her onto his white stallion. The girl jumps off of the stallion and moments later she watches the horse gallop away into the distance. She quietly bids farewell to a future king and prospective husband, King Charles VII.


Now encased in armor, she rides her own black steed, her long black hair held captive by the wind. She gazes defiantly towards the horizon watching a prophetic vision. Her face lights up with passion only she can understand. She approaches a rustic village where a group of peasant children parade through carrying a sign that says, "La France libre!" They welcome the girl on the stallion with the chant, "Jeanne, Jeanne, la Pucelle d’Orleans." She has come to make a stance and save our France!"


The maiden-turned-soldier whips out her sword and charges a group of English soldiers and knights on horseback. All of a sudden, the dream blurs and fades to black.


Jeanne’s eyes snap open and wander through her modern Manhattan bedroom. She rolls over in a queen size bed and her eyes land on her bare feet which poke through the comforter-- a pair of metal boots suddenly encase her feet. She stares at another pair of feet--filthy ones that belong to her partner.


She nudges him. "Francesco, wake up!"


Francesco slowly opens his eyes, stares dumbfounded at his wife and scans the room. His eyes land on a metal alarm clock. "Why are you waking me at three o’clock in the morning?"


Jeanne’s glaring eyes land on her husband’s dirty feet so she scolds him. "I have told you a million times to wash your feet before crawling into bed! It’s not like I want to sleep with the dregs of Manhattan’s streets."


The former Franciscan wipes dust off of his feet. "I did obey you, but this grime just keeps appearing. I'm not sure why, exactly. I went to confession this week and as usual I didn't have much to confess except my dark thoughts about people that abuse all of Goddess' creatures."


Jeanne rolls her eyes and snaps, "Please don’t give me the speech about all of our animal brothers and sisters. I'm hardly in the mood."


Francesco feels hurt by his wife’s abrasive statement. He wonders why such cruel words come from the saint's mouth. Why does all the violence in the world elude her? Her foul mood disturbs his revelry. She must have dreamed about Charles and France again—that usually puts Jeanne in a bad mood.


Just as Francesco begins to address his wife’s crankiness, her mood softens and she speaks in her girlie voice and attempts to console him, not that he would ever ask to be consoled. "And how are your bird friends doing? I saw you the other day preaching to the birds in Central Park. The weather wasn't so good and I thought that they would catch cold standing in the rain."


Francesco's smoldering gaze follows the contours of Jeanne's face. His eyes lock eyes with hers and his whole being trembles with delight. "No, the birds were fine. They enjoy hearing the gospel and a little rain will only make them stronger."


He leans towards his virginal wife and tenderly caresses her face. He bends in for a kiss, but sparks fly out of her delicate mouth. Francesco backs away.


"Not again. I thought we solved this dilemma."


Jeanne’s hand flies up to cover her petulant mouth.


Struck by a sudden amnesia, Francesco tenderly caresses her shoulder. "I simply don't understand why Goddess doesn't approve of our marriage. You would think after eight hundred years, I'd be able to release my vow of chastity. I guess choosing the Maid of Orleans wasn’t such a good idea after all."


He climbs out of bed and staggers into the small dark bathroom. He pulls out a white washcloth and kisses a statue of St. Michel. He runs cold water over the cloth then he returns to his wife. He places the cloth on her blistering lips. She winces.


"This seems like a very odd punishment. I'm racking my brain trying to figure out my errors. I can't imagine what I've done wrong. Did I not love all of Goddess' creatures properly? Did some animal by-product cross my lips by accident? I don't know.” He scratches his head. “Wasn’t it Goddess’ idea that we marry? So why keep putting us through the test?"


Jeanne moans as her husband presses the cloth on her lips. Francesco gazes at her pale face.


"After all we did in the past, I wonder why she would go through so much trouble to keep us virgins when she’s the one that assigned us this marriage."


Francesco brushes off his brown, dusty frock. "Look Jeanne, look at this filth. I wash it and wash it, but the dirt remains. My soul is soiled."


Once the cloth is removed from Jeanne’s swollen lips, she mutters, "What are you complaining about? At least your body doesn't constantly feel like it is being consumed by flames. And I’m nowhere near my menopause years."


Her partner drops to his knees and he sings. "Dear Goddess, make me an instrument of your peace."


She interrupts her saint-husband’s sacred moment. "Have you ever thought about the power of words? Perhaps, Goddess takes your words literally."


Francesco gestures for his wife to join him in prayer. She crawls out of bed and drops to her knees. Together they sing Francesco's famous prayer. They smile at each other when they recite the line, "Make me an instrument of your love..."


Some time passes. The couple loses themselves in rapture of prayer. Francesco rises from the floor. His knees crack and he blushes. "These ancient knees are giving out on me."


Jeanne opens her eyes, gazes around the room as an ecstatic grin spreads across her rosy face. "What were you saying? I didn't hear you because the Virgin was speaking loudly."


Thinking his wife resembles a little girl, Francesco gives her a fatherly pat on her shoulder. How sweet she remains, uncorrupted by the tumultuous centuries.


Francesco stumbles into the bathroom. He gazes at his head in the mirror. He pulls a copy of The Little Flowers of Assisi from behind the toilet. He examines a drawing of his thirteenth century self that graces the book cover. He places the book back in its hiding place. He pulls out a razor and shaves the top of his head. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, his famous beneficent smile dances across his face. His eyes sparkle like rubies, like diamonds glinting in the full rays of Brother Sun.


Meanwhile, Jeanne pulls out her antique sword from underneath the bed. She polishes the sword with the folds of her nightgown. She grins at the reflection of herself that appears on the sword. She rises from the bed, and like the Knight of Swords, she freezes in a power stance just as Francesco makes his way back into the bedroom. He gawks at his violent wife.


"Madame, put that instrument of death away. It's probably illegal to possess such an object. You had better not let the neighbors see you with it. They already think we are completely insane and you would just give them more evidence to use against us."


The Franciscan saint brushes stray hair off of his face. He continues his long drawn out speech. "They'll try us for heresy, you know."


Jeanne looks away from her beloved sword and freaks when she notices her husband’s clean shaved head. She points at the tonsure on his head. "Why did you go and do that? You resemble a punk rocker. At least you can fit into the city looking like that."


"I'm amazed that so many contemporary young men and women have taken up this spiritual practice. I heard one punk rocker in the subway lecturing people about the hypocrisy of the wealthy elite and how poor people are being shafted. By the way, do you know what shafted means?"


With the sword placed neatly underneath the bed, Jeanne pulls off her nightgown to reveal a metal girdle. She knocks on the metal. "No chance of getting rid of this today. I'm growing tired of Goddess' humor. When I asked The Virgin how to remedy the problem, she only gave me one of her famous beatific smiles."


Laughter erupts from Francesco’s throat. "I know when I told her that we still haven't consummated our marriage she gave me a blessing and started preaching the gospel to me."


The Maid of Orleans pulls on a heavy sweater and a pair of extremely baggy trousers. "The worst part of it is the clanging sound this girdle makes when I bump into objects or people on the subway. I just lie (bless me Mother, for I have sinned), and tell them that it's the subway car decaying."


Francesco pulls on a torn pair of brown slacks and a dark threadbare brown sweater that reminds him of the old days. “I'm off to do Goddess' work."


Jeanne runs a comb through her tangled black hair and watches herself in the mirror.


"Goddess' work just isn't the same that it once was. I really miss the angels dropping in with all of those future predictions and all the miracles. Now if I want to talk to a saint, I can find them listed in the phone book."


"I know what you mean. Few people actually talk to Goddess these days. Even animals have forgotten the hand that feeds them. You know I keep telling the animal brothers and sisters about Goddess and how she provides for them, but they're not grateful as they once were. Even the crows have grown jaded."


Jeanne grabs her purse. She embraces Francesco. He attempts to kiss her, but sparks fly out of her mouth singeing his hair. "We might not have miracles but we still have to deal with the unexplainable."


"It feels like we're being punished yet I always thought Goddess would reward us for being faithful."


Francesco gestures wide with his hands as if lecturing a circle of pigeons. "You must remember that we will not sow our rewards on earth, but in heaven."


A scowl appears on Jeanne’s face. "If what you say is true, Francesco, then we must ask ourselves, why did we bother returning?"


The saint responds with a chuckle. "Now, that is a good question. I will ask Clare and see if she can answer it."

Chapter Two, Three and Four: All Saints' Day (Super-Nature Heroes)

2. Jeanne--I Remember It Quite Differently

Another crowded subway train awaited Jeanne. She pushes her way up an equally crowded escalator, trying not to bump into anyone so that she won't have to explain her clanging metal girdle. Who would understand anyway?
She passes by folk musicians crooning political anthems and past a cluster of punk rockers; past the religious right who hands out fundamentalist pamphlets to the throngs of New Yorkers. A young clean-cut man around twenty years of age, sporting an Aryan look, so popular during the Nazi reign, lectures a small group of businessmen and women about his survivalist theories.
He pontificates how people had better be on the right side, the same side as his savior Jesus Christ or they will burn in the flames of eternity.
Jeanne feels a strong urge to set this man straight, but she doesn't have the time. She's already ten minutes late for work at the history museum. She senses an old passion growing and feels like shouting like an outraged woman that she remembers it differently. After all, she remembers when she was a pious peasant girl that was charred like a sacrificial goat in the flames. So she wonders what she did wrong that she would burn in those hellish flames. She was after all, on the right side of Jesus, but he wasn't much of a savior then as far as she can tell.
She rules against setting the young man straight, knowing his type too well and she would be wasting her breath. Why would he listen to anyone when he believes he does have his facts straight?
If only he knew that Jesus returned as a black activist and certainly not as someone that would promote souls burning in eternal flames of hell. Yes, it's now six hundred years later and people are still as ignorant as ever. The buildings, clothing and occupations have changed, but humans remain confused and disillusioned. The former French maiden sighs.


3. Francesco, Clare & The Return Of Brother Leo--Barefoot In Manhattan.
Francesco, the veterinarian, arrives at St. Clare's Animal Refuge Center, barefoot again. He stumbles into the clinic while Lady Clare, the clinic’s founder, looks on.
"Good morning, Clare. I think I stepped on a piece of glass. Could you help me out?"
The employer shakes her head in disbelief. "How many times must I ask you to wear shoes?"
She glances at Francesco's haircut and sighs. "Oh, what can I do with you, my dear, sweet friend? And what did your wife have to say about your hair?"
She motions for Francesco to have a seat in the waiting room. She pulls out a bucket and fills it with warm water and she pulls an emergency kit off of a shelf. She washes her fellow saint’s feet. She pulls out a magnifying glass and tweezers.
"This is going to hurt."
She pulls a piece of glass out of Francesco's left foot and a rapturous smile spreads across the Italian American saint’s face. Tears flow down his cheeks.
"Just like the old days."
Clare gazes lovingly at her dear friend. "You haven't changed much, have you? You know, Francesco it’s possible to love Goddess without suffering."
Francesco shakes himself out of a trance. "What?"
Clare shakes her head unleashing a girlish laugh that jingles in her throat.
"Never mind that, you never were the type of man to listen to another person's words. Then, I can understand since your own are so captivating."
After Clare carefully bandages her friend’s foot, she digs out a pair of socks and canvas shoes from behind a counter.
"Here, put these on. It's dangerous to be walking barefoot on the streets of New York. What if you contracted a disease or worms?"
Francesco reluctantly stuffs his feet into the tired canvas shoes.
"Well, at least they aren't the sweatshop variety."
The clinic owner rises and wipes her hands on her smock. "That's that. Look Francesco, we have many new brothers and sisters that arrived here during the past two days. A raccoon with a broken leg, a couple of pigeons and a parrot..."
The vet beams. "Ah, a parrot--now there's a bird I can communicate with! Have you recited the gospel to the parrot yet?"
"No, I left that one especially for you."
Quite pleased with himself, Francesco fumbles his way into the back room where the animals reside.
"What's wrong with the parrot?"
Clare ties a scarf around her head. "He just needs a check-up. Someone found him in the subway, shouting at people."
Francesco beams thinking about the parrot's unusual talent.
"We need to name the parrot. Please show me where you are keeping him?"
Clare leads the passionate vet to a large bird cage hanging in behind the kennels. The parrot grows excited as the saint approaches and it hops about in its cage. Francesco studies the parrot's demeanor and realizes he already knows its name.
The parrot squawks at the young saintly vet who then speaks softly to it. "Hello, Brother Leo."
"He's Brother Leo?"
"Even if he isn't, but I am sure that he is, Leo is a good name for the parrot."
The saints watch the parrot hop about in his cage. "Yes, it's Leo. Now, we must remind him to pray so he can thank Goddess who provides.

4. You’re Not The Boss of Me, Jeanne's On-The-Job Stress.
A boss with an inquisitor’s face greets Jeanne as she enters the office of the French and English Medieval History Museum.
"Jeanne, I have a new assignment for you. Two French patrons just walked in the door a few minutes ago and they don't speak English. Will you please interpret for me?"
The employee tenses as she stares at her middle age, balding boss, Arnold Grieves.
“You know how I feel about France and I don't really care much for the French language...Oh, alright."
Arnold leads his reluctant employee into his office which is cluttered with rolled up parchment and text transcribed by medieval monks. Jeanne picks up a coffee table book. She peeks at a painting of her famous husband standing on Mount La Verna receiving the stigmata from Christ.
Ooh, that must have hurt. She winces and slams the book shut, even though she feels slightly turned on by the stigmata.
Two matronly and elegantly dressed French women approach Jeanne.

"J'mapelle madame Dupont et c'est mon colleague, madame Vincent."

"Ah, oui, je suis enchantè pour vous recontrer."

Chapter Five, Six & Seven: All Saints' Day (Super-Nature Heroes)

5. Francesco, Clare & The Brothers--Creature Comfort.



Pacing the aviary at the clinic with the parrot perched on his shoulder, Francesco converses with the vibrant bird. Leo listens intently as the saintly vet pontificates about the Lord Christ.
"The Lord and Goddess provide all of your needs. You don’t need to toil at a job to feed yourself. And there are people like Clare and I to take care of all of your needs. This is why you must always thank the Goddess and be kind to all your brethren."
Clare interrupts. "Brethren, isn't that a bit colloquial? Leo probably doesn't know what brethren means."
"Leo, you must be kind to all of your brothers and sisters. For only through your kindness and gratitude can you hope to live in peace."
The parrot squawks, "Leo, you must pray to the Lord...Leo you must pray!"
Francesco beams. "Leo was always a good student."
Clare removes Leo from Francesco’s arm. "And if you recall, he always had a hearty appetite and it's his lunchtime."
The parrot squawks at Francesco. "Time for Leo's lunch, time for Leo's lunch. Must thank the Lord..."
Later that day, Francesco cleans out dog kennels. He approaches a kennel of a shy greyhound and he gently nudges the dog out of the kennel.
"See, Bernardo, it's just me. I have come to clean out your kennel. It looks clean already."
Francesco strokes the greyhound’s head. He pulls the hound’s tattered bed out from the kennel. "Dear Bernardo, oh, how you suffer, my sweet friend."
Bernardo stares up at his friend with devotion and he wags his tail. Francesco preaches to the dogs. They gather around him as he shovels excrement out of their cages.
"Yes, Goddess provides for all of your needs. You ask for shelter and it is provided. When you are hungry, you are fed. Remember my dear brothers and sisters to thank Goddess for all that she gives you."
The dogs bark and whine in response. The cheerful vet sings a few verses of "Canticle of the Earth". The animals like that sort of thing.


6. Jeanne & Francesco--Drama Queens & Saints.


An overstuffed couch swallows Jeanne’s petite body as she pores over a book on saints. She turns to a painting of Saint Catherine of Alexandria suffering the torture of the wheel.
"Ouch! I'm so glad they didn't try that one on me."
She turns to another page featuring Saint Teresa of Àvila in ecstasy as an angel stabs a dagger into her internal organs.
"She was always the dramatic type. Even Meryl Streep couldn't pull that one off."
Finally, she turns to the chapter featuring her former self. She stares at the painting of her on the stakes.
That isn’t the most flattering scene of my life. Why couldn't they show me in battle in full armor charging my enemies with my sword pulled out in front of me?
She sighs and slams the book shut. She glances at her watch. How time moves at a blink of an eye and she wonders where the day or the years disappeared.
Later that day, Jeanne inches her way in a crowded Cineplex. She passes by a large old poster of The Messenger and she stares intensely at the young actress who played her. Jeanne's not sure if she should admire the woman dressed in armor who gazes defiantly at the camera eye and now at her, as she searches for any resemblance to the real Jeanne d’Arc. She decides that Hollywood got it wrong once again. She was never a blonde supermodel.
She doesn't believe that any Hollywood actresses could actually pass themselves off as a peasant girl that herded sheep by day and entertained prophetic visions that led her in the direction of conquering the English. How many women could pull that off these days? Even modern French women could care less about liberating France from globalization, as they listen to American pop music, munch on Big Macs and watch Hollywood movies.
The saint has already seen too many movies made about her life and most of the directors, writers and actresses completely miss the point of the warrior-saint’s life. She ends up questioning her own reality. Did it happen that way? Was I that stoic? Why do I remember screaming, crying my eyes out and begging for mercy? And why do the actresses calmly walk to the stakes? Yes, I remember it differently.
She removes her gaze from the life size poster. She jostles for a seat and accidentally bangs her metal girdle against a chair. Since people are hustling, bustling and chatting loudly, they do not notice her predicament.
Oui, metal underwear--the latest fashion craze. Protect your young daughters with state-of-the-art metal girdles. They come in three exciting colors.
Later, she watches battle scenes of Return of the King with total eagerness. Propelled to the edge of her seat, she’s ready to engage in battle, if only she had brought along her sword. But then she would never get away with carrying a large sword into the theatre, especially post 911.
A scene appears in which a princess disguised as a man rides into battle. Jeanne thinks that the woman is a mighty warrior and cheers the princess' exploits. She muses that JRR Tolkien was a man that really understood women. Could have been a warrioress in feminist Finland, rather than a demure French girl in the countryside of France? She could have used her sword to cut off the head of a philandering husband.
In another part of Manhattan, Francesco locates the group of animal rights activists who have set up themselves outside of a designer's fashion house. A couple of women activists in their early twenties who could pass for models parade in fur coats splattered in fake blood. A few of the men sport PEOPLE FOR ANIMALS (P.F.A.) T-shirts and hand out pamphlets to disgruntled New Yorkers passing by the scene. The Patron Saint of Ecology shakes the group leader's hand.
The conservative looking activist dressed in casual clothing grins at the saint.
"I'm so glad you could make it. Today, we’re protesting Giovanni's la Maison de mode. We are not happy with his new line of Arctic fox fur coats and we thought we would participate in a non-violent protest."
Francesco pulls on his medieval style brown sweater and he ties a white rope around his waist as a reminder of his duties as a monk.
"How can I help? You know, I am a man of peace."
The leader responds, "We could really use a good speech right now. We heard that you are passionate and speak on behalf of the animals."
Clearing his throat, Francesco stares at the small crowd of protesters. "What you say is true, but who do you wish for me to address?"
"The fashion house, if you would only do the honors."
The leader hands the saint a bullhorn. Francesco pauses and lifts the bullhorn to his mouth.
"I recall a time many centuries ago when I was the son of a wealthy merchant. During that time, the wealthy people of Assisi, Italy felt that they were entitled to exploit our brothers and sisters. But over time, I discovered that we don’t have the right to destroy the lives of our brothers and sisters.
Therefore, I ask of you to stop slaughtering animals in the name of fashion. You cannot find happiness in the exploitation of these beautiful creatures. You will only find happiness in the kingdom of heaven..."
The leader grabs the bullhorn away from the passionate vet.
"Thank you. That was great! I am sorry to interrupt your wonderful speech, but we are non-denominational here and the kingdom of heaven... Oh, never mind."
A tomato flies out of a window and hits Francesco squarely on the head. More tomatoes fly out of the window, splattering on activists. Someone yells, "Shut up, slime!"
The activists refuse to retaliate and Francesco sings "Make Me an Instrument of Your Peace". Just as the tomato episode reaches a climax, Jeanne rushes onto the scene. She picks up tomatoes and hurls them back at the people hiding behind the window.
Francesco grabs his angry wife’s arm. "No, Jeanne! This is not a battle of Paris against the English."
Jeanne takes a few deep breaths. "Sorry, I was just watching The Return of the King again and the battle scenes aroused me. My adrenaline is shooting all over the place."
Francesco grimaces. "How was the movie?"
"I enjoyed it. After all, the good side won--just as it should be!"
"I wonder if we can find a peace and harmony in the world without shedding blood. So much has changed, I know, but not things that actually matter most."
Compassion wells up in Jeanne’s heart as she considers her husband’s words and she considers all the reasons why she fell in love with the Italian saint.
They stroll on a city street. Francesco looks up at the skyscrapers. "So tell me, why did we choose New York?"
Jeanne studies the storefronts and vibrant people going about their business and she smiles.
"For starters, we thought we would enjoy all of this humanity and we wanted some place where we could blend in and not attract too much attention. After all, you must admit that former saints might be considered freaks. Here in New York, no one will think twice about us and I did not want to deal with the English or the French."
"Yes, that’s true. And of course, and all the saints voted unanimously for Manhattan."
Jeanne rubs the top of her saintly husband’s head. She feels stubble growing and she hopes that he will allow his hair to grow back. They pass by a men's clothing store. She stares at the elegantly dressed mannequins in the window and then at Francesco's rags. She sighs. If only.

7. Jeanne, Francesco--Is Virginity Underrated?
The wretched steel won’t give even from the blows of a passionate saint. Jeanne reclines on the bedroom floor attempting to destroy her metal girdle with a wrench and hammer. Her partner kneels on the side of the bed, lost in the rapture of prayer. Jeanne makes little progress trying to pull the bolts out of the wretched girdle. She finally resigns. She nudges Francesco on the shoulder.
"I don't understand. If Goddess didn't wish for me to have a husband, then why didn't she just strike me down with lightening the day I met you?"
The Franciscan makes the sign of the cross and he crawls into bed. Jeanne examines his filthy feet and she notices the bandage.
"What happened to your foot?"
Francesco caresses his foot. "Oh, I forgot to wear shoes again. I realize it is a bad habit. I stepped on a piece of glass that someone kindly deposited on the sidewalk. I didn't see the glass because I was admiring Brother Pigeon who was at the time leading his flock in prayer."
Jeanne examines the bandage. "Wow, this is a good job. Did Clare do this?"
Francesco winces as his wife caresses his foot.
"Yes, it was Clare and she of course, lectured me about not wearing shoes. She always remembers to wear hers."
Jeanne climbs into bed. She reaches out to embrace her partner, but sparks fly out of her mouth. She backs away and sulks.
"I think this is an unjust situation. We are no longer celibate saints and what's wrong with experiencing a little bit of affection?"
“In my case, I took a vow of chastity. I made the mistake of not putting an expiration date on it."
"And me? I don't recall ever taking such a vow. In any case, we must remedy the situation. This metal girdle is really uncomfortable, appearing and disappearing at the worst times. And I have just about had it with the flames. I thought Goddess told us to marry in this life and procreate. How are we supposed to do that under these circumstances?"
A light bulb flashes in Francesco's head. "Why don't we visit The Virgin? Surely she must have advice for us. I mean, does anyone really believe that she kept her virginity throughout her entire life? And what would have been the point?