{"id":4395,"date":"2016-12-20T10:26:24","date_gmt":"2016-12-20T16:26:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/?p=4395"},"modified":"2020-09-05T03:40:55","modified_gmt":"2020-09-05T08:40:55","slug":"christmas-23rd-street-fiction","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/christmas-23rd-street-fiction\/","title":{"rendered":"Christmas at the Twenty-Third Street"},"content":{"rendered":"

Patricia Crisafulli<\/a><\/h2>\n

Holiday Fiction<\/h4>\n

<\/p>\n

Christmas at the Twenty-Third Street revisits the characters of TheTwenty-Third\u00a0Street\u00a0Psalm<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

\"Christmas<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

B<\/span> loated, wet snowflakes smacked the pavement at the bus stop at East 110th<\/sup> Street. Waiting, Zeke shivered in a long overcoat that had come from Goodwill, which reminded him of a cashmere one he\u2019d worn decades ago in far more prosperous times. He could still remember the softness of that fine wool, the cool sheen of the satin lining, and his initials embroidered inside.<\/div>\n
\n

This coat had been the castoff of a slightly bigger man, and the lining was shredded now. Still, Zeke liked the cut of it, the way it made him a little more like he did in the old days he recalled without self-pity.<\/p>\n

Delivery vans with bad mufflers, gypsy cabs without medallions, cars that blared loud music of Spanish Harlem flowed past him. Finally, the bus rumbled up to the stop. The driver, knowing Zeke was only going as far as the West Side, waved away his fare, saying, \u201cIt\u2019s Christmas Eve.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m grateful,\u201d Zeke said, his throat gravelly with the cold.<\/p>\n

It took forever for the crosstown bus to reach the other side of Upper Manhattan, but when they arrived, Zeke saw the Seventh Avenue Express. With luck, he made the connection. As the bus pulled away from the curb, Zeke dug through his pockets in a diligent search for his money. Had he dropped the bills or spent them already? \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d Zeke mumbled.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust sit down, man, and be cool,\u201d the driver said.<\/p>\n

Zeke thanked him profusely, then made his way slowly toward the back. He leaned his head against the window by his seat, his breath fogging up one side of the glass while the wintry mix frosted the other.<\/p>\n

It was a long way to go, past a few other places where Zeke might have been able to bum a drink or run a tab, but The Twenty-Third Street Bar & Grille was the only place where he was sure of not being turned away. He settled in for the ride.<\/p>\n

A while later\u2014whether ten minutes or an hour, he couldn\u2019t tell\u2014Zeke snorted awake. Looking around, he was aware of two women frowning at him from across the aisle. The view out the window instantly oriented him: the unmistakable glare and bustle of Thirty-Fourth Street. He got ready to disembark at the next major intersection.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood day, my dear ladies,\u201d Zeke said in his best Bostonian tone. \u201cMerry Christmas to you and yours.\u201d<\/p>\n

One of women dug in her purse, then tried to hand him a dollar.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, you will find many Salvation Army kettles that will gladly take such generosity.\u201d<\/p>\n

If he\u2019d had a hat on he would have tipped it, just to see the look on their faces.<\/p>\n

When the bus stopped at 23rd<\/sup> Street, Zeke bid the driver good-bye and Merry Christmas, then stepped into ridges of slush indented by an army of passing pedestrians. By the time he walked down the block and around the corner to Seventh Avenue, and then made his way to the homely fa\u00e7ade of The Twenty-Third Street, as they called it, his feet were soaked. Another shiver wracked his body.<\/p>\n

\"Christmas<\/p>\n

The bar was nearly empty, except for a couple in the last booth against the far wall. Their glasses were empty, Zeke noticed, and the woman appeared to be reaching for her coat. When they left, he\u2019d be the only patron. Not a good sign.<\/p>\n

Paloma stepped out from behind the bar. \u201cWe\u2019re closing early.\u201d<\/p>\n

Zeke gritted his teeth, needing a drink so bad he didn\u2019t think he could make it home without one. \u201cHow about a beer before you go?\u201d<\/p>\n

Paloma bustled back to the taps and drew a Budweiser in a tall mug. She waved his money away. \u201cMerry Christmas.\u201d She was dressed up, Zeke noticed: a fake fur-cropped jacket, short skirt, and spindly-heeled boots that would be ruined with one step outside. \u201cMy boyfriend\u2019s picking me up. He lives in Jersey,\u201d Paloma said.<\/p>\n

Zeke registered the hope in her voice. Over the past few years, since Paloma started working at The Twenty-Third Street, he\u2019d seen quite a few guys hovering around her, and heard plenty of complaints about \u201cthose bastards\u201d after they stopped coming around. At least this one was picking her up on Christmas Eve; that had to count for something.<\/p>\n

Charlie Henderson, who owned the place, came out of the back kitchen holding a mug of coffee. \u201cNot much going on tonight, Zeke. Everybody\u2019s got somewhere else to be.\u201d<\/p>\n

Zeke watched as Charlie put two shots of Irish whiskey from the top shelf into his cup and drank. Zeke\u2019s eyes never left that bottle until he heard a noise at the door, and Paloma rushed past.<\/p>\n

A man stood just inside, black jeans tight on his bulky frame; his leather jacket hung open. Paloma kissed him quickly on the lips, then introduced him as Ricky.<\/p>\n

\u201cMan, that stuff\u2019s freezing. Saw a spinout on the turnpike.\u201d Ricky flicked a mound of slush from the toe of his boot.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are you two headed?\u201d Zeke asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy sister\u2019s in Brooklyn,\u201d Ricky answered. \u201cShe does this Christmas Eve thing\u2014lotsa fish, which I ain\u2019t crazy about, but I like the shrimp scampi.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLa Vigilia<\/em>!\u201d Zeke sang out.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, Paisan<\/em>?\u201d Ricky grinned.<\/p>\n

Zeke shook his head. \u201cNo, just a lover of the language.\u201d He couldn\u2019t tell them about the year he\u2019d spent in Rome and Florence, studying art and immersing himself in the culture. Another lifetime ago, when Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker were his best friends, but hadn\u2019t quite taken him over. \u201cYou be careful on the roads,\u201d Zeke said. \u201cMiss Paloma, here, is special to us.\u201d<\/p>\n

Paloma tapped a high heel against the floor. \u201cWhat\u2019s gotten into you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are a good person and deserve good things.\u201d Zeke told her.<\/p>\n

She left Ricky\u2019s side long enough to kiss Zeke on the cheek \u201cYou be careful, too, old man,\u201d she said softly. \u201cNowhere to go except this dump on Christmas Eve?\u201d<\/p>\n

Zeke gave her a wink. \u201cI\u2019ve got somewhere\u2014don\u2019t you worry.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ricky reached over to shake his hand; Zeke tried to steady the tremble in his own.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

After Paloma and Ricky left, it was just Zeke and Charlie, who changed his mind about leaving right away. \u201cI\u2019m letting the traffic die down,\u201d he said. \u201cYou eat?\u201d<\/p>\n

Zeke couldn\u2019t remember if he\u2019d had anything that day or not. \u201cI\u2019m a little hungry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMind the store. I\u2019m going to the Chicken Shack.\u201d Charlie went out without a coat.<\/p>\n

Zeke sat alone at the bar, every bottle shining back at him and the cash register unlocked, and drank in the benediction of Charlie\u2019s trust. He would no more move from his stool, even to top off his beer, than he would toss a rock through the bar’s front window.<\/p>\n

The place was as quiet as an old church and nearly as dark. Zeke recalled a little Romanesque chapel outside Birmingham\u2014no, near Stratford. The roughhewn pews had borne the marks of nine hundred years of worshippers. The barrel-vaulted ceiling had looked like it was right out of an architectural textbook.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello?\u201d a woman called. In his reverie, Zeke hadn\u2019t heard anybody come in. \u201cCharlie here?\u201d<\/p>\n

She looked young enough to need her ID checked\u2014a little too thin with large, dark eyes and a hint of brunette where her bleached blond started to grow out.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe proprietor has stepped away momentarily, but if you\u2019ll take a seat.\u201d He motioned in the general direction of the other end of the bar.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m Dawn,\u201d she said. \u201cCharlie’s my mother\u2019s cousin.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019ll be right back. He went to get chicken wings.\u201d<\/p>\n

The way the girl wandered the place, Zeke knew she\u2019d never been there before. Circumabulating<\/em>. Zeke savored the unspoken word, a real mouthful like the ones he used to like to drop unawares on his students.<\/p>\n

\u201cGod, this music is so old\u2014Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra.\u201d Dawn stood in front of the silent jukebox. \u201cI guess it\u2019s too much to hope for Duran Duran?\u201d<\/p>\n

Zeke fished a quarter from the lining of his coat. \u201cI\u2019ll play you my favorite for this time of year.\u201d<\/p>\n

The last row of songs was a medley of Christmas music. Zeke slipped the coin into the slot and punched AA48, and Bing Crosby began crooning \u201cGod Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo are you visiting?\u201d Zeke asked her.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I live here now. I\u2019ve been auditioning.\u201d Dawn rolled her eyes. \u201cYeah, I know everybody <\/em>wants to act. But I think I got a shot. This guy says I have the look.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd he\u2019s a photographer, I\u2019d guess.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dawn rapped her knuckles against him lightly. \u201cHow’d you guess? He took a bunch of photos. Some of them were a little weird, but he showed them to some guy who wants me to audition.\u201d<\/p>\n

He and Charlie should find this guy and break his camera, Zeke thought, if not his nose. \u201cBe careful. Not everybody in this town is who they say they are.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, well, who the hell are you?\u201d Dawn\u2019s eyes widened.<\/p>\n

\u201cNobody,\u201d Zeke said. \u201cNobody at all.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Christmas<\/p>\n

The door opened and Charlie stamped his feet, cursing the cold and dampness. He held a bulging white bag that emitted the delicious smell of fried chicken and spices.<\/p>\n

\u201cSurprise,\u201d Dawn said.<\/p>\n

The last word caught Zeke\u2019s rib as he sucked in his breath at the look of Charlie\u2019s disgust.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour ma know you\u2019re here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe\u2014who cares.\u201d Dawn made a face. \u201cSo what\u2019s in the bag?\u201d<\/p>\n

They ate at the bar, the three of them. Dawn scarfed down so many chicken wings Zeke curbed his own appetite, knowing young and hungry was a bad combination on the streets.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are you staying?\u201d Charlie asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI have a place\u2014or I did. He got pissed at me and I left this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe photographer?\u201d Zeke asked.<\/p>\n

Dawn didn\u2019t answer. \u201cSo I came to say hi to my cousin\u2014we\u2019re like, what, second cousins once removed? Or maybe you want me removed permanently.\u201d She smirked at her own joke.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should go home to your ma\u2019s,\u201d Charlie said. \u201cI\u2019ll give you bus fare.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI ain\u2019t going back. She\u2019s with this guy and, well, let\u2019s say he wants to be friendlier with me than I wanna be with him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d invite you home, but Marilyn would have a fit.\u201d<\/p>\n

Marilyn was vying to be Mrs. Charlie Number Three, Zeke knew. He doubted she\u2019d welcome a pretty young woman into their cramped apartment, even a distant cousin.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll call Danny later. He\u2019ll come around,\u201d Dawn said. \u201cAlways does.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere has to be somewhere\u2014\u201d Zeke began, but was cut off when the door opened again.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, you\u2019re here.\u201d Paul, a young news reporter who used to frequent the bar, stood with a tall box wrapped in red foil. He wiped his feet on the sodden mat.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome join our little party!\u201d Zeke said.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan\u2019t. I\u2019m headed to Syracuse tonight\u2014that is, if this crap lets up. But I wanted to drop this off.\u201d He set the package in front of Zeke. \u201cA little Christmas cheer.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou got time for a beer?\u201d Charlie asked.<\/p>\n

Paul glanced at the clock on the wall.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know that\u2019s fifteen minutes fast,\u201d Zeke said.<\/p>\n

\u201cA quick one.\u201d Paul sat on the stool beside Zeke, who introduced Dawn.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou guys friends?\u201d Dawn asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI used to come here a lot. Now, I\u2019m pretty busy.\u201d Paul perked up. \u201cHey, I got a piece coming out in Newsday<\/em>\u2014next day or two. Feature on this homeless guy who used to be a pretty good artist\u2014Madison Avenue gallery representing him and everything. Then he lost it. He\u2019s got money in the bank, but he\u2019s living on the street. Sad as hell, but his family doesn\u2019t want to commit him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo what kind of art does he do?\u201d Dawn tilted her head to the side.<\/p>\n

\u201cAbstracts\u2014kind of strange, to tell you the truth. Cactus that looked like a melted candle, but people loved it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Zeke asked about graduate school and smiled with satisfaction as Paul recited every class he\u2019d taken at Columbia so far, and what courses came next. Zeke knew he couldn\u2019t take credit for anything Paul did or would do, but he had stepped in a little over a year ago to stop a lonely young man from wasting his life at The Twenty-Third Street. Now he rarely saw Paul. When Paul mentioned someone named Candace, Zeke smiled; things were clearly good for his young friend.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe should get together.\u201d Paul slipped his jacket back on.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re a busy man. It\u2019s good to see you.\u201d When Paul left, Zeke stared for a heartbeat of a moment at the closed door.<\/p>\n

Dawn broke the silence. \u201cSo let me tell you about this audition I had last week.\u201d Zeke nodded as he nursed the last of his beer.<\/p>\n

A sudden draft became a steady gust of cold air. Zeke hunched his shoulders, expecting that the wind had caught the front door. But when he turned, he saw a little girl. Zeke blinked, not trusting his sight, but the image didn’t change. She was five or so, he\u2019d guess, in a pink snowsuit jacket with a smudged ruff around the hood. A man came in behind her, wearing a thin baseball jacket with a tear in one sleeve and hands stuffed into the pockets of skinny jeans. His hair was dark. Stubble covered his cheeks.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll be warmer if you come all the way in.\u201d Zeke looked at Charlie. \u201cMy tab still good?\u201d<\/p>\n

Charlie shook his head. \u201cSanta\u2019s the only one with a tab on Christmas Eve. Guess that\u2019s me.\u201d He disappeared into the back and came out with four mugs on a tray and a pot of coffee. He took down the whiskey bottle from the top shelf.<\/p>\n

The young man made a feeble attempt at paying for the Irish coffee.<\/p>\n

\u201cOn the house,\u201d Charlie said. \u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJeremy,\u201d he replied. \u201cThis is Stella.\u201d<\/p>\n

Zeke took a deep sip and pressed his lips together. Nothing warmed like Crown Royal. \u201cStella by Starlight.\u201d He sang a few lines in his weak baritone.<\/p>\n

Dawn wrinkled her nose. \u201cYou got any more cream?\u201d<\/p>\n

Charlie handed her a carton of half \u2018n\u2019 half and filled a short glass with cola for Stella. \u201cShe your daughter?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jeremy nodded. \u201cHer ma\u2019s got problems. Stella\u2019s with me, now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Zeke dug into the depths of the lining of his coat, groping for change, and pulled out a five-dollar bill. \u201cWell, what do you know? Manna from heaven.\u201d He turned to Dawn. \u201cWould you be so kind as to see if the Chicken Shack is still serving?\u201d<\/p>\n

Charlie gave her a ten from the till. \u201cEnough for everybody.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Christmas<\/p>\n

They ate more than they drank for once, a double order of chicken wings and biscuits, courtesy of the Chicken Shack cook who was looking to get rid of what hadn\u2019t sold. Dawn fed quarters into the jukebox as Stella twirled across the floor. Jeremy told his whole, predictable story of lost jobs and poor choices, but his devotion to Stella was undeniable.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t want nothing to happen to her,\u201d Jeremy said. \u201cShe should be in kindergarten already. If she don\u2019t go next year, the state\u2019ll take her away from me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are you staying tonight?\u201d Zeke asked him.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey got places. Christmas Eve they don\u2019t turn away no families,\u201d<\/p>\n

Zeke\u2019s pockets were empty now, and he had no idea where his own next meal would come from. But he had a place to stay, the rent paid by a brother who assuaged the family guilt with a check each month. The place was small and dirty, the reflection of a man who\u2019d long ago given up on his own soul.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, last call,\u201d Charlie said. He told Dawn he\u2019d spoken with Marilyn. If Dawn wanted, she could stay the night. \u201cBut you gotta call your ma.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI wanna go to Danny\u2019s and get my stuff.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAll right, we\u2019ll go there. But you make up your mind\u2014you stay there or come with me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m coming.\u201d<\/p>\n

As they left the bar, Zeke struggled to stay steady on his feet on the sidewalk, but when Stella slipped her tiny mittened hand in his, he gained his footing. In the other arm, he carried his present from Paul.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy place isn\u2019t much\u2014cramped and not all that clean,\u201d Zeke offered. \u201cBut you\u2019re welcome to stay.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jeremy kept his head down. \u201cI don\u2019t like owing nobody.\u201d<\/p>\n

Zeke led the way to the bus stop around the corner. \u201cIn this world, there are those who give, and those who receive. All of us are both, at one time or another.\u201d<\/p>\n

The bus was warm, its passengers few. Being Christmas Eve, the driver let them on without paying after Zeke explained that the little family with him had no place to go.<\/p>\n

They occupied the long, bench-like seat in the very back of the bus. It smelled like exhaust, but at least it was warm.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re going to Zeke\u2019s place,\u201d Jeremy said. \u201cThat okay with you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Stella buried her face against him.<\/p>\n

Jeremy unzipped her jacket, and Zeke reached down to take her feet out of her boots. Curled up between the two men, Stella slept with the peace of innocence through the city, as the snow fell and people found a place to be.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Image Credit: \u00a9 Sannare | Dreamstime.com – Christmas Illustration Of City Street.<\/em> (Watercolor)<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Christmas at the Twenty-Third Street, holiday fiction by Patricia Crisafulli, revisits the characters of The Twenty-Third Street Psalm.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":4426,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2,18,1],"tags":[6,170,136,38,117,25],"class_list":["post-4395","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-original-online-fiction","category-patricia-crisafulli","category-uncategorized","tag-christmas","tag-fiction","tag-friendship","tag-holidays","tag-inspirational","tag-short-story"],"yoast_head":"\nChristmas at the Twenty-Third Street | Faith Hope & Fiction<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/christmas-23rd-street-fiction\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Christmas at the Twenty-Third Street | Faith Hope & Fiction\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Christmas at the Twenty-Third Street, holiday fiction by Patricia Crisafulli, revisits the characters of The Twenty-Third Street Psalm.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/christmas-23rd-street-fiction\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"Faith Hope & Fiction\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/FaithHopeAndFiction\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2016-12-20T16:26:24+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2020-09-05T08:40:55+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/12\/christmas-23rd-street_fiction-patricia-crisafulli.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1170\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"640\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:creator\" content=\"@TrishCrisafulli\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@TrishCrisafulli\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Est. reading time\">\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"12 minutes\">\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/#organization\",\"name\":\"Faith Hope & Fiction\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/\",\"sameAs\":[\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/FaithHopeAndFiction\",\"https:\/\/twitter.com\/TrishCrisafulli\"],\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/#logo\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/faith-hope-fiction_logo.png\",\"width\":350,\"height\":350,\"caption\":\"Faith Hope & Fiction\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/#logo\"}},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/\",\"name\":\"Faith Hope & Fiction\",\"description\":\"Quality Online Fiction, Poetry, and Essays\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/?s={search_term_string}\",\"query-input\":\"required name=search_term_string\"}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/christmas-23rd-street-fiction\/#primaryimage\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/12\/christmas-23rd-street_fiction-patricia-crisafulli.jpg\",\"width\":1170,\"height\":640,\"caption\":\"\\\"Christmas at The 23rd Street\\\" - 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