Fiction: The Weapon
“Your mother’s funeral,” Aunt Margaret repeated as they sat down. She spoke, as she always did, so Eric and everyone else at the table could hear her.
It was a gorgeous late spring day and the women of the First Baptist Church had set up the funeral dinner outside rather than in the church basement. Only the mildest of breezes blew and it was scented with lilac.
Eric said nothing. He had learned long ago to keep his responses to Aunt Margaret short and polite, whatever else he might want to say.
“Where on earth were you, Eric?” Aunt Margaret demanded from across the table. “What did you think could possibly be more important than being on time to your dear mother’s funeral?”
Fiction: A Day in the Life of Captain SuperMiracle
“Why – why, look! It’s Harkness Rorholm, the church organist and intrepid, three-time Pulitzer Prize-winning, crusading freelance photographer!”
Rorholm smiled at the young man, accustomed to being recognized by well-informed people wherever he went; his handsome Aryan features and naturally wavy blond hair were every bit as familiar to those in the know as his work.
“The very same,” he quipped. He fished a business card from a pocket of his perfectly pressed suit and gave it to the fellow as a souvenir:
Harkness Rorholm
Senior Organist (All Saints Episcopal)
Three-Time Pulitzer Prize Winner
Intrepid, Crusading Freelance Photographer
and it was already autographed.
“Gosh, thanks, Mr. Rorholm!” the youth gushed. Rorholm, still smiling at him, walked on down the sidewalk.
He stopped suddenly, his sensitive nose smelling something burning just as he heard a cry for help. He looked across the street at an open window six stories up in an apartment building where a wisp of smoke lazily trailed out.
He aimed his camera at the window and the altered viewfinder showed him what danger lay inside.
The appeal from the window came louder, and people on the street looked up. Rorholm took advantage of their inattention and swiftly vaulted upward and onto the roof of the building he had been standing in front of. There, under the shade of a water tower, he doffed the outer garments of the organist and freelance photographer and became something even more — Captain SuperMiracle.
Fiction: Critical Mass
After more than three decades as a priest, Father Joe thought nothing of the two men who came into the church after the mass had begun. Not even when they all but marched down the center aisle, failed to genuflect, and sat in the front pews on either side where two other men already sat. Father Joe was caught up in his work.
When it happened again during the Act of Contrition, he still did not give it more than the most passing notice. People came in late, babies cried, people unwrapped peppermints. Church was a strangely noisy place.
At the end of the first reading, two more men strode down the aisle and seated themselves down front, just as the others had done. Father Joe was starting to notice. He looked briefly at the men and was startled to see the hate on their faces. But he didn’t have time just then to sort it out.
In the middle of the second reading, two more men came in and took their places with the others. The congregation was beginning to stir both at the unusual procession and the lack of respect paid to the altar.
Fiction: Fallen Gods
“Omari, you promised that this year you would explain the human Christmas to me.”
“So I did, Naji. Come, then; let’s take a little walk.”
Omari stretched, curving his back high, and ended up on all four paws. He led the other cat out of the warm shed and down the alley.
“Tell me, young Naji, about Egypt.”
“In Egypt we were worshipped as gods,” Naji replied brightly, “because we were the ones who killed both the rodents that infested the granaries and the fearsome cobras. This knowledge is part of every cat and is every cat’s birthright.”
“Very good,” the older cat said. “But later?”
haiku 79
sunbathing snake
doesn’t quite touch
church parking lot
Fiction: Upon the Altar of God
Father Ramon stepped to the pulpit to deliver his Sunday morning homily. The familiar faces looked up at him with the familiar expressions: expectant, sleepy, thoughtful, judgmental, and blank. This Sunday, though, the old priest knew he would give them a lesson they would remember.
“You have noticed the sword on the high altar,” he began. “It has lain there for two weeks, now. I have told no one the story of how it came to be there, but I will tell you now.”
The sleepy and blank faces took on more life. The judgmental remained judgmental, as if daring the priest to be interesting.
NEKWE
Love creative writing? Join the Northeast Kansas Writers Exchange to share challenges & mutual criticism. Click the logo!
-
-
