myopic pilgrim

Father Brautigan, his collar in one hand, stood over Jim’s crumpled body. They were alone in the tenement; no one heard Jim cry out for help as he fell. His bones—ribs, legs, an arm—were broken. His clothes were wet and sticky with sweat and blood.

Brautigan prayed over him. He would die soon, the priest knew.

As Father Brautigan finished the final rite, Jim said to him, “God has forgiven me. Why can’t you?”

“What you did to that little girl—” the priest said and crushed Jim’s skull with a crowbar.

This was written after reading this conversation about a boxer from New Zealand who may not be allowed to compete in the Olympics because of a previous conviction of manslaughter of his five month old baby.

Will from I Don’t Dance Anymore submitted a 54 word story to 54 Words, but it looks like it he’s not posting any new submissions. The last entry is from June of 2003.

In any event, here’s Will’s short and sweet submission.

Steven stirred his coffee; the cream didn’t have a chance.
I didn’t think I would love anyone else after you, Emma said. She took her coffee black now he noticed.
And now you’re married, said Steven. Are you happy?
She paused a hair’s breadth before answering, Yes.
He realized in that tiny space before she answered he had overstepped.
He’s not like you. He doesn’t like the same things you liked.
Like that crinkle in your chin when you laugh?
He’s never mentioned it. I don’t think he notices stuff like that.
Too bad. Steven enjoyed his coffee.
I feel secure with him though. Safe.
Safe?
Well, yes, Emma said between sips. He’s not like you.

I leave a single trail of footprints in the snow as snowflakes float between the firs. Not a soul for miles, but I’m not alone.

“It’s dead quiet; I hear the snow fall.”

You’re not here to listen, but I’ve never stopped talking to you.

The trees’ greenery has been masked all but completely by an ivory frosting. It’s white all around us. It reminds me of our wedding day.

The stillness is broken by a thunderclap—I drop to my knees, feeling warmer, growing colder.
A grisly, crimson rose blooms at my feet.

I am not alone.

I was finally able to apologize to Dad.

He did his best to raise me right. He never lifted a hand to me. He showed me how a man should act and speak. He worked hard all of his life only to have me squander what he gave me. He was a good man.

It was hard (I’m too stubborn), but I formed the words with my trembling lips, thankful I didn’t have to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. But I’m not sure he heard me—his head beneath the gravestone.