It is a quiet celebration. Every noble prays, distinguished by a soft vase-eyed face and the phantom sanctity of a scarless body. They sigh slowly, as if their words are not salvation but a distraction from sin. I grin. Heaven is what cowards call nowhere.
I shiver. Nuns wave gleaming coins to pull beggars' hands together. Their tipping point is three dollars, while our brittle skin trudges across prickly hills of bone.
We look up. Gasp. Our thorn-deep eyes blossom into each other. We release the same clumsy whisper, the same broken breath until they melted into a hand-smooth voice. But they never heal. They are too holy.
YOU ARE READING
Flash Fiction and Short-Shorts
RandomAll stories here are 1000 words or less. Though small, they are big in meaning. There are also writing prompts for the dreaded block. The Rochambeau drawing is inspired by one of his portraits; the Lafayette one is not. If you are witty often enou...
