The tenor of my nightly prayers shifted. What usually passed as a centering ritual, a rebonding of my soul to those ancient anchors dropped about me in childhood, became a frustratingly opaque interrogation.
Why on earth would anyone go through with it? I asked. Why would anyone choose this when they know all the crap it entails?
And to him that knocketh it shall be opened, came the reply.
I started skipping Sunday Temple, to the vexation of Lilli and Caleb.
YOU ARE READING
Transfiguration
Short StoryA mysterious boy who never takes off his jacket. A temple where men talk directly to angels. An extremely boring college economics course. Curiosity gives way to confusion as our nameless, genderless narrator learns the reason behind their classmate...
