
A MAN FROM THE LORD by Jude Dexter
The plague, the Good Prophet told them, was a judgment, and it would lay Harpers to waste if they did not repent, so they begged the Lord for mercy.
The plague, the Good Prophet told them, was a judgment, and it would lay Harpers to waste if they did not repent, so they begged the Lord for mercy.
About five minutes after merging onto I-95 south, Karl’s mattress flew from the car’s roof. This was despite Tom’s best efforts; he had found a ball of twine in the back of Karl’s ex-girlfriend’s closet and managed a couple of extra loops around. Before its departure, the mattress had flopped on the roof like some overzealous wrestler. As, in the rearview mirror, Karl’s mattress frisbeed over the shoulder, Tom felt the stinging heat of resentment rise at the base of his throat. Once again, Karl would need someone else to help him out of a jam of his own making.
Death makes us horny! And I’m trying to see if all the cumming affects my fever.
Cal gazes up in adoration, face illuminated in the glow of outdated technology, and tears stream down his face.
Perhaps by now they weren’t the most well-adjusted people they’d ever been. Perhaps by now they’d become, even to themselves, a little strange.
Hours spent nude on plinths in those drafty rooms, and only one painting had ever done him justice.
I stand naked at my bedroom window as the community arrives, unhitching buggies next to the barn and freeing their horses within the pasture fencing. It’s Father’s turn to host church. My hands find the tumbled smooth surface of the yellow citrine, amplifying the power of the sun, torrential and vitalizing. My altar, the top of the maple dresser Father built, is aligned with crystals. Each one unique, delivering its effects to the possessor. The dresser stores my bonnets and dresses, different hues of pink and gray. Sundays are always black. None with pockets; Amish don’t believe in secrets. The Radiant Rider-Waite
I watched a moth crawl toward me on the concrete. One of its wings was damaged; I had a strong impulse to crush it with my boot.
I pull up hard and dredge out a congealed braid of hair the length of an arm. Horrified, I keep pulling and it just keeps coming.
For one heartbeat, I wanted it to be true. I wanted to see my own father facedown on the tile, spattered in his own blood.