A happy guy that tends to write a little cynically. Just my way of dealing with the world outside my joyous little bubble.
Altar of Aligore
Worn smooth from years of rain and mother’s tears, the altar in the clearing glowed under the light of the full moon like it was a missing piece. The old priest limped to the stone and ran his hand down the edge from above his head down to his waist, forgetting about the small procession behind him for a few moments. Maeve stopped at the border between woodland and glade. Her husband, Caleb, placed his hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her. She shook him off.
I knew I was in trouble the moment I saw the body in the mirror laid out like a crumpled marionette. Ribbons of black and white, her cut strings, radiated from her sleeves. Bright red lipstick was smeared across half of her face. Flakes of dried mascara trailed down her cheeks. Filmy blue eyes stared dully into mine. I pressed my face to the mirror for a couple of minutes, searching for any sign of my Reflection or anyone else in the room on the OtherSide. Nobody but the dead girl looked back at me. I ran to the bathroom but I only saw traces of dirt and, maybe, flecks of blood in the sink. No sign of him anywhere. I went back to the bedroom and sat on the floor in front of the girl.
Work is Life
I remember when this used to be a church. A real church. The priest stood up on the dais in his long white robes extolling all the virtues he struggled to possess and kept losing at the bottom of a bottle. The stained glass tableaus of this saint with a lamb and that saint with a sword are still up high looking down on all of us supplicants with their placid, uncaring faces. I’ve seen others in books where the saints cried from the love that almost poured out of their peach-colored faces. I guess the guy they hired was just too lazy or apathetic to put in that kind of effort.