Father Smith struggled with his faith,
not his dedication to God, but
his dedication to the cloth.
It wasn’t that he yearned
for pleasures of the flesh, no,
he was attracted to women, but
lack of family was his one major regret.
He could have one, in theory,
could settle down with a kind, sturdy
ginger-haired woman, one devoted
to the Lord and to their marriage.
He could father children too,
if he removed the robes,
went plain-clothed into
the secular world, breaking
his vows, his sacred promises.
But his God was a forgiving
one. If he repented, and truly
meant it, surely his sins
would wash clean. Still,
he wasn’t ready to leap.
He enjoyed spreading the good word.
The parishioners doted on him,
filling him with their kind
words and decadent baked goods.
Days like today, though, tested his resolve.
***
No one had found Jeremy Schall’s
body, he’d simply vanished,
but to gain closure, the family
needed a memorial. Father Smith performed
a corpse-less service in Jeremy’s honor.
“They finally released my boy’s
mixed tape, the one found near the mine.
Do you think, father, that we can play it,
in Jeremy’s honor?”
Uncertain what the tape contained,
Father Smith was hesitant, but eventually
relented to the grief-stricken woman.
She placed her 1980’s boombox
near the pulpit, pressing play;
as soft drumming blasted into the drafty
church, shadows closed in, blocking each
stained glass window, blotting out the sun.
Shrieks echoed off the vaulted ceiling,
when inky black tentacles shattered the church glass,
snaking their way in and snuffing out so many
half-lived lives, including the wifeless, regret-filled priest.
In his final moments, Father Smith didn’t
pray, didn’t cry out to his Lord and savior, instead,
poisoned by resentment, he screamed an angry, “Fuck you.”
