There’s a moment as he steps beyond the invisible threshold, when we half expect him to burst into flames. To shriek and scream. For at least a puff of smoke from beneath his Italian leather shoes…
None of this happens.
He stops, alerted by the way we stare. “This is consecrated ground, isn’t it?”
We can but nod.
“Thought so. The mealy taste of hypocrisy is thick upon it.”
And then we know. Our crucifixes, bibles, and holy water are no defense against his kind. Because, unlike our ancestors, we no longer believe.
Stakes and beheadings and fire it is, then.
Suspense, humor, horror, guilt, and resilience in how many words? Masterful would not be an over-exaggeration.
This is just plain wonderful!
interesting, but there are so many possibilities…
And garlic! Don’t forget we always have garlic 🙂 (unless this is an Italian one?) Love it xx
Cool story! I really enjoyed this one:)
Very Well Done ~!~
Great line: The mealy taste of hypocrisy is thick upon it.
I liked ‘We can but nod.’ The archaic wording worked well and heightened the futility of their position. Great story.
Great ! Snappy story
Well written observation of the futility of rite without belief. Too bad you couldn’t work a Congressional hearing in there.
A brilliantly written and engaging story.
I did enjoy it, Liam. Well done!