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Weekly Contest #167
At seven-thirty this morning, I walk up to the church. I do not walk past it like I do every other day. It’s Sunday. Me and Jesus, we go way back. I wink at him while he dangles from the cross, gaunt chest bleached white by the sun. Thin rays of dawn filter through the clouds and shine directly into his eyes. Poor guy’s all strung up; he’s got no way to shield himself. I always found it a bit tasteless how they nailed him up here on the peeling front cladding of the chapel, day and night, rain or shine. He is the savior, after all. They cou...
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