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Weekly Contest #80
The old bishop coughed red blood into the rag held by the bright-eyed deacon. ‘Not long now’ he croaked. ‘I guess I won’t be a martyr after all. Not like Philemon. But he always did win, every way, every time’The deacon who was nursing him sighed inwardly. Here it came again – that old story of the favoured younger brother, the legitimate one, the beloved child, the one who had called Onesimus…‘Do you know what he called me when we were boys? ‘Dusosmos’. ‘Smelly’. He said my real name, Onesi...
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