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Weekly Contest #279
I am here. In my skin. In my flesh. My spirit clings to the body not as a vessel, but as a home, and I will not be moved.I repeat the watchwords against division, clutching someone else's rosary. I repeat them. My nails grasp at a different bead, any other bead. My hands forget everything in their cloying desperation for the comfort of a warm wooden anchor. My eyes are drawn away from me - the tears do not help. I cannot see, but then I can. Judge is heaving a great piece of wood, striped orange and white. His back is hunched and his feet st...
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