Micro Monday - February 3, 2025
The Church
Happy Monday! I’m running a little late today. I caught some kind of cold over the weekend, and I’ve been moving in a bit of a fog. Here’s hoping this one makes sense when I read it tomorrow morning.
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The Church
The church sat at the edge of a swamp. Sweat ran down fevered brows, and mosquitoes buzzed loudly against every neck. On Sundays, the brackish water in the baptismal font boiled in clouds of murky vapor.
You could see shapes in the fog, sometimes. If you wanted to.
Behind the pulpit, the pastor gripped the wood until his hands smoked. The dead rose and the living fell at his word. When he shouted a verse, every hand turned to the right page.
But not a single soul in the whole congregation knew whether they were bound for heaven or hell.