By Handall Rodovski
“The lord of all dies each day so that you might live.”
Dara put her head down, feigned prayer for what felt like the thousandth time. Being the child of foreign parents who had conceived her out of wedlock and then promptly died less than a year after her birth made her a triple sinner on the best days and the scapegoat for all that went wrong on the worst days. Only the village’s old priest ever took any pity on her, but this meant daily confessions and prayers for forgiveness to a god she didn’t believe in. Only the fact that it guaranteed her at least one meal and one hour of peace per day made it worthwhile.
“The rise and fall of the sun itself is a testament to his glory and sacrifice.” The old priest droned on, and Dara tried not to think about the crust of bread that she would receive at the end of his sermon. The only meal she was likely to get that day.
- - -
In the old country, I was a writer.
Labels: Handall Rodovski