Dressing Down (fiction)
History was not on the side of the renowned illustrator who had moved to the village late last Autumn. But how was she to know? She only entered the art competition to open up a conversation about hosting Life Studies classes in the Community Hall. As Mayor Harris – re-elected for a record-breaking 17th year in office – stared disdainfully at her drawing, the illustrator had time to count the times the name ‘Harris’ appeared on the winner’s trophy. Sixteen. Really? ‘These drawing classes ? Nudes, you say ? I really think not. We don’t care for nakedness in these parts’.

They found him in the church, face down in the baptismal basin. In his last moments, the preacher, who’d grown up just steps from where he’d taken his first sip of the blood and first nibble of the body, was relieved. *I’ll be home shortly.*

Walking away from the church, a boy, not more than 10, coffers cleared and pocketed, heading away from the festering goodness of boredom, puts the Roman collar around his neck. He sips the pinched cup of grape juice, then, in further defiance, bites the cracker, letting the juice soak into it; it turns to mush.