Oklahoma Gothic

The sacraments were passed throughout the congregation, soon to be in the guts of drunks, liberals and liars, but not Brother Chris. He had broken the saltines into squares, filled each thimble-sized cup with juice, and initialed one “BC” for Brother Chris. The pastor raised his cracker, “this is my body.” He raised his cup, “this is my blood.” Brother Chris swallowed the liquid. He waited for the dreadful realization to manifest on the faces in the congregation. His suffering would reveal his true character . He felt a tickle in his throat. His breaths shortened, his heart raced. He clenched at his collar, loosening his tie. Brother Chris wondered if he could be forgiven; his sacrifice robbed by murder.

He would cleanse the temple if Sharon would not. No woman should defile her body with foul things such as tattoos, especially not one who loved a pastor. Did she not respect him? He’d built too good a legacy in this town—devoted his life to it. He’d officiated weddings of old friends, baptized their children. What kind of example was she setting for these young girls? His hands shook with a desperation and fury he struggled to keep below the surface. After a moment, in deafening silence, Sharon was there: makeup running with the tempo of pounding fists on his chest. Beneath his grip, Jericha’s familiar, tattooed shoulders contrasted the transparent-white baptismal gown like liquid porcelain in a pool of ink; a lifeless frame in a stormy sea.