Religion In Pirate's Wells (Short Story) Part 3a
III “Bless the Lord,” Preacher say’. “Amen,” we say’. The air so heavy inside the small stone church it press’ down on us like the hand of judgment. Sweat crawl down my neck, prickin’ my skin like spiders’ legs, until it soak into the back of my navy blue dress. My eyes keep slidin’ over to the windows, drinkin’ in the bright sunshine and the trees’ slow dance with the fresh breeze pushin’ inland from the sea. None of that breeze makes it past the church doors. Not much of anything refreshing... Sign in to see full entry.