Sometimes you sit down to write and everything that comes out is too close to the truth. There’s a reason I write fiction—I prefer to keep something of myself to myself. It’s not hard to find the meaning in what I write, but I like to pretend that it is, like drawing a thin veil over the top. We can both see what’s beneath, but for decency’s sake we’ll pretend otherwise.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) from Greek ἱερo-—”sacred”—and Latin fastus—”disdain”
A dislike of holy objects.
He runs his finger over the wood and it burns him. Not to a blister, but his skin, pale after centuries dead, flushes red, stinging. He hands over the money and tucks the object into his pocket, where it heats his thigh through the fabric until he’s sure the flesh there will be tender.
Later, he sets it on a shelf next to the others, dozens of men on dozens of crosses, vials of blessed water, stars, crescents. He wants to look away but forces himself to stare before he retires to his room, shutting his door on the danger.