fiction
“An unprofitable servant of God,” her father called me. His eyes black as blood. Angie loved him, but she adored (worshiped) me. “Don’t defile her purity boy,” he’d say. “Your love should be for Christ, not my Angie.” He spoke of love, but couldn’t grasp Divine Love, our love. So it was necessary. Silly detail [...]
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poetry
My girl comes home from church, wearing that pretty flower dress. Every single Sunday, that same pretty flower dress. But there’s a stain that getting bigger. It troubles me, I must confess.
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