The Joy of Suffering

The steeple of the town church was just barely visible over the horizon, about five miles away. That was as far as Giuseppe was allowed to venture on his own. He stopped in the middle of the dirt road, staring out towards the hills beyond, and waited.

The first sun had set a little over three hours ago, and now the second one, further and dimmer, was dipping ever closer to the horizon. A cold wind was blowing from the south, stirring the fields of dry grass and making them look for all the worlds like a beige ocean, waves crashing and white caps shimmering in the waning light. The air was pregnant with the smell of straw.

A shiver caught Giuseppe off-guard. Now that he had stopped, he was beginning to cool off. The antarctic breeze made the small rivulets of sweat feel as if they would freeze to his skin.

The wind carried with it the deep bong of the church bell, sounding the evening Angelus. Giuseppe turned around to look.

You could go back, a whispering voice as cold and subtle as the wind said to him. Papa would understand.

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Brothers

Because, apparently, it isn't Lent unless I've written a short story.

You know in the holos, when the good guy finally catches up with the bad guy and winds up to deliver a solid blow right to the bad guy’s kisser? You know what they never show in those movies? How much belting the bad guy hurts.

That was the first thing I noticed after I sent my brother reeling backwards. Dadgum, my fist stung like it had been slammed in the door of dad’s hovercar.

“What the heck was that for, John?” my brother screamed, blood trickling from his mouth, trying to act all innocent-like.

“You know perfectly well, James!” I screamed back, trying to ignore the pain in my hand.

“Like spit, I do! I’m not some Tellurian mind-reader.”

I scowled at him, as if the look could bore a hole through his head. “Mary,” I said.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re not hung up about that, are ya? What’s the big deal?”

I lunged for him, but didn’t catch him off guard, like the first time. He blocked my jab, but I caught him with my left hook. He stumbled to the ground, and now both my fists hurt like the dickens.

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