Fiction | Short Story

Acceptable Forms of Agony

It was during my third year of teaching the saints at Holy Trinity that the burning began.

that

that

thatthat

of approval. Back at his desk, he began folding his poem into the shape of an airplane.

leaned over me in the teacher’s lounge and whispered, “Is it cancer, dear?”

The Suffering of Saints

encouraged

priest and the altar servers. The room smelled of dried candle wax and frankincense. Incense wasn’t used for regular services. Had there been a funeral?

My

need