running for jesus

Endless rows of chimneystacks loomed before Richard as he lept from one decrepit brick building to another. Despite the cold, grey haze creeping around him, Richard’s eyes were drawn only to the prize: the gleaming hull of Sweet Jesus, bobbing gently in the Boston harbor. His quest propelled him over two more rooftops, down a fire escape and then Richard was running, running down the docks to his chestnut-framed Jesus, praying it held his beloved Catherine.

Upon reaching the boat, Richard hopped inside and promptly slipped on what he assumed was a bit of water. Grabbing a nearby pole to steady him, Richard inadvertently slid closer to the floor, completing his descent with an authoratative smack of the head on Sweet Jesus’ deck.

A mysterious liquid tickled his left hand. Turning his head to the left, he realized the growing pool around him was not seawater. Seawater did not fill his nostrils with the scent of copper. Seawater’s color did not remind him of a lover’s blush. And most importantly, seawater did not billow forth from the eviscerated remains of an unblinking Catherine, fifteen feet away.

running for jesus

ravensnarky

Portland, United States

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