Sunday

Sunday
by,
William Morgan

In the shower. In my cell. They get me. Five against one. Every night. Except Sunday. A day of rest? I fight. I fight real hard. I always lose. And it hurts. Hurts real bad. My girl, Jenny. She’s sneakin’ stuff in. Every visit. A good girl is my Jenny. Sunday arrives. I draw the circle. Light the candles. Open the book. Slice my palm. Speak the words. I hear their screams. I hear their screams. I smile.

Something Memorable

Something Memorable by William Morgan

“It’s not working.”

He saw it wasn’t. He was nervous because he had been warned that failure meant death.

“Keeps ripping, see? Tears right through. No support-“

He couldn’t sleep. Nightmares plagued him. Not of his death, but of the shame of failing.

“Try lower.”

A scream, piteous, pleading.

“Look, no ripping, no tearing! I think we’ve done it!”

Relieved he marched off to his commander. “Sir! I know you wanted something memorable. Unfortunately the nails through the palm won’t work. Too fleshy, sir. Nails rip through. But, nail the wrists, and the ankles, and you’ll have a very special crucifixion.”

Animal Lover

Animal Lover,
by,
William Morgan

     I am an animal lover. Sort of. I go to the local shelter, adopt a puppy, dog, or cat. They live with me for a week. For

the whole week the animal is treated like royalty. Pampered, loved, fed only the best food, bathed in luxurious soaps,

shown nothing but kindness. They have a wonderful, abuse free time.

After a week, a .22 behind the ear. Euthanasia at it’s most merciful.

There’s just too many unwanted pets, and I certainly don’t have the time to take care of all of them. So, I do what I do.

It’s better than doing nothing, and at least the animal is living the dream, albeit short term.

I know, it sounds pretty bad, but consider this, my Facebook pal Jeremy is concerned about so many unwanted babies….

Harvester of Sorrow

Harvester of Sorrow,
by,
William Morgan

      She sat by the small coffin, head in hands, weeping. I coughed. Her head lifted, showing me her heartache.
      “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
      “My Paul was such a beautiful boy. He was climbing the tree. He fell…”
      She shrieked. Pulled her hair.
      I placed my hand upon her head. She stiffened, then a smile appeared. Her eyes rolled back, she slumped, grinning.
     I was filled momentarily with melancholy until my soul absorbed her sorrow. It was leaden with grief and loss.
     I scratched off Patterson in the obituaries, headed over to Pulaski’s, four lost to a fire.