by Jaydn DeWald

I stop before the window of a storefront church displaying a group of derelicts in ragged trenchcoats. A small congregation singing on the sidewalk. A pigfaced preacher pacing before them, crying with arms upraised: ‘Sing for the sinners, my brethren, that their sins may be absolved...’ A darkening evening. I approach the window like one possessed, but I can only see my own crosseyed reflection. I press my hands to the cold glass, then peek inside. The derelicts huddled there like a flock of enormous vultures, each carrying a lighted candle, each mortal face so drawn and cavernous in the guttering light. I take a step backward. The preacher clapping me on the shoulder. Somebody handing me a child’s tambourine. Somebody else already taking me by the arm, as if to dance with me.