Thursday, July 23, 2020

Coventry


Coventry

The smell of dirt took her back. Touring her father’s field. Glances from the field hands.

The Count’s cold hand. Her breast grasped like a heifer’s udder. Her father’s face turning away. The Count continuing business directives.

The bells were ringing to call her to vespers. She grasped her tools, headed back to the monastery. 

Through the kitchen, pausing as was her custom at Sister Ignatius’ semi-hidden, heathenish “Warrior Mary” statuette. Prayers not for chapel.

Sister Ignatius grunts, “the Count was unhorsed. Prioress says he dies tonight.”

Genuflecting. Eyes down. “I will pray for him.”

Shrewd Sister Ignatius.  “Me too.”

___

Submitted to the NYC Microfiction 2020 competition, chosen in top 20 of category and moved on to semifinals.

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