Sliver Of Presence

The sunset was a sliver of proof that a place outside the prison walls of flesh existed, and the never born resided there, frolicking with the never met, and he, an invalid castaway, could feel it beckoning him, calling for him through the wide open fields. “All of flesh is but a purifier of souls,” it said. Simon and David are born on a small farm, a Garden of Eden. Their grandfather and Rufus work the farm, their grandmothers work the family, and their mother works magic. Their father is Jesse. Football and alcohol are the flesh gods of south Georgia. Jesse worships both. Simon and David pay for Jesse’s sins. The price is steep in flesh. They both love Elizabeth. She is far too weak for what she must endure. At sunset, when the house had cooled enough to allow intruders, and the golds of the fields had gone, all that remained were shed crosses, of straw and wood and stone. The bright orange from the fire now covered the sky, God’s work on a canvas of air. The flesh that cowers from demons has the heaviest cross to bear, for in all things can be found heaven, and it is always sunset, somewhere.