Storms of Our Fathers

Walls fashioned from wooden panels allowed little room for movement, but little was needed. In dimness he traced polished patterns with an extended finger, circular shapes reminiscent of hurricanes, an unsettling connection to the storms of his past. He tipped a draw of bourbon from a pewter flask. And waited. 

It seemed not long ago when he first sat in similar confinements. So peculiar, the passage of time, he wrestled with how it should be measured. Years presented the easiest meter but the number they summed climbed higher than he liked. Still, it was years he used and many had passed.

There was a time women sought his company, many intrigued by his position, some seeking divine benefits from an offering of a different nature, but he had succumbed to only a few affairs, indulgences he later termed lapses in judgment, a phrase that gave haven from shame, but only for a short while. It was then he began filling his flask. And emptying it.

Thoughts of leaving, a once-common distraction, always ended with an existence that mimicked a paroled prisoner, someone confused by newfound freedoms. Rather than trade one set of regrets for another, he chose to remain and wondered if providence was at work, not allowing any other choice.  

He continued to trace patterns in the dim space, content to wait in silence, but the ominous reverberations of an organ added a voice to his storms. He bowed his head in answer only to spy yet another, but before his extended finger could meet the wooden panel, the screened window slid open. The wait was over. He straightened his posture and crossed himself, tipped his flask and listened to the words he desperately needed to say: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Halfway Down the Stairs, Flash Boulevard, and Roi Fainéant. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.

A Song for Foster