Communion
by
Jesse Mardian
What came first, Jesus or the dinosaur? my nephew asks.
We all sit on plastic chairs in the church parking lot. The sun beats down on the blacktop. A holy oven, we congregate. The tinkling of a piano accompanies the voice of a woman who sings the bread I give is my flesh for the life of the world. My nephew wears all white. And the priest holds up the body of Christ, blessing the eucharist.
Who came first, Jesus or the dinosaur? the boy asks again.
Who or what and why and how. In my head visions of meteors churning the earth in devastating explosions. Creatures swimming then crawling then standing then walking. An old white man with a white beard and large hands. Does God look the same for everyone? The boy will eat the body from the hand of the sweating priest. His mother wears a floral dress and his father wears a suit with a straight tie. There are no wrinkles. Nothing tarnished except for the asphalt where a bee dies, its stinger left in someone’s skin, a paradox– the thing that’s supposed to protect you kills you. Once more my nephew begs the question.
Who came first, Jesus or the dinosaur?
People with baskets on lances meander for the collection. Bills with angel wings flutter to the bottom. My nephew tugs at me, he needs an answer. He is the spitting image of his father. His mother fulfills herself with money for the church.
Don’t ask silly questions, Michael, his father says.
The boy begins to play with his tie, his little legs swaying, toes grazing the burning floor. The priest summons the children and their families. We stand in the queue. We move as lambs. And I wonder as I edge towards the altar and the priest with the heavy garb. My nephew is in front of me, and I flick his ear. He turns.
Jesus was a dinosaur, I say.
He smiles as only a child can then faces the old priest. The eucharist is placed in the boy’s little palms and he eats it. Tastes like bread, he says, shuffling away. His mother and father bow and receive the token. As I stand before the priest, I cross my arms across my chest. I am the honeybee. I am the godfather. The priest utters a prayer and I ask him, father, who came first…
We all sit on plastic chairs in the church parking lot. The sun beats down on the blacktop. A holy oven, we congregate. The tinkling of a piano accompanies the voice of a woman who sings the bread I give is my flesh for the life of the world. My nephew wears all white. And the priest holds up the body of Christ, blessing the eucharist.
Who came first, Jesus or the dinosaur? the boy asks again.
Who or what and why and how. In my head visions of meteors churning the earth in devastating explosions. Creatures swimming then crawling then standing then walking. An old white man with a white beard and large hands. Does God look the same for everyone? The boy will eat the body from the hand of the sweating priest. His mother wears a floral dress and his father wears a suit with a straight tie. There are no wrinkles. Nothing tarnished except for the asphalt where a bee dies, its stinger left in someone’s skin, a paradox– the thing that’s supposed to protect you kills you. Once more my nephew begs the question.
Who came first, Jesus or the dinosaur?
People with baskets on lances meander for the collection. Bills with angel wings flutter to the bottom. My nephew tugs at me, he needs an answer. He is the spitting image of his father. His mother fulfills herself with money for the church.
Don’t ask silly questions, Michael, his father says.
The boy begins to play with his tie, his little legs swaying, toes grazing the burning floor. The priest summons the children and their families. We stand in the queue. We move as lambs. And I wonder as I edge towards the altar and the priest with the heavy garb. My nephew is in front of me, and I flick his ear. He turns.
Jesus was a dinosaur, I say.
He smiles as only a child can then faces the old priest. The eucharist is placed in the boy’s little palms and he eats it. Tastes like bread, he says, shuffling away. His mother and father bow and receive the token. As I stand before the priest, I cross my arms across my chest. I am the honeybee. I am the godfather. The priest utters a prayer and I ask him, father, who came first…
NUNUM
Blending Flash Fiction & Art
flash fiction submissions, flash fiction submission, nano fiction submissions, nano fiction submission, micro fiction submission, micro fiction submissions, short short fiction submission, short short fiction submissions, sudden fiction submission, sudden fiction submissions, flash fiction journal, nano fiction journal, sudden fiction journal, micro fiction journal, paying market, open for submissions, accepting submissions, reading period, brief fiction