I don’t want to be your next charity case. I don’t need your sympathy. I don’t need you telling me things that you don’t believe because you’re afraid to hurt my feelings, or make yourself look like the bad guy.
“Charity?” I voiced with a befuddled tone.
“Yeah. Charity.”
Now this would have been a good honest thing to do. Except for the fact that the man before me wasn’t what you would expect to be a doner. He was hairy across his arms, bearded, with rough hostile eyes and a sooty face from languishing in coal mines. Tattoos snaked across his chest, pass the burn marks and gun scars, and exploded across his back. His cheeks were rough, like badly finished wooden planks and had sharp edges for cheekbones. The stench of cigar fouled the air around him, and I could barely stand his odour as he reached a dirty hand into his tattered pockets.
“Gotta give some to the kids afterall.”
He extended his hand, in it’s black-nailed and dirt-covered grasp a small pile of notes. He smiled, crooked and yellowing teeth proudly revealing itself, and to my surprise, it changed his guant appearance entirely.
I smiled back, “Thank you, good sir.”
Mattoidneko
Charity something we can all use.A little of to make our envied not more conducive to any situation. Love is defines charity.
Shelley
Charity is a stripper name. I hate when people say little girls are named after strippers, though. Maybe she will be a stripper. What’s so wrong with that? Maybe she’ll be happy. Maybe she’ll be famous. Maybe she’ll kill herself at twenty three. Maybe she won’t because she’s pregnant and always wanted a daughter. Maybe she’ll be my daughter.
Kit
pour blood out through my palms into your empty bucket filled with ice cold facebook videos. tell me i’m good, i’m nice, i’m saving the world. with the click of a mouse you can end hunger, you see! it’s a new website. really great. you should check it out, maybe tomorrow we could cure aids.
ella
i hate to live in a word in which people benefit from the act of giving. That is in which investors are self interested and children who are hungry are only fed if they are able
g
charity is a sickening noun but a dreadful girl’s name
she said to me and i turned sideways in my chair so that my knees would fit like a boy do you ever i said a
nd stopped i guess that’s where we end you know her chin has a lot of pimples
and i don’t want to lick them, not this time
i pull my camo skirt down so the boy immediately behind can’t see between my legs
i brush my glowing leg hairs
the skin above her upper lip is flaking off, it’s beautiful
nanananananana
He didn’t want her to look at it that way. It wasn’t because he felt sorry for her. It was more than that. He loved her yes, he wanted her to be happy. But what she didn’t know, was three years ago she had done something similar for him. Unwittingly, sure. But nonetheless, if it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t be alive today and that was worth more than anything.
Beka
Niamh tugged at the cloth, again and again as it wound itself round her arms, then began to wind itself around her body as she twirled slightly to get it free from the trunk, and she let out a little laugh. How had she managed it? Yet her shoulders sank a little as she looked at the mass once it was all around her and at her feet. Not even a fraction close. Big enough maybe for ten, maybe twelve people if they were small. How many weeks, months, years before it was ready and could cover everyone?
Then again, with each passing day, people around her became twitchy with impatience and envy. Offers of money, dowry, charity, in exchange for the cloth. But what good would it have done then, if it simply sat at the foot of some cleric’s bed, when the night outside was slippery with ice and snow? She paused, her fingers gripping a small section of the cloth. Again the idea turned in her mind. If she tore off a section, showed it around and assured them, folk had exaggerated, it was only ever the size of a tablecloth. She just had to make a little tear, through the middle. Her arms stayed wedged into her sides. It was too much like cutting into it’s heart.
She gripped it tighter, then let out a shriek of surprise and leapt at a sudden clattering from the garden. Then forced herself to stop, her eyes screwed shut as amidst the noise outside she heard a heavy tear.
Makita put his hand on her shoulder. “I can understand why you were afraid, but there’s no need to worry now. We will put you in a police dormitory until this is all over, and will bring your clothes and other belongings to you. And you don’t need to worry about your job, we’ll talk to them too.”
Tricia brushed his hand off her shoulder; “I don’t need your charity, I just want to go home!” Makita returned her stare. “It’s not about charity, it’s about your security!” “I should point out,” Ohara interrupted, “that someone told them we were coming. Someone in YOUR organisation!”
Makita remained calm, and folded his arms. “Yes, I’m sorry about that. We have been compromised. But only four people other than myself knew the codename
for our VIP. I sent each of them with a team to meet you at four different stations; Tokyo, Shinagawa, Ueno and Shinjuku. Detective Kanda, who met you at Tokyo, has now been arrested.”
Tricia jumped to her feet; “You set us up? Used us as bait?”
Makita was still calm, but Ohara answered her first. “No, he gave us a seventy five percent chance of NOT being ambushed!”
He smiled at his friend. He was right to have trusted him.
tonykeyesjapan
He would never give a single coin to a person that asks for it. He loved everything that he owned after working so hard and all those objects made him feel alive. And then came a strom that didn’t ask for anything, yet took all his life.
You loathe the people who walk along the street, the ones who pass the kids, settled on the curb with their baseball caps out, the silvered statues holding delicately still until someone drops a dollar into their hat—they instantly burst into action, dancing, changing a pose, then freezing solidly again until the next passerby. It’s very beautiful, very lonely, very sad…the sort of thing that you enjoy, you guess.
its is very good thing to do charity. if i had ample amount of money i would have made charities offtenly. even though i don’t have money right now i make charity in some or the other form. Money is nit the sole requirement to make charity though. It takes a big heart to help someone. People should understand how important & responsible it is on their part if they are capable enough to make charity. Charity can be made even for self satisfaction. At a very young age person should be taught to make charities.
divyani
it rings the bells slowly
pious
or languid
it’s hard to tell in the winter
snowy beards and crows feet
bely a suspicious enigma
it’s hard to see something when the fog rolls
parallel to the plane of your eyelashes
My mother always gave to charity. Like clockwork, she donated to the Red Cross, to UNICEF…to any suicide prevention center she could find. My brother’s allowance went straight to those centers, now that he wasn’t alive to receive it.
What? – she said with an outrageous voice. – I can assure you, sir. That all the charity find it’s destiny.
Marie
The man climbed out of his coach, shielding his eyes from the downpour beneath a gloved hand. The streetlamps cast a strange glare as they reflected in the rain. She couldn’t really make out his face, but she could hear his voice well enough:
She didn’t want his pity and his money. She was a strong woman who grew up by herself, went to college by herself, and made a living for herself without the help of any adult. She was only 20 all the same. She still had so much to learn, but one thing she knew was that she didn’t need his charity, no matter how appealing that was.
She wasn’t well known for being charitable. In fact, if you could choose one word that did not describe her in the least, it would be that. She thought it was useless, donating to kids who were practically already dead. But then again, she wasn’t well known for being kind in the first place either.
rheyquaza
sdsdfsdflkjslkasjdlkajsdlkjadlkasjdl
sfsdf
Because of the kindness that wrapped around me,
I bestowed her with an extra blow of compassion
by telling her that she could have gave him more,
more than a wedding dress–
forsoothe, a bacherlette party fused with a bachelors party,
I was feeling charitable, due to the possible heartfelt turmoil he could have inflicted
men can get out of hand when their beloved women is absent
friends are the influence that burden the common sense, they test mettle
I caught glimpse of the yellow box, that was labeled “donate shoes and clothes here”. To gap the void of anxious desire me and her had to give, we drove out of the left hand turn lane to signal the car forcing over a merging of lanes, hissing the acceleration of two cars behind us to yield to our impulsive right turn signal. Splash, we delved in the parking lot, opened the charity box, and let off some weight on our conscious by helping out a person in need.
She’d been looking for a fun, creative way to charm her various wealthy friends into donating and a charity ball had been, by far, the best idea at the time. But, now, with a million things to do and all of them HER responsibility, she wished she’d thought of something simpler.
Charity.
she was strong willed; never eager to take charity from those who were better off than she. She’d refuse help or hand-me-downs at all costs as she would not become the ”charity case” of the town. The winter came and the soles of her shoes were overcome with holes; rendered by the years she was forced to wear them with the prospect of a new pair no where in sight.
a young boy, her neighbor, who had lost his mother earlier that spring noticed the sight of her white socks poking out every time she took a step. He knew his father had just purchased a brand new pair of hiking boots for his mother last fall and decided to sneak into his parents bedroom and retrieve them. he left thme on the front porch of the girl with the strong will’s house…… and now, even stronger soles.
parsons
church doors in the dim moonlight
polished cobblestone wet with winters nighttime breath
Sister Martha comes round the bend while the others chatter in the distance.
Jessica
He never gave to charity. But there was something about this poor idiot, wasting his time on a Saturday afternoon when any reasonable person would be off indulging in their chosen vice, that made him decide to open his wallet and give. He asked him in, a sly smile crawing across his face.
Charity is when you give what you have to those who are less fortunate. For some reason, not all people are charitable – adjective form! – but they should. Not only does it make the less fortunate happy, it will more likely come back and bless you in some way or another
Jisun
Five fingers are spreading, begging for something. Light leaks in through the cracks and illuminates the grubby nails. You pull the trigger.
I look down at the piece of life that the doctor just gently placed across my arms, “Charity.” My gorgeous wife says looking at the love sprawled across my face. “Her name is Charity.”
My mama always said that the most important thin’ a young lady can do in her society is to give to others. Anne-Louise says it’s lookin’ nice and not speakin’ much. But Old Mrs Hubbot says it’s to be nice to everybody.
Giving. That was what people told me was the best thing a person could do. There was no talk of receiving; I was told that made me selfish. So what then? What does that make people with less money who end up receiving charity? This is one thing I’ll never know. What would ever happen to me if I was on the other end of this string of kindness that dragged me along the way? Guilt overcame me, but I managed to hold it in as I turned in that bonus check to the office.
Olivia
Charity is someone I know. I seem to have lost touch with her and I don’t know how she is now. We havent’ talked in a while even though we used to almost daily. It scares me that I have kind of forgot about her and know her name better than I am able to place her in my head. So Charity if you are out there, I say hi, and maybe we can get together and talk some more and I can get to know you again. I would like that.
Amy wasn’t the best at charity events, she always messed up something or got late to it.
Apparently, she just wasn’t one to appear whilst helping. She was actually a great person, but not when everyone was lookin, in this case, she was a star. Amelia Pond, the super model.
ana
Charity to fill the gaps left deliberately, to keep society beholden. There are those who profit from the suffering of others, and charity is an excellent way to mask and disguise.
filthy word, pity is the worst human behaviour. charity is the rich encouraging the poor to be dependent and keep them poor. i hate charity. i hate NEEDING charity more, because it always comes from sanctimonious assholes who use it as a way to pat themselves on the back and ‘buy’ a clear conscience, while contributing to systems that continue to oppress the poor because they don’t actually care. ugh this is the worst word in the world, the worst. don’t give a person a fish, teach them to goddamn fish. charity just hands out fishes and then whines that the poor are ‘so needy’ well yeah maybe because giving us stuff isn’t going to help us get it for ourselves. maybe if you got your head out of your own self pitying, self aggrandising arse you’d see that. but oh you can’t, because you’ve never been poor. you’ve never known what it is to be truly hungry, to not know where your next meal is coming from, to panic about getting hurt or sick. fuck you and your charity. and charity organisations are even worse, using the disadvantaged to make money and not giving any to them bc ‘administration costs’. fuck charity. it only exists bc society is broken and the state doesn’t think its sole duty is to take care of its citizens anymore.
Joe
Importar-se com o próximo, e com as pessoas e dormir tranquilo, por ter ajudado alguém,
Dirceu
“You gave how much to charity?!”
“Half my earnings,” I repeated to my flabbergasted uncle. “And don’t look so shellshocked, Uncle Brad. They need it more than I do.”
“Which charity?” my uncle demanded to know, pointing a skeletal finger at me. “I should at least get the honor of knowing that!”
“Charlie’s Foundation,” I replied with an excessive tone of politeness. “Pancreatic cancer research. You know, the stuff my mom died of. Now please lift your jaw off my floor – I just had it swept.”
Belinda Roddie
She was the kind of girl you never noticed. Your eyes traveled right over her, from one end of the dark-paneled priory to the other, passing only briefly on the panels of stained-glass that cast muted jewel tones across the inside of the otherwise sober church. She kept her eyes low, even when the rector was speaking. Making eye contact with the metaphysical otherworld was pride, which was a sin, which was not permitted, which meant damnation. She looked instead on the book of psalms laying in her lap, the page opened to her favorite of King David’s forays into poetry. Of course, she did not have favorites. Having favorites was presumption, which was ego, which was sin, which was not permitted.
He lifter her up and wiped her tears. “It’s going to be okay,” he assured her. She pushed him even further away and spat back, “What am I? Your charity case? Just leave me alone.” He tried to reach for her, but she was already too far away to bring back.
I don’t want to be your next charity case. I don’t need your sympathy. I don’t need you telling me things that you don’t believe because you’re afraid to hurt my feelings, or make yourself look like the bad guy.
“Charity?” I voiced with a befuddled tone.
“Yeah. Charity.”
Now this would have been a good honest thing to do. Except for the fact that the man before me wasn’t what you would expect to be a doner. He was hairy across his arms, bearded, with rough hostile eyes and a sooty face from languishing in coal mines. Tattoos snaked across his chest, pass the burn marks and gun scars, and exploded across his back. His cheeks were rough, like badly finished wooden planks and had sharp edges for cheekbones. The stench of cigar fouled the air around him, and I could barely stand his odour as he reached a dirty hand into his tattered pockets.
“Gotta give some to the kids afterall.”
He extended his hand, in it’s black-nailed and dirt-covered grasp a small pile of notes. He smiled, crooked and yellowing teeth proudly revealing itself, and to my surprise, it changed his guant appearance entirely.
I smiled back, “Thank you, good sir.”
Charity something we can all use.A little of to make our envied not more conducive to any situation. Love is defines charity.
Charity is a stripper name. I hate when people say little girls are named after strippers, though. Maybe she will be a stripper. What’s so wrong with that? Maybe she’ll be happy. Maybe she’ll be famous. Maybe she’ll kill herself at twenty three. Maybe she won’t because she’s pregnant and always wanted a daughter. Maybe she’ll be my daughter.
pour blood out through my palms into your empty bucket filled with ice cold facebook videos. tell me i’m good, i’m nice, i’m saving the world. with the click of a mouse you can end hunger, you see! it’s a new website. really great. you should check it out, maybe tomorrow we could cure aids.
i hate to live in a word in which people benefit from the act of giving. That is in which investors are self interested and children who are hungry are only fed if they are able
charity is a sickening noun but a dreadful girl’s name
she said to me and i turned sideways in my chair so that my knees would fit like a boy do you ever i said a
nd stopped i guess that’s where we end you know her chin has a lot of pimples
and i don’t want to lick them, not this time
i pull my camo skirt down so the boy immediately behind can’t see between my legs
i brush my glowing leg hairs
the skin above her upper lip is flaking off, it’s beautiful
He didn’t want her to look at it that way. It wasn’t because he felt sorry for her. It was more than that. He loved her yes, he wanted her to be happy. But what she didn’t know, was three years ago she had done something similar for him. Unwittingly, sure. But nonetheless, if it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t be alive today and that was worth more than anything.
Niamh tugged at the cloth, again and again as it wound itself round her arms, then began to wind itself around her body as she twirled slightly to get it free from the trunk, and she let out a little laugh. How had she managed it? Yet her shoulders sank a little as she looked at the mass once it was all around her and at her feet. Not even a fraction close. Big enough maybe for ten, maybe twelve people if they were small. How many weeks, months, years before it was ready and could cover everyone?
Then again, with each passing day, people around her became twitchy with impatience and envy. Offers of money, dowry, charity, in exchange for the cloth. But what good would it have done then, if it simply sat at the foot of some cleric’s bed, when the night outside was slippery with ice and snow? She paused, her fingers gripping a small section of the cloth. Again the idea turned in her mind. If she tore off a section, showed it around and assured them, folk had exaggerated, it was only ever the size of a tablecloth. She just had to make a little tear, through the middle. Her arms stayed wedged into her sides. It was too much like cutting into it’s heart.
She gripped it tighter, then let out a shriek of surprise and leapt at a sudden clattering from the garden. Then forced herself to stop, her eyes screwed shut as amidst the noise outside she heard a heavy tear.
Makita put his hand on her shoulder. “I can understand why you were afraid, but there’s no need to worry now. We will put you in a police dormitory until this is all over, and will bring your clothes and other belongings to you. And you don’t need to worry about your job, we’ll talk to them too.”
Tricia brushed his hand off her shoulder; “I don’t need your charity, I just want to go home!” Makita returned her stare. “It’s not about charity, it’s about your security!” “I should point out,” Ohara interrupted, “that someone told them we were coming. Someone in YOUR organisation!”
Makita remained calm, and folded his arms. “Yes, I’m sorry about that. We have been compromised. But only four people other than myself knew the codename
for our VIP. I sent each of them with a team to meet you at four different stations; Tokyo, Shinagawa, Ueno and Shinjuku. Detective Kanda, who met you at Tokyo, has now been arrested.”
Tricia jumped to her feet; “You set us up? Used us as bait?”
Makita was still calm, but Ohara answered her first. “No, he gave us a seventy five percent chance of NOT being ambushed!”
He smiled at his friend. He was right to have trusted him.
He would never give a single coin to a person that asks for it. He loved everything that he owned after working so hard and all those objects made him feel alive. And then came a strom that didn’t ask for anything, yet took all his life.
You loathe the people who walk along the street, the ones who pass the kids, settled on the curb with their baseball caps out, the silvered statues holding delicately still until someone drops a dollar into their hat—they instantly burst into action, dancing, changing a pose, then freezing solidly again until the next passerby. It’s very beautiful, very lonely, very sad…the sort of thing that you enjoy, you guess.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Derrick asked her. “You know how this works…”
“I know,” Sara said, her eyes downcast at the table. “But I can’t live like this any longer. He needs to be gone. He needs…”
“You need him to be gone.”
“Yes.” The relief in her voice was palpable. “I need him to be gone. Can you do this for me?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
its is very good thing to do charity. if i had ample amount of money i would have made charities offtenly. even though i don’t have money right now i make charity in some or the other form. Money is nit the sole requirement to make charity though. It takes a big heart to help someone. People should understand how important & responsible it is on their part if they are capable enough to make charity. Charity can be made even for self satisfaction. At a very young age person should be taught to make charities.
it rings the bells slowly
pious
or languid
it’s hard to tell in the winter
snowy beards and crows feet
bely a suspicious enigma
it’s hard to see something when the fog rolls
parallel to the plane of your eyelashes
My mother always gave to charity. Like clockwork, she donated to the Red Cross, to UNICEF…to any suicide prevention center she could find. My brother’s allowance went straight to those centers, now that he wasn’t alive to receive it.
Sometimes I gave them my allowance, too.
What? – she said with an outrageous voice. – I can assure you, sir. That all the charity find it’s destiny.
The man climbed out of his coach, shielding his eyes from the downpour beneath a gloved hand. The streetlamps cast a strange glare as they reflected in the rain. She couldn’t really make out his face, but she could hear his voice well enough:
“I’m terribly sorry, Miss! Are you alright?”
She didn’t want his pity and his money. She was a strong woman who grew up by herself, went to college by herself, and made a living for herself without the help of any adult. She was only 20 all the same. She still had so much to learn, but one thing she knew was that she didn’t need his charity, no matter how appealing that was.
She wasn’t well known for being charitable. In fact, if you could choose one word that did not describe her in the least, it would be that. She thought it was useless, donating to kids who were practically already dead. But then again, she wasn’t well known for being kind in the first place either.
sdsdfsdflkjslkasjdlkajsdlkjadlkasjdl
Because of the kindness that wrapped around me,
I bestowed her with an extra blow of compassion
by telling her that she could have gave him more,
more than a wedding dress–
forsoothe, a bacherlette party fused with a bachelors party,
I was feeling charitable, due to the possible heartfelt turmoil he could have inflicted
men can get out of hand when their beloved women is absent
friends are the influence that burden the common sense, they test mettle
I caught glimpse of the yellow box, that was labeled “donate shoes and clothes here”. To gap the void of anxious desire me and her had to give, we drove out of the left hand turn lane to signal the car forcing over a merging of lanes, hissing the acceleration of two cars behind us to yield to our impulsive right turn signal. Splash, we delved in the parking lot, opened the charity box, and let off some weight on our conscious by helping out a person in need.
She’d been looking for a fun, creative way to charm her various wealthy friends into donating and a charity ball had been, by far, the best idea at the time. But, now, with a million things to do and all of them HER responsibility, she wished she’d thought of something simpler.
Charity.
she was strong willed; never eager to take charity from those who were better off than she. She’d refuse help or hand-me-downs at all costs as she would not become the ”charity case” of the town. The winter came and the soles of her shoes were overcome with holes; rendered by the years she was forced to wear them with the prospect of a new pair no where in sight.
a young boy, her neighbor, who had lost his mother earlier that spring noticed the sight of her white socks poking out every time she took a step. He knew his father had just purchased a brand new pair of hiking boots for his mother last fall and decided to sneak into his parents bedroom and retrieve them. he left thme on the front porch of the girl with the strong will’s house…… and now, even stronger soles.
parsons
church doors in the dim moonlight
polished cobblestone wet with winters nighttime breath
Sister Martha comes round the bend while the others chatter in the distance.
He never gave to charity. But there was something about this poor idiot, wasting his time on a Saturday afternoon when any reasonable person would be off indulging in their chosen vice, that made him decide to open his wallet and give. He asked him in, a sly smile crawing across his face.
Charity is when you give what you have to those who are less fortunate. For some reason, not all people are charitable – adjective form! – but they should. Not only does it make the less fortunate happy, it will more likely come back and bless you in some way or another
Five fingers are spreading, begging for something. Light leaks in through the cracks and illuminates the grubby nails. You pull the trigger.
I look down at the piece of life that the doctor just gently placed across my arms, “Charity.” My gorgeous wife says looking at the love sprawled across my face. “Her name is Charity.”
My mama always said that the most important thin’ a young lady can do in her society is to give to others. Anne-Louise says it’s lookin’ nice and not speakin’ much. But Old Mrs Hubbot says it’s to be nice to everybody.
Giving. That was what people told me was the best thing a person could do. There was no talk of receiving; I was told that made me selfish. So what then? What does that make people with less money who end up receiving charity? This is one thing I’ll never know. What would ever happen to me if I was on the other end of this string of kindness that dragged me along the way? Guilt overcame me, but I managed to hold it in as I turned in that bonus check to the office.
Charity is someone I know. I seem to have lost touch with her and I don’t know how she is now. We havent’ talked in a while even though we used to almost daily. It scares me that I have kind of forgot about her and know her name better than I am able to place her in my head. So Charity if you are out there, I say hi, and maybe we can get together and talk some more and I can get to know you again. I would like that.
Amy wasn’t the best at charity events, she always messed up something or got late to it.
Apparently, she just wasn’t one to appear whilst helping. She was actually a great person, but not when everyone was lookin, in this case, she was a star. Amelia Pond, the super model.
Charity to fill the gaps left deliberately, to keep society beholden. There are those who profit from the suffering of others, and charity is an excellent way to mask and disguise.
filthy word, pity is the worst human behaviour. charity is the rich encouraging the poor to be dependent and keep them poor. i hate charity. i hate NEEDING charity more, because it always comes from sanctimonious assholes who use it as a way to pat themselves on the back and ‘buy’ a clear conscience, while contributing to systems that continue to oppress the poor because they don’t actually care. ugh this is the worst word in the world, the worst. don’t give a person a fish, teach them to goddamn fish. charity just hands out fishes and then whines that the poor are ‘so needy’ well yeah maybe because giving us stuff isn’t going to help us get it for ourselves. maybe if you got your head out of your own self pitying, self aggrandising arse you’d see that. but oh you can’t, because you’ve never been poor. you’ve never known what it is to be truly hungry, to not know where your next meal is coming from, to panic about getting hurt or sick. fuck you and your charity. and charity organisations are even worse, using the disadvantaged to make money and not giving any to them bc ‘administration costs’. fuck charity. it only exists bc society is broken and the state doesn’t think its sole duty is to take care of its citizens anymore.
Importar-se com o próximo, e com as pessoas e dormir tranquilo, por ter ajudado alguém,
“You gave how much to charity?!”
“Half my earnings,” I repeated to my flabbergasted uncle. “And don’t look so shellshocked, Uncle Brad. They need it more than I do.”
“Which charity?” my uncle demanded to know, pointing a skeletal finger at me. “I should at least get the honor of knowing that!”
“Charlie’s Foundation,” I replied with an excessive tone of politeness. “Pancreatic cancer research. You know, the stuff my mom died of. Now please lift your jaw off my floor – I just had it swept.”
She was the kind of girl you never noticed. Your eyes traveled right over her, from one end of the dark-paneled priory to the other, passing only briefly on the panels of stained-glass that cast muted jewel tones across the inside of the otherwise sober church. She kept her eyes low, even when the rector was speaking. Making eye contact with the metaphysical otherworld was pride, which was a sin, which was not permitted, which meant damnation. She looked instead on the book of psalms laying in her lap, the page opened to her favorite of King David’s forays into poetry. Of course, she did not have favorites. Having favorites was presumption, which was ego, which was sin, which was not permitted.
He lifter her up and wiped her tears. “It’s going to be okay,” he assured her. She pushed him even further away and spat back, “What am I? Your charity case? Just leave me alone.” He tried to reach for her, but she was already too far away to bring back.