The Chase...Flash Fiction Friday
Loping along through the moonlight, the priest tore at his cossock. A sweat broke against his brow as he ripped his collar into bits.
“O Heavenly Father, I am not worthy so much as to gather up thy crumbs at thy feet…” the young priest thought as he ran, panic transforming his heavy features into a grimace.
The path he took was steep and filled with roots of the surrounding forest. Many times, the priest lost his balance, tripping over the wet, bleak ground of the Estonian coast. His black shoes had fallen off somewhere behind him.
He heard the distant shouts of angry citizens, clanging their way through the dense underbrush, waving torches and screaming for justice. This night, it was not just the recently converted Muslims (departed from their lands as Jews, now taking on Arabic names). It was his own parish.
He was long used to the chases, and was also adept at finding shelter. But this night was different, for the town cryer had spotted his hideout, and had also identified him as the newly stationed priest from distant Romania.
His Orthodox stature, the priest thought, would surely protect him. Alas, it had only camoflauged him for a certain time, and then, just like before, in all the other little villages and towns throughout Middle Europe, he was discovered, and chased and hunted as an animal, and forced to beg the Papal consulate for further orders.
The priest, still running in outright fear, found his rosary and began to chant the Salve Regina, hoping for God’s intercedence. The would-be captors were nearing, and the priest was beginning to tire. His abdomen clenched in a familiar way, and he hurtled to the damp ground again. He tried to stand, but could not, for the pain was so intense. It traveled through his gut and into his bones. He moaned “Kyrie Elesion, Kyrie” but again, God did not respond.
Momentarily, the priest was thrust backwards in time, as a child, when he first Awoke. His Master stood before him at an altar, and raised a sword above the child’s head. And the priest clearly saw, just as he had then, the single drop of blood, the single wiry hair, pinned onto the very tip of the sharpened blade. And how it had plunged down, puncturing the boy’s gentle skin. The searing pain..oh, the pain…
The priest returned to the present, gathered his cassock (or what was left of it) into a bundle, and arose. The torches were much nearer, now, just feet away. The priest heard the screams and yells of dozens of different languages, none his Mother tongue. And as the mob surrounded him, and saw him for what he was, he lifted his head and screamed for his brethren to help, as God would not come to his aid.
Through the dense brush, the wolves came with lamplight eyes and snarling snouts, and gathered ‘round the monster, heeding their Master’s call. And before the mob stood the Werewolf, slaving for flesh, howling in pain, agony, and bleeding from one great paw. The stigmata was upon this monster, yes, and the mob’s fear was only slightly diminished by the pity felt for him. But then, the wolves began to advance, and the mob was thrown into action. After several attempts to slay the wild hounds, the mob turned to descend the mountain and escape.
The wolves howled as they ran, and the Master wiped at his snout. He swatted away one single, crystaline tear. It was the one tiny piece of humanity the Lord left him this evening. It was one tear during a whole summer of the full moon.
“O Heavenly Father, I am not worthy so much as to gather up thy crumbs at thy feet…” the young priest thought as he ran, panic transforming his heavy features into a grimace.
The path he took was steep and filled with roots of the surrounding forest. Many times, the priest lost his balance, tripping over the wet, bleak ground of the Estonian coast. His black shoes had fallen off somewhere behind him.
He heard the distant shouts of angry citizens, clanging their way through the dense underbrush, waving torches and screaming for justice. This night, it was not just the recently converted Muslims (departed from their lands as Jews, now taking on Arabic names). It was his own parish.
He was long used to the chases, and was also adept at finding shelter. But this night was different, for the town cryer had spotted his hideout, and had also identified him as the newly stationed priest from distant Romania.
His Orthodox stature, the priest thought, would surely protect him. Alas, it had only camoflauged him for a certain time, and then, just like before, in all the other little villages and towns throughout Middle Europe, he was discovered, and chased and hunted as an animal, and forced to beg the Papal consulate for further orders.
The priest, still running in outright fear, found his rosary and began to chant the Salve Regina, hoping for God’s intercedence. The would-be captors were nearing, and the priest was beginning to tire. His abdomen clenched in a familiar way, and he hurtled to the damp ground again. He tried to stand, but could not, for the pain was so intense. It traveled through his gut and into his bones. He moaned “Kyrie Elesion, Kyrie” but again, God did not respond.
Momentarily, the priest was thrust backwards in time, as a child, when he first Awoke. His Master stood before him at an altar, and raised a sword above the child’s head. And the priest clearly saw, just as he had then, the single drop of blood, the single wiry hair, pinned onto the very tip of the sharpened blade. And how it had plunged down, puncturing the boy’s gentle skin. The searing pain..oh, the pain…
The priest returned to the present, gathered his cassock (or what was left of it) into a bundle, and arose. The torches were much nearer, now, just feet away. The priest heard the screams and yells of dozens of different languages, none his Mother tongue. And as the mob surrounded him, and saw him for what he was, he lifted his head and screamed for his brethren to help, as God would not come to his aid.
Through the dense brush, the wolves came with lamplight eyes and snarling snouts, and gathered ‘round the monster, heeding their Master’s call. And before the mob stood the Werewolf, slaving for flesh, howling in pain, agony, and bleeding from one great paw. The stigmata was upon this monster, yes, and the mob’s fear was only slightly diminished by the pity felt for him. But then, the wolves began to advance, and the mob was thrown into action. After several attempts to slay the wild hounds, the mob turned to descend the mountain and escape.
The wolves howled as they ran, and the Master wiped at his snout. He swatted away one single, crystaline tear. It was the one tiny piece of humanity the Lord left him this evening. It was one tear during a whole summer of the full moon.
posted by FRITZ at 5:29 PM
14 Comments:
This is all very interesting. Very interesting. What are the rules to flash fiction Friday? And do you pick the topic? A stupid aside on my part: Fritz have you been to Estonia before, I only ask because it is very close to where I'm from.
And by the way, I'm glad your interview went well. I getting the vibes that you probably got the job. :)
Impeccable: No, I've never been to Estonia, but one of the places I'd like to go...for various different reasons. All sorts of interesting things there. Espinage, religion, cultures, and the seashore...Where are you from?
The RULES are:
Go to the Home of Flash Fiction Friday every Friday. JJ posts a sentence. You comment at his site and tell him you are going to 'enter'. Then, go to your blog and write a story beginning with the sentence JJ provides. You must complete the story by 12:00 pm CST the following Monday. When you have completed the story, go back to JJ's site and comment that you are done. People will come and give it a read.
Thank you for the vibes. I am crossing my fingers and double lucking myself. I sure hope I got it. Unemployment sucks.
Thanks for the info. And I'm from cold waters of Latvia.
Cheers
Brrrr! How interesting. I would miss home if I were you. Or maybe not?
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
This sucks
Well, so do you. Go blow it out your...nevermind...
Thank you for your insightful critique of my writing! I will definitely use your criticism in further writing, and hope you have a fabulous day.
I am so laughing at your comment.
Anyway, I liked it very much.
Oooh, you have a very Baltic blog here!
We Estonians have many legends, and the werewolf lives in some of them. The Estonian word for werewolf is "libahunt".
Great story. I felt so sorry for him.
Spinning Girl: I didn't know you were Estonian. I don't know much about Estonia at all, but now I know the word for an Estonian werewolf. Are you second generation or something? Very cool.
Bobby: Thanks for reading and laughing at my response to some knucklehead.
Julia: Was it really scary? I thought it was just kinda lame, all told.
Great story about the "libahunt". Spinning Girl reads LOTR in Estonian every year. Because she is certifiable.
I had the same feeling. I felt sorry for him. This was a hard one to write. I almost gave up. I was like "what the hell am I going to do with this?"
Good work Fritz.
Shanks, Monkey's Human! Yours was much more interesting to read, I thought.
Nice story! 2 solid FFF in a row... you're on a roll, Fritz!
Finally have a minute to curl up and read at the favorites writers corner...another great read, Fritz...conflicting emotions for the hero...brava, brava!
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