MicroHorror

Bernard joked that his faith was like a roasted marshmallow–crispy on the outside, mushy in the middle. In truth, he wasn’t a religious man at all. He simply desired to belong.

The blackened outside of his eagerness to please prevailed twice each year during the equinox, when the sacrifice took place. And as foreseen by the Ancient, tonight was Bernard’s turn on the altar.

Flames flickered on bamboo poles. Incense tinged wooded air. Tall pines observed friends, neighbors, and unknowns wearing gray, hooded robes and sandals as they circled and intoned, fingers interlaced at their waists. The Ancient, dressed in tainted white, shadows concealing his face, held the rapier high.

Bernard stared at the glinting steel, calm, accepting, and realized he was wrong about the depth of his faith. To prove this to the others, he closed his eyes when the priest’s prayer ended and performed his duty in silence and without regret.