miyabi
đŞ đ˘đŽ đ§đ˘đđđŞđŻđ¨, đŞ đ˘đŽ đ§đ˘đĽđŞđŻđ¨
So Peaceful in the Country
Mama always said that the worst sinners were the ones that gossiped, went around talking about other peopleâs lives; not a care in the world for whether or not it would affect them. She said theyâd get what was coming to them, be it big or small, but theyâd get their comeuppance either wayâit was only a matter of time. It started with the neighbor Harriet, a redhead in her forties with crows feet deep enough to mimic the ravine right up the street; she was a hag. The keyword: âwas.â Theyâd found her deep in the trees, looked like she was praying, but her wrists were bound with twine, there was dried blood up on the bark, nobody knew how it got there: the old sheriffâs explanation was that she must have been running, slid her hands against it, but they looked too high up.
Then it was Old Man Gus, a poor thingâhe wasnât a gossip like Harriet, but he was a drunk. Said too many things, did too many things, hurt a lot of people in the process. He was found in the cemetery over his wifeâs grave, he looked like he was praying too. Some said it was because he killed her and that he got it coming; there was no real evidence that he killed her, but whoever got him thought it was true. Micah couldnât deny it, Micah thought it, but Mama said he shouldnât think that way.
She was always a hypocrite.
Sheriff Wilson made the same announcement. It sounded a lot like Harrietâs: maybe he was trying to lessen the panic, but it didnât help much. Soon enough people started locking their doors, shutting their windows, kids werenât allowed to play after dark. Thatâs when people in town thought it was the end of it, less people going out after dark meant less people died. In fact, nobody didâit was foolish to let their guards down. People seemed more relaxed, started letting their kids play outside for longer, some forgot to lock their doors; there was peace, but it was only temporary.
Eunice was found in the river. She always read by it, on shore, against a few rocks and under a tree; Micah would join her sometimes. But the one time he didnât, she went missing for days until she showed up again. And it was Micah that found the body while on the townâs search. She didnât look human anymore, flesh slid off the bone, her eyesâthere werenât any anymore, only hollow sockets filled with sand. This was the worst one of them allâat least, he thought it was.
***
He first met Pastor Johnson when he stuck his finger in Aggieâs apple pie; this was the first interaction. Pastor Johnson was new, but people wanted to impress himâdressed their best for the first meeting; so when he stuck his finger into the pie, swished the syrup around in his mouth, there was a look of enlightenment in both Aggie and himself. Genuinely, he looked gratefulâfooled everyone into thinking that it was for the meal, when it was something else.
Pastor Johnson showered himself in his own glorification, basked in the praise of the town as they mindlessly followed his word. Micah saw right through it, he ought to if he didnât trust Johnson, but the others thought him crazy. The flame in his eyes, glistening, burning into the flesh of his followers, Pastor Johnson was no good man even behind the dazzling, toothy white smile. He often talked about resurrection, the sacrifice of man, believed himself to be above humanity; Pastor Johnsonâs ramblings inched their way into the mind of the local church, an earwig that ate through logic and flesh. Commonality is what set him apart from the prior pastor who, coincidentally, died only a week before Pastor Johnsonâs arrival.
The rest of the town convinced themselves it was a coincidence, but the inkling in Micahâs chest led otherwiseâthere was no prior knowledge of Pastor Johnsonâs arrival, heâd only shown up but the people took him with open arm. It may have been the handsome charm, blinding townswomen at their request, protecting them from the cold hard truth; someway, somehow, these people were wrapped around his finger.
He hadnât been in Carlisle long, only a months' time, but the month felt like an eternityâtime seemed to have moved slower and the fog: it wrapped its fingers in between the alleyways of town, nails dug into the gravel and grass, covered the faces of town sinners. It was the 4th of July when the body showed up, fresh out of church and the body was by the outhouse; the people of the town huddled it, some there to take it in for their afternoon gossip, others because they couldnât help but stick their nose in the business, some knew who he was. Billâhe was a drug addict, shot up more times than Micah could count, hellâMicah arrested him far too many times, and every time the guy still wouldnât clean his act up. It was always lies, then the aggression, an occasional ball of spit that was (luckily) struck by the acrylic barrier between them in the cop car.
âGo on, get! Ainât nothinâ to see here,â if one wasnât aware of what happened, they ought to think it was a partyâa social gathering of the congregation.
***
WOMAN FOUND UNDER CATSBOROUGH BRIDGE. The headline was there in bold print, staring back at him; this was the third time in four months.
âTo be honest, Sheriff, I ainât seen nothinâ âround here,â Micah met Pastor Johnson face to face, his own request; they sat across from each other, separated by cherry wood and a gun, an extra precaution. âNow, I know you ainât like me since day one, but I think that gun ainât necessary. Ainât that right?â There was an air about him, something that struck as arrogance more than anything. He was right, Micah didnât like him much, maybe had his biasesâthe gun made it evident, but he hid it under the veil of this being a part of the investigation.
Micah rose a brow, leaned back in his seat as a hand reached for the desk; fingers rose and fell, a motion reminiscent of playing a piano, hitting the invisible keys as he speaks, âPastor Johnson, all Iâm askinâ is if youâve seen anythinâ. I mean, you were the one that found Fallonâs body. What theâand pardon my French, PastorâHell were you doinâ down under Catsborough bridge so early in the morninâ.â
There was little hesitation, as if Johnson had been sitting on this excuseâ-or it was a legitimate response, âgotta keep myself in good shape âround here, what with the food yâall bring to the congregation, Sheriff. I like to run.â A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, one that faltered the moment the door opened, beckoning for Micah and the arrival of a journalist. Pastor Johnson, now, looked distraught, as if to paint the image of a man scorned.
âSedaris, big journalist here from outta town,â the deputy, slim figured and all, places a business card on the desk, âmake sure you ainât give too many details.â
Then it was Old Man Gus, a poor thingâhe wasnât a gossip like Harriet, but he was a drunk. Said too many things, did too many things, hurt a lot of people in the process. He was found in the cemetery over his wifeâs grave, he looked like he was praying too. Some said it was because he killed her and that he got it coming; there was no real evidence that he killed her, but whoever got him thought it was true. Micah couldnât deny it, Micah thought it, but Mama said he shouldnât think that way.
She was always a hypocrite.
Sheriff Wilson made the same announcement. It sounded a lot like Harrietâs: maybe he was trying to lessen the panic, but it didnât help much. Soon enough people started locking their doors, shutting their windows, kids werenât allowed to play after dark. Thatâs when people in town thought it was the end of it, less people going out after dark meant less people died. In fact, nobody didâit was foolish to let their guards down. People seemed more relaxed, started letting their kids play outside for longer, some forgot to lock their doors; there was peace, but it was only temporary.
Eunice was found in the river. She always read by it, on shore, against a few rocks and under a tree; Micah would join her sometimes. But the one time he didnât, she went missing for days until she showed up again. And it was Micah that found the body while on the townâs search. She didnât look human anymore, flesh slid off the bone, her eyesâthere werenât any anymore, only hollow sockets filled with sand. This was the worst one of them allâat least, he thought it was.
***
He first met Pastor Johnson when he stuck his finger in Aggieâs apple pie; this was the first interaction. Pastor Johnson was new, but people wanted to impress himâdressed their best for the first meeting; so when he stuck his finger into the pie, swished the syrup around in his mouth, there was a look of enlightenment in both Aggie and himself. Genuinely, he looked gratefulâfooled everyone into thinking that it was for the meal, when it was something else.
Pastor Johnson showered himself in his own glorification, basked in the praise of the town as they mindlessly followed his word. Micah saw right through it, he ought to if he didnât trust Johnson, but the others thought him crazy. The flame in his eyes, glistening, burning into the flesh of his followers, Pastor Johnson was no good man even behind the dazzling, toothy white smile. He often talked about resurrection, the sacrifice of man, believed himself to be above humanity; Pastor Johnsonâs ramblings inched their way into the mind of the local church, an earwig that ate through logic and flesh. Commonality is what set him apart from the prior pastor who, coincidentally, died only a week before Pastor Johnsonâs arrival.
The rest of the town convinced themselves it was a coincidence, but the inkling in Micahâs chest led otherwiseâthere was no prior knowledge of Pastor Johnsonâs arrival, heâd only shown up but the people took him with open arm. It may have been the handsome charm, blinding townswomen at their request, protecting them from the cold hard truth; someway, somehow, these people were wrapped around his finger.
He hadnât been in Carlisle long, only a months' time, but the month felt like an eternityâtime seemed to have moved slower and the fog: it wrapped its fingers in between the alleyways of town, nails dug into the gravel and grass, covered the faces of town sinners. It was the 4th of July when the body showed up, fresh out of church and the body was by the outhouse; the people of the town huddled it, some there to take it in for their afternoon gossip, others because they couldnât help but stick their nose in the business, some knew who he was. Billâhe was a drug addict, shot up more times than Micah could count, hellâMicah arrested him far too many times, and every time the guy still wouldnât clean his act up. It was always lies, then the aggression, an occasional ball of spit that was (luckily) struck by the acrylic barrier between them in the cop car.
âGo on, get! Ainât nothinâ to see here,â if one wasnât aware of what happened, they ought to think it was a partyâa social gathering of the congregation.
***
WOMAN FOUND UNDER CATSBOROUGH BRIDGE. The headline was there in bold print, staring back at him; this was the third time in four months.
âTo be honest, Sheriff, I ainât seen nothinâ âround here,â Micah met Pastor Johnson face to face, his own request; they sat across from each other, separated by cherry wood and a gun, an extra precaution. âNow, I know you ainât like me since day one, but I think that gun ainât necessary. Ainât that right?â There was an air about him, something that struck as arrogance more than anything. He was right, Micah didnât like him much, maybe had his biasesâthe gun made it evident, but he hid it under the veil of this being a part of the investigation.
Micah rose a brow, leaned back in his seat as a hand reached for the desk; fingers rose and fell, a motion reminiscent of playing a piano, hitting the invisible keys as he speaks, âPastor Johnson, all Iâm askinâ is if youâve seen anythinâ. I mean, you were the one that found Fallonâs body. What theâand pardon my French, PastorâHell were you doinâ down under Catsborough bridge so early in the morninâ.â
There was little hesitation, as if Johnson had been sitting on this excuseâ-or it was a legitimate response, âgotta keep myself in good shape âround here, what with the food yâall bring to the congregation, Sheriff. I like to run.â A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, one that faltered the moment the door opened, beckoning for Micah and the arrival of a journalist. Pastor Johnson, now, looked distraught, as if to paint the image of a man scorned.
âSedaris, big journalist here from outta town,â the deputy, slim figured and all, places a business card on the desk, âmake sure you ainât give too many details.â