The Earthquake

Domingo returned five years after the earthquake. The diocese had been prepared to pay for his flight there but he had opted instead to drive. He remembered the roads, and tried to avoid air travel, not simply because of the attention he drew in his black cassock—the handshakes and genuflections and requests for blessings—there was something about flying that was God-like to him, and he was reluctant to arrogate that kind of power to himself, and he was especially discomfited by the thought of flying over with a god’s perspective of the rubble, swamp and ruin. The town would never be rebuilt. He stood at the pulpit in the apse and prayed mutely. There was no longer the stench of bloated corpses. There was still the silent, toppled statues of saints, still the tangle of rebar, cables and mains. There was still the echoes of the dead, the floating and flickering of their candles.

Thanks for checking out my short story.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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