Prose by Thomas Elson
At this stage of my life, I’m unable to walk down steps without pain; so after my Saturday confession, the priest suggested I leave through the sacristy — but not to linger. There were other penitents, and the exact nature of another’s wrongs must remain private.
I hurried through the room, down the ramp, past the kitchen, across the fellowship hall, into the vestibule, then sat in the back of the church. What are they going to say that I haven’t heard?
Once you’ve heard someone tell you that he smothered his lover because the man was dying of AIDS; once you’ve been told about a toddler dropped into a fire because he had urinated on his father’s boots, you’ve already heard everything.
Thomas Elson is a prolific writer whose stories grace the pages of esteemed literary publications such as Mad Swirl, Blink-Ink, Written Tales, and Ellipsis. With his versatile storytelling, he captivates readers across various genres. Splitting his time between Northern California and Western Kansas, Thomas finds inspiration in diverse landscapes.
