Devil's Creek

by Todd Keisling

He’d knelt at the pulpit of a false idol for far too long, watching hypocrites saunter into the pews every Sunday morning, praising their lord while harboring the very sins they despised in others.

Growing up, she was always the quiet one, commanding respect from their peers out of sheer will. Most kids of that sort always skittered through the halls like mice, afraid of being seen and singled out, but not Susan. She was a contradiction, a clique of one, who stood out by not standing out at all. Wherever she went, she went alone.

Every man’s got a choice, and every man is judged by the choices he makes.

Mamaw Genie used to call him a nervous worker. Working with his hands busied his mind with something other than the problem. He couldn’t work on his art while preoccupied with such matters. The trivialities of real life poisoned his creative well.

Jack closed the car door and relished the scent of autumn lingering in the air: dead leaves and cut grass. For so much that changed in Stauford, the look and feel of southern Kentucky’s dusky light on his face felt familiar, a kiss from an old friend he’d not seen in years. The sensation felt like his childhood. The good parts, anyway.

Prayers came easily to Bobby Tate. They were little whispers in the dark, hopes for better things sent up to the sky, love letters to God in Heaven, and he was never lacking in hope for better things.