My Darkest Prayer

by S.A. Cosby

But comfortable is to art what sugar is to tea. Too much and you ruin it.

I’m sure she would have ended the diatribe with “Bless your heart,” which is Southern for “Fuck you, bitch,” if she hadn’t expired.

“Fools and flies both I do despise, but the more I know of fools, the more I like flies,”

I politely told the voice to go have sexual relations with itself through the anus

Safety is an illusion. There is no safety. Just downtime between tragedies.

Funeral business was the last place where segregation was openly tolerated in America.

“Did they teach you that in the Marines? The way you fight looks like some Bourne Identity shit.” “Most of it. Some of it is just country boy-fu,” I said.

It was a twisted version of what we in the South called good home training. Don’t ask for something to eat at the neighbor’s house. Always say sir and ma’am, and don’t murder anyone in your friend’s home unless they give you permission.

“Punch a man in the face, he might still lie. Break his fingers joint by joint, and he’ll tell you how many dicks his mama done sucked,”

That’s the tragedy of this thing we call life, isn’t it? Either none of our prayers are heard or all of them are. Even the darkest ones.