The siren echoed through her neighborhood on Sunday morning. A call to attend church. Triggered by the National Guard. The well-armed men and woman who came to help after the fires, but never left.
They were stationed on every corner. Making sure the residents obeyed curfew. Even though the danger had long passed.
She couldn’t quite remember when the sirens came. The ones that woke them up in the morning. The ones that told them it was time to go inside. God help anybody who was caught outside after curfew.
And the call for Sunday mass. 10am every week. No excuses. Missing that was worse than being out after curfew.
In her Sunday best, she would walk with her parents and little brother to the neighborhood church. It was a Roman Catholic Church repurposed to the requirements of an American Christian Church. As were all the churches, synagogues, temples, mosques and meeting rooms.
Filled with statues of Jesus and The Leader. With hundreds of copies of The Leader’s New Translation of The Bible. The American Version.
The mass was very long, but everybody paid attention. In fear of being shamed by their neighbors.
The message was clear: Jesus helped our Leader save this land from Satan and his followers.
Guns are a holy right.
Abortions are an unforgivable sin.
A man is a man. A woman is a woman. A woman is always in service to a man. A woman is property.
Man was made in God’s white image. Black is inferior. All other races are a threat.
Gays are an abomination.
Speak not of climate change, that is The Devil’s lie.
Science is heresy. Speak not of these people who think they know better than God.
The list went on and on. But those were the ones that made her stomach hurt most.
As the preacher spoke and praised The Leader, she thought of other things.
Becoming a doctor to help women control their own reproductive system. Finding ways to sterilize men or make them impotent.
Kissing that cute girl in class. The one she shared a secret smile with. Or riding that cute boy like he were a horse. Then smacking the shit out of him and spitting on his naked body.
She recalled stories from the books they burned. And thought up her own. The more sinful, the better.
She pictured herself drinking a cold beer and smoking a cigar.
Setting a stack of bibles on fire and dancing naked around the flames. Then pissing on them to extinguish it.
Shooting the leader in the head. And selling pieces of his brain for profit.
And to love all those who she knew now lived in fear and terror. The ones everybody around her cast out.
She was standing still, but in her mind, she was dancing. They could take everything from her, but they’ll never take her thoughts. Or her imagination.
“Amen,” the congregation responded.
“Amen,” she mimicked.
Thomas Misuraca
Tom Misuraca (he/him) studied Writing, Publishing and Literature at Emerson College in Boston before moving to Los Angeles. Over 170 of his short stories and two novels have been published. His story, Giving Up The Ghosts, was published in Constellations Journal, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021. His work has recently appeared in Flash Phantoms, Muleskinner Journal and Snowflake Magazine. He is also a multi-award winning playwright with over 160 shot plays and 14 full-lengths produced globally. His musical, Geeks!, was produced Off-Broadway in May 2019.