By Tashina Johnson

Share:

A divine lesson in being careful about what you wish for.

And then came the madness.  

Celia still can’t recall exactly when it started, can’t remember what remorseless deed pushed the town to depravity and doomed them all. Maybe it was pestilence – the arrival of the rogue horseman that the gods foretold – unyielding and impartial with the death it left in its wake.  Maybe it was the horde of dead cattle that appeared in the town square one morning, neatly placed in rows like some twisted welcoming gift, leaving farmers to return to empty fields. This is the beginning of the end, the gifter must’ve said, the rumbling before the storm.

One day, as the young dawn appeared in the sky, the townspeople were brought to silence. The wails of grief and quiet whispers of conspiracy had finally ceased. Brother turned to brother and father turned to son, a bright look in hundreds of eyes, like young fires, steadily burning. 

Then, like puppets in a violent play, they senselessly began tearing each other apart.

And this is not the liberation Celia wished for. Not this divine game of waiting, anticipating the next worst thing. The stuttered cries of children echoed like ghosts throughout the streets. Blood lined the cobblestone roads, thick like syrup. 

A scorned God’s vendetta or a witch’s demand for suffering? There was no telling who orchestrated the tragedies. But Celia knew. She knew and kept quiet, not wanting to welcome her own damnation.  And maybe none of this would’ve happened if she had prayed more, kept her grudges tucked within herself, and dreamt less. If only she’d silenced the words of a man who only spoke to her in dreams, a promise on His lips. A destiny. A legacy. A temptation.

And if only she could unshake that cold hand — silence His lying mouth. 

Instead, Celia, a lone child in a sea of unwilling pawns, watched from behind the kitchen door as her older brother – who only ever had kindness sewn into his gentle smile – held an emptiness in his eyes as he pinned their mother down to the floor with heavy hands, and swiftly cracked her head against the stone tile.

Process

The inspiration for this piece came mainly from one of the first short stories I’ve ever written. It was super fun to dig back into my childhood and try to recreate it, in a way. My goal with this flash-fiction piece was to interweave themes of religious horror, inner conflict, and guilt. I drafted it in about 2 hours and ended up with a blob of prose. Initially, it was a bit too lacking in a clear narrative for my tastes. With the help of my mentor, though, I worked to expand on what I already had while hinting at a larger story.