Mortal Sin

Shawn ran from the confessional like the Devil might grab him by the collar and drag him back down to Hell.

"What'd you get?" I whispered.

"Nothing. He said it was just a minor sin." I smiled. If stealing money from the donation box was considered minor, I was scot-free.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I left a mess in the rectory."

I didn't know what excommunicated meant but I felt I'd been unjustly served until my Pop said that Father Flannery obeyed only one dictate: cleanliness was next to Godliness. Violations were treated as a mortal sin.

Glass House

She'd built it metaphorically, to point out the fragility of our realities. If it earned her six figures, well she had to make a living.

Now she was confined inside a true house of glass, forever damned to clean windows, and floors and walls. Her fingers tasted of windex.

The worst part was the audience of gawkers and art critics parading past, taunting her with their stones and opaque clothing. They recycled themselves incessantly, and their presence was a constant reminder of her former hubris.

You see, the devil believes in metaphors too, and in prisons of our own making.