Mystagogy 

by J. Bradley

I made sure Ms. Mack was distracted before I sneaked my way down to the front row. I reached down my shirt, pulled out the cross hanging around my neck. The water tank would only be empty for another minute or so.

I begged my father to have me baptized after I found out how a warlock could use my fat to give himself flight. My father never trusted a god that would force a man to hold a knife to his own son’s throat. My father patted me on the head, said I had nothing to worry about. He wasn’t happy when I found his baptism photos.

I stood when the whales swam into the tank. I held my cross up as high as I could, hoped he didn’t mind that it was made from a chewed, broken pencil. I looked up. This counts, right? I closed my eyes after the whale swimming closest to me leaped out of the water.

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J. Bradley lives at iheartfailure.net.