by
Jenny Forrester

(Ed. Note: This story is the winner of Monkey Puzzle’s 3rd Annual Flash Fiction Contest, featured in Monkey Puzzle #11 –I’m posting it as an example for entrants to our other flash fiction contests. – NJ –)

I sleep with my door open.  In case.  In case I need to escape or my mama needs to save me.  There are many ways for the devil to enter a room.

I’m praying to be good in thought, word and deed.

When I pray, I close my eyes.  I’m on my back because I have a bunk bed and I just can’t see to kneel and then climb up.  I’m tired.  And I’m short.  So I put my hands flat on the bed, palms down.  I don’t want my hands wandering.  It seems wrong – no, more than that really, to touch some other part of my body, any other part of my body with my hands while trying to get the attention of God.

My brother is asleep in the room next to me.  His door is always closed.  He’s more into barricades and strongholds for defense.

I believe in symbols and submission for this purpose.  I cross myself when I’m done praying for goodness and security.  But my brother’s also right about borders – a good barricade can be a good defense.  I open my eyes and wrap the blankets closer to my neck – vampires can’t chew through blankets. No one confirms this, but I reason this has to be true.  In the movies, the vampires always go for bare necks.

I don’t feel secure still.  The wind is howling, the trailer is rocking but not in a good way.  I hear things blowing around outside.  There’s a smell of possum coming up through the register – they hiding under the trailer because they were caught off guard by this wind.

I’m filling up with fear because I can’t pray without God transforming into some demon.  I try to see his face, but it’s like stone and smoke, smudged.  I can’t envision God with his robes on still.  He is male and therefore has male anatomy – that’s what makes him King of All.  shouldn’t think about his male anatomy, but the more I try not to imagine it, the more I imagine it.

I confess.  But not to that.  I confess to loss of faith, which is better than loss of propriety.

Jesus is no help.  Covered with cloth, bleeding in gold paint above my bed, hanging on his cross.  His troubles are far greater than mine could ever be. I want to have made that death of his meaningful – the reason he died was for me, for my soul, for all of us and I fail him time and again.

I start to cry.  I’m desperate.

My hands begin to wander.

My hands are comforting against my skin.

I’m going to hell.

I let go.  The wind howls, the trailer shakes and shimmies.  The cans and other truck smash into the trailer and roll down the alley, tossed along the stones and rock hard ruts.  I become aware that metal and blankets and intentions won’t protect me from the devil or from God.

Jesus and I are alone.

I touch his feet and curl into a ball, becoming a smaller target for the lightning I know is headed my way to blast me into hell.

I sing “The Gambler” because it always makes me feel better.

And I spiral away from God.

I practice my poker face in the dark.

Jenny Forrester

Jenny has been writing a memoir and has been known to write a fiction story or two and sometimes, she melds the two. You can find more of her work on Facebook at Trailer Trash Writing.