Two Security Service agents were waiting outside of the church. One of the agents leveled a black market German Luger in our direction.
“We hope you both made a good confession,” the agent said. His partner took the bag from Stosh. A smile spread across his face as he rooted through the bag with his bare hand, glove in teeth.
Stosh and I slogged past people on the sidewalk, our hands bound behind us. No one shoveled the snow anymore. The crunch of boots was like a lullaby as we staggered through the misshapen footprints of a thousand other ghosts.
William R. Stoddart is a poet and short fiction writer who lives in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His work has appeared in Eunoia Review, Adirondack Review, Ruminate Magazine, Pedestal Magazine, Neologism Poetry Journal, and Every Day Fiction. He has poems forthcoming in Nine Muses Poetry.
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