Of Gods And Immortal Birds

Long gone the scorching hopscotch days, the powdered hands of playground chalk and yellow-white tongue from sherbet dip, filing into Assembly, where we bowed and kneeled in communal collapse, and every so often I’d wink at the oversized crucifix high on the wall behind Headmistress.

Then somewhere the worship plans changed. New icons emerged, we succumbed to the lure of the cruise, the booze and the bling, the shopping mall thing, wealth has shifted the ground beneath and the heavens above. 

Though I still sense that magic white chalk, that childlike wonderment, deep under my skin, like a Phoenix, waiting…  

This story was shortlisted in the April 2023 monthly micro fiction competition.

About the author:

Henry Edwards lives and works in Germany and simply enjoys writing. He has been long and shortlisted at various sites, but the best accolade is still when a friend says: “Yeah, not bad.”