Little Flower of St. Frank

By Michael Neal Morris

“I thought you might be dead,” the astonished guard said nodding toward a large rat that appeared to be gnawing the fingers of the man meditating against the wall opposite the door.

The prisoner regarded his open hand, then raised it for the guard to see. The animal had crawled there for warmth and now lay stiff in his palm.

“Ugh,” the guard uttered and backed away from the outstretched arm. “You preach it to death?”

The prisoner laid the carcass in the cell corner and stood. “Nah,” he said wiping his hands against his pants. “Just heard his confession.”

“I write to keep myself safe. I write to keep you safe. I write because I look silly doing the safety dance.” – the writer

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