The Virgin of Last Resort
Her name is written in no holy book. She has no feast day. Yet still they find their way to her, the unwanted, the alone. Those who have prayed to every other saint in vain. They enter the town at night like the rains of summer that dry before the sun has risen in the sky. After the bar has closed, before the little street sweeper comes with his broom. Somewhere they find shelter and sleep, dreaming of prayers fulfilled.
In the glare of afternoon they enter her darkness, the unwanted, the alone.
She turns no one away. She grants every request.
Happily they leave her door, knowing they will meet their love at last.
Every morning the little street sweeper comes to cover the faces of the fortunate dead.
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Author's Note
A micro story, first published in Margin: Exploring Modern Magical Realism.
(http://www.angelfire.com/wa2/margin/index.html)
I found this very interesting and well written. the voice goes with the narrative, it rings true, and the last line soars. nice work
Entrancing. I too loved the last line though I drew no meaning from it; only pleasure. The piece has a very ethereal quality.
Enjoyed.
Thank you for the kind words, Susan and Larry.
-Larry, death is the prayer fulfilled, so the last line could be seen as ironic--or a genuine blessing, depending on how one views death.
-Susan, have we been in a journal together? I'm sure I've read your work before.
Death as the cure for all diseases. I like this dark meditation, especially the final image.
a gem. good to find.