After my Catholic mother divorced my Jewish father, we became churchgoers. Our Holy Name of Jesus sanctuary stood beside a cornfield. Every Sunday, our backs to the giant, waving stalks, we’d climb the concrete steps into the dim vestibule. My patent leather shoes pinched. My dress itched.

During the homily, I cracked jokes into my sister’s ear. Mom flashed her stink-eye, digging nails into my six-year-old thighs, stinging with tiny half-moons.

I wanted to bolt from the building, run barefoot in my underwear through the wild green cornrows, arms thrown wide, fingers brushing soft leaves, face pointed toward the sun.

Bella Mahaya Carter

is an author, creative writing teacher, and coach who fell in love with micros last spring. Since then, her stories have appeared in The Dribble Drabble Review, The Drabble, and Friday Flash Fiction. One of her stories was nominated for the Best Microfiction 2023 anthology. She lives in Studio City, California, with her husband and daughter.

Author’s website: www.bellamahayacarter.com