In the tiny church in the one-horse town, the old man speaks of how the saint stepped down from the stained-glass window and spoke to the tongue-tied child. It’s always a child in tales like this, and the townsfolk always believe, partly because they need to believe in something, and partly because the child has always been special, their eyes flitting just beyond the tangible, and their speech making sense to no one, but calming the town’s one horse on scorching, bug-bitten afternoons. Pilgrims come to mumble and weep: a trickle, then a flood, then the tide turns again to a slow backwash. I’m only here to dodge the sun before the last bus leaves, but I’m happy enough to listen to this familiar tale in front of an unremarkable window. And you know how it ends, says the old man, lighting a candle, and he looks a little behind my eyes, to see where I’ve been and all the roads I’ve yet to travel. You know how it ends. He licks his old lips with a ruby stained-glass tongue.

Bio: Oz Hardwick