Blink.

The thin man in the white button-down shirt opens his worn Bible, thumbs through the thin pages until his finger stops, his tongue briefly touching his lips in concentration. “Here it is, Isaiah 37. This is the scripture…” he begins but can’t get any further before Jack is on top of him. Big heavy fists on white flesh. The Bible falls, lands askew on red-inked passages. A low, hoarse mewl comes from Jack between the thumps of bone on wet, split skin.

Jack opens his eyes and the man is sitting next to him, Bible in lap, finger steadily moving along with his voice. “And God said unto man, go forth from the land of Canan, and make unto your self a Land.” He pauses and swallows audibly, like a filter gurgling in a pool then continues.

Words on St. Stephen

He shook a cigarette from a crumpled pack and lit it with a match, shaking the flame out with a flip of his wrist. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, except I tell everyone. I’ve learned very little in this life, and most of my words aren’t worth the spittle that comes from my telling it. But listen to me if you ever gave a damn about something.” His Irish drawl hung in the air like the smoke around his face. Behind us, the sun was setting, our shadows stretching out before us, pulled toward the creeping dusk. “Tell your woman what you feel and allow yourself to feel. Feel hard. Be passionate. Allow life to knock you ass over tea-kettle. Because everyone one of those times that you're left reeling was precipitated by something wonderful, something that makes colors exist. Something worth living for. I see men go through life stoic, straight-faced, like something made of granite. And I think to myself, which one of us is missing something?" With that he stood up and walked away, toward St. Stephen's North, where the shadow of Fusiliers Arch bled back into the hedgerow.