Beyond the Stones by Gregory Meece
Queued for my sentencing, I reflected, like catechism taught us. The forgiven fingered their beads, tallying grace like dues. Stained glass flared—Moses, alight with judgment, mid-swing. Had I broken one? More?
Seventh or tenth? Covet versus steal. The “Thou shalt not” parts are identical. Unweighted, though. The difference, marginal? Are coveting and stealing equally bad? Can’t be. Christ—everyone covets.
Whoops—the second. “Watch your mouth.” A parent’s familiar refrain, but words carry the weight of our feelings—awe, fear, joy. Unbridled, yawpish, poetic, even sacred invocations. Only the words left unspoken—ignored, denied—are in vain.
Speaking of parents, the fourth—really? Honor automatically bestowed upon conception—the raising forgotten? How about that woman who drowned her five children? No exceptions? Maybe Moses forgot the fine print when God ordered a second set.
Sixth and Ninth (coincidence?)—Coveting versus adultery. Thought versus deed again. But fooling around with your neighbor— “your neighbor’s wife,” technically—must rack up more Glory Bes than just wishing you could. Surely Father Paolo sees the difference. I hope.
The Eighth—another neighbor issue. Why bear false witness against the guy in 2-B? We pass like strangers. But online… Hell’s not yet full—trolls and tea spillers, beware.
The Third—The Lord’s Day, once carved in stone, now fading ink. Shorter hours at the mall and a two-hour wait to buy my six-pack. Banks sleep, but ATMs overheat. Do anything you could do inside on the six unholy days. Like No-Fish-Friday, I bless my slice and bend the rule with extra cheese and basil.
Shouldn’t the Fifth have cracked the top three? No—sins against man bow to sins against God. Unambiguous. Direct. “Thou shalt not kill”— Check.
That leaves the First—numero uno. Exclusive rights. Moses pissed off by his people dancing like fools around a golden calf. No bull—bling. Six-figure cars idling at the Food Lion. Strange Gods.
My turn. The curtain seals me in dark silence.
The grate scrapes open.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was…”
My throat closes.
“I forgot.”
Then: “May God help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy.”
My fingers knot on the wooden ledge. The stones fall silent.
“Let’s see…”
I breathe in.
“I told her I didn’t care. I acted like it didn’t matter. But it did. It still does.”
The shadow behind the screen remains dark.
“Start there, Father.”
Gregory Meece is an educator, author, and Amish taxi driver residing in Chester County, Pennsylvania. His fiction has been featured in thirty anthologies, magazines, and journals, including Flash Fiction Magazine, Willows Wept Review, Cleaver, Canary Literary Magazine, Fabula Argentea, Freedom Fiction Journal, Thriller Magazine, and others. Visit his website at MeeceTales.com.
