Wick of a Prayer by Brantlee Reid

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candle burning

I have a boyfriend now, Cory Christopherson; he claims to be a serial killer. He said I’d be his last victim before he kills himself. I dig it.


He arrived at my flat with a fistful of saran-wrapped Chiva, and before I could fasten the spliced rubber band around my bicep, he climbed onto me with no time wasted. I moaned in turn but stared elsewhere. The only lust I felt ached beneath the surface of my blotched skin. Finally he came, and I went to the nightstand, lighter in hand, and bent the spoon’s neck.

Together in bed, we lay until the next day. When the sun tapped my eyelids apart, I sat up first and slowly. Lotaburger wrappers littered the floor in abundant company of shed clothing and overturned chairs and still-lit saint candles. Down again I wilted, Cory’s eyes now open upon mine.

He told me my eyes were like black coffee, that he couldn’t take them wholly but in sips. That’s not what my mother thinks, I thought as I ran my clammy fingertips along my forehead just to make sure the brand of her crucifix wasn’t still there.

I retrieved the last cigarette in the pack with my cracked lips, leaning into Saint Peter for a light.


Brantlee Reid overlooking grand canyonBrantlee is an art student in Santa Fe who enjoys exploring Mother Earth, Taco Bell, and writing things her parents can’t brag about to anyone.




STORY IMAGE CREDIT: Flickr Creative Commons/Margarita Olvera Monterd

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