Sainthood
flash fiction by Kim Farleigh
A cotton butterfly adorned her black, leather handbag. She was reading Santos Evangelícos.
Maybe butterflies ascend in her mind, lifted by Christ's wonders? I wondered.
She closed the book, elbow on the butterfly, head in her right hand.
A bent-spined nun had entered our Metro carriage, holding a walking stick, the nun's bonnet's white edge like a priest's collar.
Butterfly Woman closed her eyes, feigning pain. The other passengers, studying phones, sought oblivion. Nobody wanted to move. I personally don't stand up for people paid by rich, hypocritical institutions, hence I had no problem in looking at the nun while others looked away. Members of rich institutions have got enough money to catch taxis. It appeared as if Butterfly Woman didn't stand up for such people either, despite apparently being a member of their clan. She hung her head and hid her eyes. Normally people fight sleep in public; she fought wakefulness.
The nun’s gentle expression, directed at the seated commuters, was actually demanding. But asking directly implies avarice. And one must sympathise with those who adore earthly comforts, especially when one finds earthly comforts so attractive one's self.
A woman finally rose. Another woman dashed towards the free seat without having seen the nun. The dashing woman, on seeing the nun, backed away, leaving comfort for she who smiled the understanding smile of one inspired by the Lord.
Butterfly Woman continued fighting wakefulness, her head bowed, the nun seated beside her, pain from shame enhancing BW’s pretentious "pain." Opening her eyes would have challenged even more BW's self-perception, butterflies grounded.
Three stops later, through gaps between her fingers, Butterfly Woman saw the nun leaving the train. BW's "painful tiredness" lasted two more stops before she lowered her right hand. Most people previously in the carriage had left by then.
BW returned to the comforting self-perception offered by Santos Evangelícos, the threat of actually having to put her purported, self-enhancing principles into practice now gone, allowing the sunlit stream of pleasing self-belief to come flooding back into a previously tormented mind.
Maybe butterflies ascend in her mind, lifted by Christ's wonders? I wondered.
She closed the book, elbow on the butterfly, head in her right hand.
A bent-spined nun had entered our Metro carriage, holding a walking stick, the nun's bonnet's white edge like a priest's collar.
Butterfly Woman closed her eyes, feigning pain. The other passengers, studying phones, sought oblivion. Nobody wanted to move. I personally don't stand up for people paid by rich, hypocritical institutions, hence I had no problem in looking at the nun while others looked away. Members of rich institutions have got enough money to catch taxis. It appeared as if Butterfly Woman didn't stand up for such people either, despite apparently being a member of their clan. She hung her head and hid her eyes. Normally people fight sleep in public; she fought wakefulness.
The nun’s gentle expression, directed at the seated commuters, was actually demanding. But asking directly implies avarice. And one must sympathise with those who adore earthly comforts, especially when one finds earthly comforts so attractive one's self.
A woman finally rose. Another woman dashed towards the free seat without having seen the nun. The dashing woman, on seeing the nun, backed away, leaving comfort for she who smiled the understanding smile of one inspired by the Lord.
Butterfly Woman continued fighting wakefulness, her head bowed, the nun seated beside her, pain from shame enhancing BW’s pretentious "pain." Opening her eyes would have challenged even more BW's self-perception, butterflies grounded.
Three stops later, through gaps between her fingers, Butterfly Woman saw the nun leaving the train. BW's "painful tiredness" lasted two more stops before she lowered her right hand. Most people previously in the carriage had left by then.
BW returned to the comforting self-perception offered by Santos Evangelícos, the threat of actually having to put her purported, self-enhancing principles into practice now gone, allowing the sunlit stream of pleasing self-belief to come flooding back into a previously tormented mind.
About the Writer
Kim Farleigh has worked for NGO's in Palestine, Iraq, Greece, Macedonia and Kosovo. He likes to take risks to get the experience necessary for writing. He likes painting, architecture, photography and bull-fighting, which might explain why this Australian lives in Madrid. Although he wouldn't say no to living in a French chateau or a Swiss ski resort. 154 of his stories have been accepted by 92 different magazines.
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