Flash Fiction: The Methodist Bells

Illustration by Emma Crevier

That chocolate brownie was the most sensual thing that Timmy had ever experienced in his life. Deep, fudgy frosting covered the cake of the brownie like night descending over a freshly overturned field.  Timmy held it up to his mouth, looking at it in the same way that he would look at his lovers later in life, and tried to resist the urge to gorge. He wanted nothing more than to shove the whole damned thing all at once into his 8-year-old mouth and to have his stomach seize up from the sugar.

But Timmy knew better. He’d been taught better. He was not to act like that in public, especially when he was dressed so smartly in his new suit, the one with the too-tight navy blazer and the striped club tie. Timmy had never worn a tie before in his life, and even though this one was just a clip-on, he felt more like a man than he ever had before.

The basement church hall smelled musty just like his old man’s closet had, and it was filled with giants Timmy didn’t know. Many of them kept interrupting him as he tried to focus on his sweet. They all said the same things about his dad, using almost the exact same words. It was almost like they were reading from a script.

Timmy nodded dutifully when the bald men smelling of cologne spoke to him and then patted him on the head like he was a dog. Timmy never said anything to them. The stale breeze blown across the hall by the church’s ancient fan said everything that needed to be said.

When the man upstairs began to ring the booming church bells in honor of the dead, Timmy was of course startled. He was too young to know that this always happened.  And even though he’d been careful to cradle the brownie with both his hands, when the bells rang and clanged, Timmy couldn’t help but lose his grip.

The half-eaten brownie pinwheeled end over end and came to rest top down on the tightly knit carpet, halfway between Timmy’s new penny loafers. His mother, beautiful in black dress, ran over to clean up the accident, but really there was nothing left to be done.

That evening, when the bells had stopped ringing and the people had gone home, that new stain remained behind. It joined a growing congregation of blemishes that grew year by year on the well-worn carpet of the First Methodist Church.

Charles D. Thomas is a writer and psychotherapist who made Three Rivers his home for over a decade. Feedback is welcome at [email protected]