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“The beauty of the world...has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.” ― Virginia Woolf

Fiction 

Read samples of original fiction by Sheron Mingo Y! 

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Fiction Collection

available will be announced.

Do you know that we’re all clever embellishments of the real us and we flaunt facades on the stage of

life to win friends and love, that job, that laudable fame? Are you a dreamer? Does your life flash by, leaving

you longing for a swallow of the mystical? Come now. Sit with me (reverently) for a flash of embellished reality.

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Appeal 

A red brick church stands on a hill above the ruin and despair that taints Wilkinsburg. Melody from an aristocratic organ spills through the fractures in this church’s stained-glass windows. It is Saturday morning and the first Sabbath of 2008.  Parishioners wrapped in furs or leather file into this church and occupy favorite pews. The new eggshell walls and elevated ceiling in this church reflect prosperity and quietude.

Slim sits erect. She’s wearing a russet shade suit and silver pumps. Her auburn hair dusts the blue, velvet cushioned shoulder of the pew. Her feet press into plush carpet that matches the pews.

The organ hums: Under his wings, I am safely abiding.

Slim doesn’t see the organist playing or the dozens of parishioners seated in pews. She sees long, lean legs fidgeting beside her and peeps through averted eyelids at a pair of crisp, black Oxfords with unblemished, shiny tips.  She likes the shoes. The even heels look pristine. Prudence, she thinks and slowly rolls her stare up the woolen pant legs and impeccable seams. Her neglected bible lolls in her bag as her head rises slightly so she won’t be caught gawking at the man’s trim torso. His black jacket does not match his grey pants. She’s disappointed with this reality, but the jacket is as smooth as the ebony hand that places a twenty in the basket for charity that passes.

The preacher thumps the pulpit and says, “Give your hearts to Jesus. He loves you.”

Parishioners raise their hands heaven ward. Eyes stare at the ceiling. Slim bows her head humbly but tilts her face to snatch new glimpses of this stranger. His face is not as pretty as his shoes. Blotches desecrate his jaws. This stranger is imperfect, mortal. Slim’s finger disengages a strand of hair that adheres to her rose lipstick. She wonders where this stranger has been and where his new shoes will propel him.

The man is unaware of her prying eyes. His bible lays sprawled across his thighs. He looks intently at the preacher who chants a Sabbath prayer that reverberates throughout the chapel spilling through fractures in the stained-glass windows into the disparity outside of the church.

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​Do Not Copy or Circulate This Story Without the Author’s Permission      ©2005

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