Ol' Low Bone Parish

 Hello everyone! The year is flying by! We had the first flurries of the season today on campus, so that was exciting! I recently finished a short story that originally started as a writing exercise. I was originally aiming for it to be less than 500 words, but it grew beyond that scope. I'm quite happy with the finished product though. Hope you enjoy!

Ol' Low Bone Parish

In Low Bone Parish, the water don’t knock. It barrages in like an angry father, ready to dole out a whoopin’. 

It started when Old Julie White had had one of her visions, putting everyone on edge. Nothing good comes from one of her visions. 

A brave few ventured up to her porch and asked what she had seen. In a voice that crackled like fire, this is what she saw.

Her homegoing was coming, and with it, a storm unlike anything Low Bone had ever seen. Winds fast enough to snap a child’s neck. Swamp water high enough to claim anything in its path, including the trees. Hungry, hungry gators roaming for freshly drowned flesh.

If you had any hopes of surviving, the best thing you could do was leave.

Now, the elders of our town were wary. We’d had bad storms before, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Then again, Old Julie White’s visions were never wrong. She’d predicted countless deaths and births in equal measure. True, the God-fearing people of Low Bone claimed she was just a crazy lady, but deep down, they believed her. 

That’s when Pastor Franklin stepped in. The old bastard disregarded the voodoo lady’s vision.  He claimed it was the work of the Devil, meant to scare the good townsfolk out of Low Bone Parish. One little old woman couldn’t possibly hold the power of life and death in her wrinkled hands.

Besides, if the old hag was so concerned, she’d leave.

He told everyone to stay put, board up their windows some, and stock up on food. Assured them that everything would be just fine.

That God would provide and protect the righteous.

Seemed that God had other matters to attend to.

Old Julie White passed in her sleep at the stroke of midnight, and she left hell in her wake.

Brackish water rose, toppling centuries old trees. Crumpling long-standing houses like paper. Drowning families in their own fluids. 

Remaining townsfolk were stalked by gators, poisoned by irate cottonmouths, or simply succumbed to disease.

People flocked to the church for food, clothes, anything. It was situated on a hill—a sign of divine providence—and protected from the brunt of the squall. But each was turned away.

Pastor Franklin had a new excuse every time:
Not enough to go ‘round, folks.

Be patient. The Lord has a plan.

For God’s sake, we’re not a charity.

Lifelong parishioners spent day and night, begging for help. Banging, scratching at the doors while their wails were ignored. 

Until one day…it stopped.

Pastor Franklin peeked outside one of the chapel’s foggy windows, gasping in horror at what he saw.

Bodies. Old, young, clothed, naked. Flies buzzin’ round their carcasses. Stankin’ with the foul stench of death. 

The pastor clamped a hand against his nose and mouth, trying to keep down what little sat in his stomach.

The townsfolk bobbed up and down, in the musty greenish-gray swamp water.

And it was getting closer.

Well, the Pastor did what any sensible man would and blocked up the door. Pushed wooden pews against any and every crack the door possessed. Surely, that would keep it out.

But it was no use, the water seeped through beneath the door. Not rushing or crashing through like a river or the ocean. 

Swamp water takes its time, and before you know it, you’re gone. 

Pastor Franklin backed up, scrambling to get away. He climbed on the wooden altar, but the water kept rising and rising and rising. 

It crept up the walls of the building, inching closer. Squeezing the remains of oxygen out of the room. Bullets of sweat ran down the pastor’s face, the heat weighing him down like lead. 

Soon, the church was almost full. Algae, twigs, and dead matter clung to the walls, claiming dominion over the abandoned House of God. He flinched as the rotted arm of a child bumped into him.

The pastor frantically searched for a way out, desperate not to die amongst the decay of his community. 

Without another thought, he waded towards the window. Shattering the glass, he jumped out into the water with a big splash. Pastor Franklin breathed a sigh of relief, triumphant that his God had saved him from that wretched witch’s curse. He bobbed in the stale, stagnant water, splashing as he rejoiced. Ignorant to the large log floating towards him. 

Without another word, his cries of celebration were cut off with a wet squelch, as a gator clamped its jaws around his meaty head. 

Once more, silence descended upon the swamp.

So, be warned before entering ol’ Low Bone Parish. 

The water might just get you too.

XOXO, Michaela