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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Ancient Colors” Down in the Dirt, v148 (the August 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book Random Thoughts the Down in the Dirt July-Dec. 2016 collection book		get the 418 page May-August 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

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Sunday School

Tyler Wolfe

    God’s fingers pierced through stained glass windows, lining the walls of the cathedral. Open corridors encompassed rows of cheap, wooden benches. Archways, supported by obelisks, lined the side of those corridors, welcoming all to enter. Mice skittered about, to and fro, racing across the cathedral’s stone floor. And lastly, a massive, glorious dome rested above a crucified Jesus of Nazareth, and the Bishops chair.
    It was Sunday, and Little Timmy was in trouble. He stood in the Bishop’s office, bent over, gripping the side of the Bishop’s desk as Mother Susan spanked him. He locked eyes with the carpet, which was as red as his hiney. His pants and underwear were kissing it, leaving his bottom unprotected. Where his hands gripped the desk were two worn-out edges. They dipped deep into the desk. Everyone knows where to place their hands now.
    The assortment of crosses Mother Susan bore jingle-jangled in time with the spanks. Almost turning the incident into a hymn. The spanks kept time, while the whelps sang the lyrics.
    “Is that enough? Have you learned your lesson yet, boy?” asked Mother Susan.
    “Y-yes, ma’am,” said Little Timmy.
    She spanked him again. He whelped. “Can’t hear you. Have you learned your lesson?”
    “Yes, ma’am!” His voice shook.
    “That’s better. The Bishop will be with you shortly. In the meantime, think about what you did.” Mother Susan left the room.
    Little Timmy was frozen. He felt as if a billion bees had stung him on the ass. Welts the size of oranges sprouted like flowers while his melon turned purple. His legs shook from adrenaline and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the side of the desk tighter and tighter. His arms locked and tensed up. He couldn’t move them. His feet felt nailed to the ground. The door opened.
    “Well... what do we have here?” said the Bishop. He checked the corridor for any sign of life, and gently closed the door, locking it. “I heard you said some blasphemous things in school, today, Timmy.”
    “Yes, sir,” Little Timmy said.
    The Bishop moved closer to Little Timmy, whispering in his ear. “Our church doesn’t take too kindly to blasphemy, Timmy.”
    “I know, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” Little Timmy was frozen in fear, sealing his eyes shut as if it’d make everything go away.
    “Why don’t you look at me when I talk to you, Timmy?”
    Little Timmy shivered and shook in response as if the air had suddenly grown cold.
    “LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU.”
    Little Timmy gripped the desk tighter, but slowly opened his eyes and looked up at the Bishop.
    His hair was black and combed back. He was young, only thirty-one, but he’d been here since he was a youth. His teeth were white and his smile was innocent, but his eyes struck fear into the hearts of young boys.
    “You know what your punishment is, don’t you, Timmy?” His zipper slid down.
    “Yes, sir.”

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