The Old Church
Wyatt Bonikowski

The bulldozer crouched like a mantis. I picked over broken glass through a narrow window. Books lay heaped on the stone floor, spines broken, pages spilled in mildewed chunks.

Tell me about the books, my sister whispered.

They are bibles, prayer books, and hymnals, I told her.

And what are they doing there, on the floor like that, she said.

They are being eaten by insects, I said.

Are there bats? she said. There are always bats.

Yes, there are bats, I said.

There is a bulldozer crouching like a mantis, I said. Earlier in the day it dug the ground.
There is something coming up from below, she said.
The church no longer works, I said.
The church is done, she said.

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