Michael went to confession every Saturday, always had. Fights, barroom brawls, lusty thoughts and deeds, even slightly angry or evil thoughts - he had confessed them all. His rosary was well-polished from use. Then, walking out of the church this Saturday, he felt the swirl and swell of petty evil from the people he passed on the street. “This is penance”, he thought. “Penance is simply walking down the street, simply breathing, simply living. Life itself is a penance for living.” But he knew he would still show up next Saturday: there might have been something he had forgotten or overlooked.
About the author
Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up in Appalachia. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, The Door Is a Jar, The Phoenix, and other journals. Edward is also a published poet.
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