It’s just another day in hell.

I’m standing in the Minister’s office in several inches of water.

Two ladies and a gentleman ask me what’s happening.

I look around. Enormous bullfrogs surround us, bathing on the floor – Some the size of ducks!

I examine a dozen bullfrogs,

then look back to the perplexed faces with my own bewildered expression. The other three start throwing suggestions out and banter back and forth. I block out their resolutions and try to breathe – In through my nose and out through my mouth.

Until I feel sharp bites at my ankles, one after another, followed by an intense slice to the back of my left ankle and then another. I look down to find leeches and crabs clinging to my ankles for dear life.

It’s just another day in hell.


A wedge of my left ankle is gone as if someone sliced it out like a piece of pizza.

The man scoops me up out of the water and sets me on a table behind the desk, “Who did this?”

I respond, “They came from behind, but it smelled like a man.”

The three begin to chatter again as they bandage my ankles. “It’s one of the two,” the taller lady declares.

We retreat to the sanctuary,

where I sit barefoot on a step near the altar and hear words being spoken, but I can’t focus to absorb the meaning.

I see the mother I remember outside wheeling a cooler, but she can’t get in. The doors are blocked by rows of chairs lined up outside.

So, I get up and try to push the door open. A few chairs topple, but she can’t reach the door.

I rush to the next entrance and try to walk a plank to get to a lower-level entry, but the gangway doesn’t reach the door. So, I scurry back and move to the third door and find her waiting. I open the door, and she wheels her cooler in along with several other women who are also pulling coolers. I watch them in a haze of confusion as they scurry about, making plans and chatting with the three who witnessed my disaster.


I move past the distraught crowd to take refuge

in the Minister’s office.

I close the door and block it with a chair.

The creatures of the night are gone. Only a few puddles remain.

I turn on the lamp and, in one swoop of my arm, push everything off the desk.

A stapler, a coffee mug, a candle, and books go crashing to the ground.

Papers with sermon notes flutter aimlessly and give in to the remaining puddles.

Water imbues the ink, bleeding the words to distortion.

Fish scales flicker light reflected in the puddles and dance in silver sequence with black fading ink.

bleeding ink

I hop up and sit on the desk and remove the bandages.

Then turn to lie back on the desk and notice the wounds circling my ankles begin to scar,

shackling me to a world,

I would rather not be.

It’s just another day in hell.

I close my eyes, and my mind reaches for the color that once was – now just past splendor.

stained glass window

Photo by Paul Bonnar on Unsplash

Crab Photo by Raphael Bick on Unsplash

Sanctuary Photo by Jordan Graff on Unsplash

woman Photo by Faisal Amir on Unsplash

Ink Photo by okeykat on Unsplash

Stained Glass Windows Photo by Jakub Pierożyński on Unsplash