The Broken Bell

Photo by
Photo by

The church bell sounded, sending it’s clear toll across the small town. It called the faithful to worship. It was a sound that meant nothing to Andre. Not any longer. Once, his soul had thrilled at the metallic ring. It beckoned him to his favorite place, and in the pews of the house of God, he communed with his Creator. He loved the Lord and felt loved in return, until the day that what mattered most to him was taken.

It was in that church he said goodbye to his young son. His small, frail body laid out in the casket with the cross in the background. His son died and on the day of his funeral, Andre’s faith died too. He buried his child but his grief remained.

Now, as others flocked to that small building on the hill, Andre sat alone. The bell in his heart was broken.

[This is my entry this week into the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge. A photo prompt is given and writers are encouraged to create a short story of 150 words or less.]


2 thoughts on “The Broken Bell

  1. Pingback: No More Crying For the Dead | Dumasaphobic Diatribes

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