#26 Sundays for the Faithful

by J.H Yun

So it became familiar, these sorts of snaggled drum beats beating uneven against the bible we laid across the snare to silence its rattle. I was too vigorous during practice. Spiteful for having to stay late, finally blew a hole in that old drum that lived in the building during its dive bar days, before it was gutted and turned into a church.

Band practice always goes this way: Pastor begging us to care. And we, too young not to barter, barter. Thirty minutes for chump change, 79 cent chocolate dipped soft serve, other meek exchanges to strum strings, beat broken drums, sing hallelujah like we get it.

“This damn drum is no way to carry a beat” says the second of us, her calloused fingers sliding over the slit on the snare’s tired face.

The bible propped across it helps sharpen the noise when I strike it, but not by much.

If God gave us money we’d fix it. Or rather, we’d pray away from our adolescence, these pews, his honey dumb face turned up to crosses. After practice, pastor blesses us all in his yellow watery eyed way and we think that Sunday is for our faithful sundering.

The first of us is sexting in the foyer. The second goes up and sings broke praises. And I, the third, consider the pastor. Fancying it night and myself nude, I watch him bloat whole and huge, rising in place of the moon.