Cory Stockwell

A Prayer for the End of War

Who dreamt the scene—Was it you? Was it the bald man whose image you saw on the wall before you? Not his "real" image, of course: it was somehow more in the glow it emanated. But no, it wasn't him either. There wasn't any who. All there were were words that you wouldn't have been able to distinguish from the glow, and that you heard as though in a chant: Bring us into your fold. Bring us into your fold. Bring us into your fold. Bring us into your fold.