He was a colorful speaker; a man whose spirit caught others on fire; an anchoring icon to his community since moving to it fifty years ago. It was those abilities that caught the attention of leaders of the new fascist regime. They needed a man like him.
On a Sunday afternoon in June, sunshine and birdsong was in the apple-blossom-scented air. Leaving church after brunch, he walked with spring in his step to his car. His mind was on Miss Jones as he turned the ignition. Debris from the explosion shattered sesquicentennial stained glass windows.
You see, they didn’t have one.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the gracious host of Friday Fictioneers.