Just for you
Frederico doesn't believe in sin, death, or God.
He believes in the laundromat.
There's something about the rows of machines, spinning, whirling, but immutable, which draws his eye each morning as he passes. A dervish dance of predictability, the hurtling universe in microcosm.
Frederico sees the beauty of these faceless machines, and he is in awe. A solitary, stolid Franklin is converted to twentyscore gleaming Washingtons, clicking and tumbling into the blank coinslots of two dozen machines, and for all of Saturday he is the God he does not believe in, keeping the ducks of his minute cosmos neatly in a row, ensuring that his cyclical trains are running on time. Mostly empty, the machines of his deity draw him inward, onward, until the lights of the universe dim and God shuffles, with a final waking cresting behind his vacant eyes, to the door and let out onto the street by a bemused manager.
He thinks that, perhaps, faith is where you find it.
He will be back tomorrow.
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Word count: 169
He believes in the laundromat.
There's something about the rows of machines, spinning, whirling, but immutable, which draws his eye each morning as he passes. A dervish dance of predictability, the hurtling universe in microcosm.
Frederico sees the beauty of these faceless machines, and he is in awe. A solitary, stolid Franklin is converted to twentyscore gleaming Washingtons, clicking and tumbling into the blank coinslots of two dozen machines, and for all of Saturday he is the God he does not believe in, keeping the ducks of his minute cosmos neatly in a row, ensuring that his cyclical trains are running on time. Mostly empty, the machines of his deity draw him inward, onward, until the lights of the universe dim and God shuffles, with a final waking cresting behind his vacant eyes, to the door and let out onto the street by a bemused manager.
He thinks that, perhaps, faith is where you find it.
He will be back tomorrow.
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Word count: 169