Dexter Zvicha is a fiction writer and political nerd. He is an MA and MPA graduate of the University of Delaware. He is interested in exploring the wild, grotesque and beautiful through poetry and short fiction. You can see more of his work on his blog thelitepassenger.wordpress.com or follow him on Twitter @LitePassenger.

The young brother sitting next to me nodded, flipped and tranced. He also kicked. The kicks followed the pastor’s reverberating hallelujah chant. Some of the kicks creased my shin. Yes, I felt some pain. I wanted to kick back but the calmness of the church and the dignified look on the faces of the bodies around the hall made retaliation difficult. It was church not a boxing ring; there was no kick for kick. I belched and relaxed. The brother nodded and shouted. He felt the word and the Pastor. I felt the buzz and the bladder crying for relief and mercy. In front was a teenage girl crying. An old man spotting a long beard and dressed in an oversized grey suit sat next to her. He rubbed her back and reassured her that everything was going to be fine; she was in the right place. She had sinned and regretted it. The old man must have been her father. A middle-aged woman sat next to them, fish-eyed. Was she the mother or the sister? Maybe she was her stepmom. Her stolid face was a sign. She felt the chronicles sermon too, she was touched. I felt the chronicles too. The crowd was animated. It chanted, cried and banged on the wooden benches. It was humbling. Homs felt it too. He felt Jackie. She was sitting in front, waiting for Tinashe, her Pastor husband. Read the story here.