It has been 8,026 days since my last confession

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned

It is time we spoke of love.

That terrible sickness. It is hot like a fever. It is a quickened pulse and an aching middle. And I wish for it to sweep every city and hillside of France like a holy plague.

And I hope it finds you too. I might even pray it.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

He shuffles. He knows my voice, even through the screen of the confessional. Even though I wear a masque with vinegar sponges packed at its beak. Even though I have never confessed my sins.

He has heard me do many other sacred things with this voice: sing, moan, whisper at his nape, curse the night air.

And it is that night air that breaks my heart. In the same poisonous breath, the marsh creatures that blew us together, snuffed out my mother and brother in their beds. And it was only me and my priest there to witness.

“It has been 8,026 days since my last confession,” I whisper. I do not want others in the church to hear.

Silence, for a moment.

Is he there?

A breath.

“That would be twenty-two years, my child. Could it really be so long?”

“I am not your child.”

“Could it really be so long—”

A breath.

“François”.

My chest aches. I cough into my beak.

“Twenty-two years, to the day,” I say. “Father.”

Silence. He is calculating, But I know it to be true.

“Mmmm.” He shifts on the bench. I imagine he presses the wrinkles from his stole with gentle hands—the hands he used to press a wafer to Michel’s black tongue.

“But you are off by 5 days,” he says.

I knew he would say this.

“You forget the Annus Bissextus. The years of the twice-sixth day, Father.”

He smiles. I know because he breathes out his nose as though he means to laugh.

“You are quick, like always.”

“And you are quick to question me.”

An exhale, or a laugh under his breath. Restrained.

“Happy birthday, mon cœur,” he whispers.

I yearn for simple things. To watch from the window as his silhouette moves from home to home in the ploughland. To lay with him in the rectory, tracing his brows.

I press a hand to the screen. I work my fingers through the latticework. My goatskin beak crumples against the wall as I lean close. It is dark on the other side.

Silence, again.

“Pax, please,” I hiss. I cannot reach any further.

He clears his throat.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Pray, my child, make your confession.”

I pull my hand away. My fingertips are black with dust.

“I-I only wished to see you.” The vinegar in my beak stings when I breathe. “My mother would have made a tart today. With pears from the garden.”

“It is good to come before the Lord with contrition and to seek His forgiveness.” Pax speaks with his full voice. The others in the pews must hear him now. “What is it you wish to confess?"

I stand to leave.

“You wound me,” I say. I clasp the iron handle.

“Wait,” he whispers.

I grip the metal. The coolness is welcome. My face is dewy with sweat beneath the mask.

"For your penance, I require you to say three Hail Marys and two Our Fathers. I also ask that you reflect upon your actions, seeking to amend your ways.”

I should not have come. I crack the door. Hélène stands hunched and tssking with displeasure on the other side of it.

“And finally, François,” he rushes to finish. His voice flows out the door now and carries over the Basilique Notre-Dame. “Please. You must take a pilgrimage to the olive grove. At sunset. There you will find peace.”

A freewrite inspired by Fantasy Prompt #12
Time: 120 minutes
Song of the day: Lucy Meets Mr. Tumnus

Hello beautiful creatures. Let’s write together.

• Find a comfortable space

• Set your timer for 20 minutes

• Sink into your imagination

• Remember: It is safe to write from the depths of your soul

• Share your creations in the comments or DMs, if it pleases you

Optional: light a candle or put a little totem beside you.

Fantasy Prompt #13

In a moment of panic or great passion, you manifest a strange power. A power you’ve never heard of before. It was so subtle, though, was it really magic? Or was it a trick of the eye? What prompted it? Who witnessed it? Is it a great or terrible possibility?

---

Hello Campers,

I hope this message finds you warm, comfy (too comfy even), rich with friendships and bursting with creativity.

To those who are joining us for the first time, welcome to Fantasy Camp™. My heart is warmed that you are here. My name is Madeleine. I tell stories, write about fantasy in pop culture and design, and share about my book-writing “process” or lack thereof.

What a fantastical week! Here are some highlights.

1. Some campers sent in their freewrites. And HOOOOLY, you are talented. I am moved by your prose and vulnerability. More more more.

2. I made a Medieval Gift Guide and it got so many eyeballs. More than ever. I can’t believe it. And today, it was mentioned in a Substack roundup.😱 Be still my beating heart. I have yet to get my hands on one of those baby christening cups, but what if we all got one? That would be so cutie.

3. My Spotify wrapped was rigged and I won’t be sharing it. (It was 100% Billie Eilish even though I LISTEN TO REN, THE SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE SOUNDTRACK, ALL OF MY FRIENDS’ EX’S, MY LITTLE BROTHER, AND STEVEN KING AUDIOBOOKS TOO)

Just a quick one from me today. The sun is setting and I must walk. And Golden Gate Park is full of coyotes. Wish me luck. Or really, wish Indy luck. She is not a fighter.

I love you!
Love, laugh, live by the Sword,
Madeleine