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Nameless

This is an excerpt from the manuscript of the memoir I just completed. Here we meet Nameless for the first time, and begin to see the role he plays vis-a-vis Pastor Lemon and the church. 
            I sat quietly with the hard wooden church pew digging into the bones of my skinny butt. The bench wasn't meant to provide comfort for the faithful, and neither was the sermon being roared from the pulpit. The silver-haired preacher was revved up for takeoff, spittle flying from his downturned mouth into what I secretly liked to call the "splash zone." The suckups in the first few rows got little sprinkles of holy water with every bitten consonant.              I’d been squirming all morning, but my attention had quite recently become riveted to the beams that supported the roof of God's house. They were sturdy, wood-hewn, painted a humble brown against the arched white ceiling. Whoever built the place was clearly going for aesthetics resembling a mental institution. From t…

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