Ivan Munch’s hands were empty as he entered the church. He never went to church empty handed but on this particular day his fortune had left him. The embarrassment had left his face looking like a sleeping toad. After a time, he began eating flies, his eyes throbbing in excitement. There was no hope for him this time. Even in prayer, his hands clutched to his head, or even sipping from the holy cup.
This left a queer taste of wild envy.
Now it was clear of his affliction…
‘’The spirit is at hand!’’ The vicar declared.
The other church goers imparted their impartial sacrament upon his spirit. There was no refinement. No miracles at hand to cure the corpse of his expression. In spite of their efforts they were none the wiser.
‘’ What we need is a conjurer’’ explained the vicar.
Shaken and disturbed they told Ivan to go sit in the pond in the church garden. After a while he started to pull at his eyes, looking in every direction there was possible and soon his eyes...