Reverend McKaye opened the collection box and sighed. A handful of pennies. The poor who came out to this wind beaten church had nothing to spare, but still they gave.
He searched his robes for a match, lit a candle, and got down onto his creaking knees to pray.
The unmistakable sound of hooves on the stone floor made him flinch. He crossed himself, keeping his eyes tightly shut.
“What do you want?”
The daemon grunted. Steam rose from its muzzle in the cold air. “You asked for help.”
Reverend McKay shook his head. “Not from you.”
“It’s no good asking Him,” the daemon hissed. “He has abandoned you. Abandoned them.” It pointed a talon.
Reverend McKaye turned to the window. His congregation were still visible, heading home in their best Sunday rags. Men, hollow cheeked, shabby. Women, narrow waisted, tied with cheap ribbons. The children were the worst. Hungry and grey and bent like reeds. He watched as they shuffled through the dirt, back to the shacks and sheds where they lived.
He stared for a long time, until the last child had faded into the distance, then he nodded, an almost imperceptible movement.
The daemon laughed, a dull rumble which echoed from the stone walls. There was a knock, and the collection box shook. Then again, and again. In a few seconds the noise became a machine gun rattle, and the lid of the box burst open. Coins spilled onto the stone floor, ringing joyfully as they rolled among the pews.
Reverend McKaye looked up. Tears ran from his watery blue eyes and shimmered in the light of the candle, flickering on the altar.
For a moment the dull flame sputtered, fought for life, then it went out, leaving just a spiral of smoke, rising in the dark.
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Tom Cornfoot is a writer, designer, and illustrator. He’s spent over 30 years carefully developing a style of handwriting that’s almost illegible, doodling, and never getting around to learning to play the guitar.
These stories are plucked from the air, like everything else. There’s no consistent link or thread, unless of course you find one, in which case, it was entirely planned that way.
Words and pictures © 2025 Tom Cornfoot
"The unmistakable sound of hooves on the stone floor". "Steam rose from its muzzle in the cold air." "the daemon hissed." "The daemon laughed, a dull rumble " This is just such excellent writing, Tom, spare, evocative, deep. You use onnly the words that are needed, no extraneous detail. So refreshing.