The butcher’s knife landed with a thwack, cutting short the chicken’s clucking. Alan carried it to the makeshift altar with the reverence of a pallbearer. He painted the signs on himself with the animal’s blood, and muttered the prayers as he struck a match.
Alan stood in the circle. “Dad?” he said, a begging in his voice. “Are you there? What should I do?”
The words croaked out from the chicken’s beak. Alan shivered as a draft blew out the light. “Put your money on the Cubs. Something tells me they’re going to have a very good showing this year.”
Author’s Note: I have a photographer friend who has another photographer friend who won a photo contest for taking a picture of a religious cult member performing an animal sacrifice. I have yet to see this picture, but I was blown away that this kind of thing is still happening. I wonder who (what?) the offering was for.