November 26, 2025

A Prophet's Hometown
By Nathan Perrin

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.




Mark walked with his daughter Lisa to school - chill autumn morning, kids running around. Leaves fell and circled around them. Mark loved the fall. He was a cold weather guy at heart. 
"Dad, did you hear about Sam's mom?" Lisa asked.
Mark nodded. Sam's mom was recently admitted to a rehab.
"I went to her house once," Lisa continued. "It was smelly, full of stacked mail and newspapers. I don't know how Sam lived like that."
"She sounds like she was very sick," Mark answered. "Thank you for telling me that."
Ministering in a redlined neighborhood in Chicago brought many stories like this to Mark's attention. Under-resourced health services led to heightened drug use and mental illness.
"Why was she like that?" Lisa asked.
"She's sick is all," Mark forced a smile. "We're all six inches from oblivion in one way or another. We need to have compassion for one another."
Lisa nodded and was quiet on the rest of their walk to school. 
---
Mark hung up his coat on the rack as he walked into the church.
"We got another letter from Clay," his secretary handed him an envelope.
"Oh?" Mark opened the envelope and started to read.
"I always expect anthrax in his letters." The secretary said.
"They are pretty wild."
Mark read the letter: A prophet is not welcome in his hometown. Luke 4:24.
"Huh," Mark folded the letter back up.
"Any alien conspiracies with this one?" his secretary laughed.
"No, just a single line."
Mark looked at the letter's return address to find it was in Cicero, a Chicago suburb. About twenty minutes from where Mark lived in the city. He wondered why he never considered where the letters came from. Usually the letters were filled with pages of paranoia, the usual noise of evangelical conspiracy theorists.
That single line told Mark something was wrong. He thought back to his conversation with Lisa, and imagined her pressuring him to visit Clay. 
"I think I'm going to visit Clay," Mark put the letter in his pocket.
His secretary laughed, "It's your funeral."
---
Mark hadn't driven in Cicero much. He remembered when he was a kid that Martin Luther King Jr. decided not to march through Cicero because it was mafia territory. King was told he would be killed for sure if he set foot there.
Mark always found that piece of history fascinating. Even King didn't want to go through this neighborhood. How bad was it to drive back someone who seemed to be the epitome of justice and love?
He thought back to Lisa, and how he wanted to be a good example for her.
"Turn left," said Google Maps.
"Yes, ma'am," Mark cleared his throat.
---
Mark knocked on the apartment door.
"Clay?" he asked. "You there? It's Revered Snyder from Logan Square. You write me a lot."
"What do you want with him?" asked a voice behind him.
Mark turned around and saw a woman standing in her doorway with a lit cigarette in her hand, "I'm doing a wellness check," he answered her.
"That guy's fucking weird," the woman took a drag of her cigarette.
"Have you talked to him recently, or seen him around?" 
"No, not much, but I try to avoid him. Again, fucking weird guy."
"Where's your landlord?"
The woman pointed south, "Just across the parking lot."
"Thank you."
---
"Clay?" asked the landlord. "That guy's fucking weird."
"So I've heard," said Mark. "I'm a pastor. I need to do a wellness check."
The landlord leaned back in his chair and scratched his beard, "Yeah, his kids have nothing to do with him. They pay his rent, deliver his groceries. That's it."
"Have you seen him around?"
"Recently? No. Not that I pay much attention. What do you have to do with him?"
Mark wanted to explain the bizarre, cult-sounding letters he received on a monthly basis, or the gut feeling he had that it was morally important to love even people who were outcast.
"He used to go to my church," Mark lied. "Before I served there."
"Ah, I see," the landlord stood up with his keys. "Well, let's see how he's doing."
---
The landlord opened the door, "Knock yourself out."
The smell of mildew and urine immediately hit Mark's nostrils. He put his hand over his nose.
"Yeah," said the landlord. "Clay's kids pay extra."
"I'll come to your office when I'm done."
The landlord smiled, nodded, and walked off.
"Clay?" Mark closed the door. "It's Reverend Snyder."
He looked at the walls to see newspaper clippings of random events around Chicago, as well as cut up Bible verses. Red marker was used to connect the news to the Scriptures.
On the table were a few opened letters.
Mark picked them up and saw they were from one of his kids.
Hey dad,
Thanks for writing. Unfortunately, I don't feel comfortable yet having my kids around you. Your mental health is still unstable, and you're refusing to get help. I'm glad you found religion, but you're still sick. You need to get help. If you want to talk more, please feel free to call me or meet me at a coffee shop.
I hope you'll find healing, for everyone's sake.
Arnie
A single tear fell down his cheek. He never wanted this to happen between Lisa and him. He said a silent prayer for their relationship. Mark realized he heard the sound of a distant TV. 
He walked down the hallway and knocked.
"Clay? It's Reverend Snyder. I'm here to check up on you, buddy."
Silence.
Mark opened the door.
Along the walls were jars of urine and even more piles of newspaper.
He fought back his gag reflex.
He could hear a gameshow playing on the television behind a wall of newspapers.
"Clay?"
Mark walked around the newspapers to see a bald, decrepit man lying on his bed and staring blankly at the television.
"Hey, it's Reverend Snyder. You doing okay?"
On the table next to Clay was a bottle of pills. From a short distance, Mark could see it was Vicodin.
Mark put his fingers on Clay's neck to check his pulse. There was nothing there. 
Mark took off a pile of newspapers from the side of the bed, sat down, dialed 911.
His eyes scanned the room. He remembered that twenty years ago he was in college and dealing with the worst depression of his life before he got involved in his church community. He made his slow and steady recovery partially because of genuine connection. He felt seen. 
Clay didn't get that chance.
The same brokenness inside Clay was also inside Mark in one way or another. 
---
The next day, Mark got news on the phone that Clay had been dead for a few weeks.
"Why didn't anyone check on him?" Mark asked.
"He was a mentally ill loner," the coroner said. "It's not unusual."
"Thank you."
Mark opened Clay's letter in front of him again. The last correspondence they had. 
What does a mind in isolation think?
It was the same ramblings - fire from the sky, death imminent. Natural disasters to fall.
"Are you doing his funeral?" the coroner asked.
"Yeah," Mark replied. 
---
The next morning, Mark walked into his office.
"There's another Clay letter," his secretary said.
"That's impossible," Mark hung up his coat.
"Left it on your desk," she shrugged. "That's all I can tell ya."
Mark walked over to his desk, saw the same scrambled handwriting, and opened the letter.
55 will die.
Mark's heart dropped.
---
A few hours later, there was a knock on Mark's door.
"It's open," Mark answered.
His secretary walked in: "Did you hear about the Madison Street bridge collapsing?
"No," Mark clicked out of his eulogy and went to a news site: Fifty-Five suspected dead
in bridge collapse. "Oh my God."
"You okay?"
"... yeah, yeah… just tragic."
"Yeah… just tragic."
---
Mark looked at the letter later that night in his office.
It could've been a coincidence. All of it. Clay was out of his mind.
But what if it was all… right? What if Clay was a prophet? What does that make Mark?
Mark shook his head.
His phone rang, he picked it up.
"Is this Reverend Synder?" asked a woman's voice.
"Yes," Mark answered.
"I'm Clay's daughter."
Mark bit his lip, "I've been waiting for you to reach out."
"I know."
"Do you have much to say?"
"No, no… it's just, my dad's mind was warped. He got into some kinda… religious addiction. It consumed him in the end."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"He was such a brilliant, smart guy before. Then he started getting these messages… these visions…"
55 will die.
"... he slowly started to lose his grip on reality. I once asked him what the point was of knowing the future if it's only going to destroy you. He didn't have an answer to that."
"They never do," Mark answered. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Silence.
"Reverend… I have faith, but what is the difference between hearing from God and mental illness?" Clay's daughter asked.
Mark opened his mouth, closed it. He looked at the cross on the wall.
"I'm not sure we'll know until we're on the other side of eternity," Mark said.
Another long silence.
"I'll see you at the funeral, Reverend."
"I'll see you there too."
Mark put the phone down. His eyes traveled up to his bulletin board. There was a new temptation inside him to pin it there to save. He shook his head instead, putting the letter through the shredder.
---
At night, Mark dreamt of the last time he saw Clay. This time Clay was alive.
Laying down, Clay's eyes finally traveled to Mark's eyes: "I sometimes listen to your sermons. You're a heretic, you know that?"
Mark forced a smile and held eye contact, "Of course I am. I'm a Methodist."
Clay chuckled softly.
They watched a nameless game show in silence.
"Are you my friend?" asked Clay.
Mark looked at him and realized Clay was clearly dead. All these years, Clay wandered alone through the world, alienated even from his children. Mark wasn't sure what Clay did to deserve that, but Mark knew then that the only right thing to do was to be present. Nothing more, nothing less. 
"Yeah," said Mark. "I'm your friend."
Clay's hand softly squeezed Mark's fingers. 
Mark looked down and noticed bandaged holes in the center of Clay's hands. Most likely self-inflicted. Maybe natural deterioration and the dying process. It wasn't for Mark to know, he decided.
That's when light emerged from the wounds, making the room brighter.
Then Mark woke up. 
---
The next week, Mark stepped into his office again. On his desk was another letter from Clay.
He sat down and sighed.
What did it matter if he knew the future?
Mark's fingers traced the frantic lettering on the envelope.

​                                                                 💀💀💀

Nathan Perrin (he/him/his) is a writer and Anabaptist pastor in Chicagoland. He holds an MA in Quaker Studies, and is a doctoral student studying Christian Community Development at Northern Seminary. His doctorate work centers on creating a writing program for nonprofits and churches to use to help under-resourced communities process trauma. His work has been published in the Dillydoun Review, Bangalore Review, Collateral Journal, Esoterica Magazine, etc. His forthcoming novella Memories of Green Rivers will be released in winter 2026 by Running Wild Press. He is also a screenwriter for an unannounced indie comedy series. For more information, visit www.nathanperrinwriter.com