I had always enjoyed walking down the streets of my city at night. The streets become lifeless and still. The houses are all dark, save for one ore two windows dotted like stars in the darkness. There were street lamps, but they had a mellow blue tint to them. Instead of casting light on the streets, they made the street incandescent. The whole street seemed to glow.
The moon is happy. I used to say that when the moon seemed bright enough to see everything at the night-time. Between the dull shimmer of the sleeping street and the calm depths of the night sky, I was relaxed. I was nostalgic.
I had been walking for close to an hour when I came down Dent St. Dent St. is a dead-end street of large victorian houses. At the end of the street was a large church. The church stood tall enough that the bell tower can be seen from most of the city.
The church was closed for years. It had been closed before I was born. I had always wondered what the church was like. Once, it had served as a sanctuary. It was a house of God. With the windows shattered and the door half off the hinges, it appeared as though God had moved away. Can a church decay?
There was a fire 6 years ago. I remember everybody making a big deal about it. I don't remember seeing it for myself, but there are pictures of the white smoke lofting from the bell tower. The smoke could be seen from anywhere in the city. I wish I could remember that.
I walked to the doors of the church. I easily squeezed myself though the gap between the doors. Once inside, I closed my eyes. I don't know what I expected to see, but I wanted it to be a surprise.
The air was thick. Thick with years of dust and ash. The drapes and tapestries still hung from the the cracked stone walls. They were burned, and ragged at the bottom. The light of the moon peered through the many windows. Most of the windows had been stained glass, but few remained intact. Most were either completely destroyed, or had a few bits clinging to the frame of the window.
The pews were red satin. They were burned away in spots, but most were intact. They were soft. Incredicly soft as I remember. My footsteps were silent, muffled by years of neglect and absence. I carefully sat in a pew. All the Bibles had been removed. The only sign that anybody had one worshipped here were the crosses carved into the walls.
This once magnificent sanctuary now sat quiet and sad.
Standing to leave, the pew collapsed, and in an instant, the years of dust and sorrow lifted high into the support beams of the church. Coughing, I opened my eyes. The happy moon shone through the windows and cracks in the cieling.
By chance, the moonlight caught the glass bits scattered across the floor, and for a few moments, the entire sanctuary was illuminated. Green, red, blue. As the ash slowly began to fall, the light seemed to shimmer, causing the entire church to seem alive again. All the while, the doves, who had been sleeping above, cooed softly. The church was alive with the prayers from many years ago. I had never prayed before in my life. I never believed in God. As quickly as it had come alive, it returned to being dorment. The ash settled like snow atop everything. As I left, I lit a candle at the chalice. With the black night sky and dull blue street, the golden flame gave the church a faint glow.
Dev
Ok...I don't know if I like this piece. This was a rendition I did of a really small bit of writing I had to do for a class once. I had written a description of a place, and I liked it so much, I made a short story out of it. Since the first piece, I have written three versions of the story. There is a second version available on my blog at myspace. It is one of my first blogs, so you'll have to do some digging. I'm still not satisfied with the story and want to rewrite it again. Beaucoup d'amour if you gimme some feed back.
The moon is happy. I used to say that when the moon seemed bright enough to see everything at the night-time. Between the dull shimmer of the sleeping street and the calm depths of the night sky, I was relaxed. I was nostalgic.
I had been walking for close to an hour when I came down Dent St. Dent St. is a dead-end street of large victorian houses. At the end of the street was a large church. The church stood tall enough that the bell tower can be seen from most of the city.
The church was closed for years. It had been closed before I was born. I had always wondered what the church was like. Once, it had served as a sanctuary. It was a house of God. With the windows shattered and the door half off the hinges, it appeared as though God had moved away. Can a church decay?
There was a fire 6 years ago. I remember everybody making a big deal about it. I don't remember seeing it for myself, but there are pictures of the white smoke lofting from the bell tower. The smoke could be seen from anywhere in the city. I wish I could remember that.
I walked to the doors of the church. I easily squeezed myself though the gap between the doors. Once inside, I closed my eyes. I don't know what I expected to see, but I wanted it to be a surprise.
The air was thick. Thick with years of dust and ash. The drapes and tapestries still hung from the the cracked stone walls. They were burned, and ragged at the bottom. The light of the moon peered through the many windows. Most of the windows had been stained glass, but few remained intact. Most were either completely destroyed, or had a few bits clinging to the frame of the window.
The pews were red satin. They were burned away in spots, but most were intact. They were soft. Incredicly soft as I remember. My footsteps were silent, muffled by years of neglect and absence. I carefully sat in a pew. All the Bibles had been removed. The only sign that anybody had one worshipped here were the crosses carved into the walls.
This once magnificent sanctuary now sat quiet and sad.
Standing to leave, the pew collapsed, and in an instant, the years of dust and sorrow lifted high into the support beams of the church. Coughing, I opened my eyes. The happy moon shone through the windows and cracks in the cieling.
By chance, the moonlight caught the glass bits scattered across the floor, and for a few moments, the entire sanctuary was illuminated. Green, red, blue. As the ash slowly began to fall, the light seemed to shimmer, causing the entire church to seem alive again. All the while, the doves, who had been sleeping above, cooed softly. The church was alive with the prayers from many years ago. I had never prayed before in my life. I never believed in God. As quickly as it had come alive, it returned to being dorment. The ash settled like snow atop everything. As I left, I lit a candle at the chalice. With the black night sky and dull blue street, the golden flame gave the church a faint glow.
Dev
Ok...I don't know if I like this piece. This was a rendition I did of a really small bit of writing I had to do for a class once. I had written a description of a place, and I liked it so much, I made a short story out of it. Since the first piece, I have written three versions of the story. There is a second version available on my blog at myspace. It is one of my first blogs, so you'll have to do some digging. I'm still not satisfied with the story and want to rewrite it again. Beaucoup d'amour if you gimme some feed back.