the chvrch

night lode manifests in the abandoned church complex. it reanimates the histrionic grid of history, raises the memory of that final night, of powered light.

this is not part of the ritual:
altar boys moving the marble altar, consecrated furniture, throne of the high priest.
altar boys moving everything in the dark.

there’s a woman behind the lopsided pews. she doesn’t have a woman inside her.
an elderly woman, a few rows down, cusses at the imposter.
the imposter snarls back, insults the virgin Mary. “she will die and return in three days you think?” the son stares at the malevolence in the vessel, at the woman who doesn’t have a human inside her.
the son cusses her, “fuck you. you stay in your place.” his mother sits next to him.

there’s a void in holy mass. deacons and monks are missing, tabernacle fire blown out. the moon is nowhere near this plane.

everyone is eroding with time and waiting.

a black pouch is being passed around. digging through, the son pulls out a stack of very small notes, forgotten monies, faded blues, sickly orange, reds and yellows from a diseased sun.
deeper in the pouch, beneath the wasted and meaningless papers, are crumbling biscuits as long as oblong fingers. he gives it to the old woman. he gives it to the mother. at least the disciples will not hunger, in the time of an absent god.

the son enters the antechamber.

there are bags and riddles and sunlight in a room. twilight waits outside in the hall, where the mother sits upon crooked pews.
a black priest limps in by a side door, trailing youths and civilians and prodigies of some other kind. the son stands before a table, studies a complex construct of miniature bricks, baby pink in colour, built like a diorama, with taut steel wires, latches, circuitboards, pins, diodes, power conditioners, multiple components of an unknown skeletal machine.

the entire contraption can be folded neatly into a technological box of indescribable origin but one must know the protocols, the opening and closing of this temple. he considers severing the worm like joints, pulling out random connections by force rather than prudence. hem in and jam shut, the contents of the box. break something sacred, like the body of a dying god.

if one rearranges the elements of this construct, one rearranges the nature of this world. but despite all efforts, one cannot close the circuit, one cannot bring the current back into the church.

#shortstory, #irvingpaulpereira

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s