ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
My back is arched as I kneel in the church I’d spent so many Sundays of my girlhood. The cream-colored walls and worn velvet that crawl over the top of the kneelers are as familiar to me as my own bedroom. The stained glass windows cast prismatic triangles on the floor and dark stained pew in front of me.
I raise my eyes, staring at the Crucifix behind the altar. Jesus’s head lolled back, wounds through his hands and feet, blood running down his side. It used to frighten me--that poor man, who had done nothing wrong.
The curved top of the pew feels too hard against my wrists as I press my hands together. The quiet is stifling; no footfall of a priest, or the groans of old bodies as they make their way down the aisle for Communion. I long to hear just one note from the organ, or Father’s off-key singing, his voice louder than most of the congregation.
In a strange way, I feel like a young child again. I cannot concentrate on my prayers. Instead, my attention is drawn to the ever-spinning fanblades hanging from the high-vaulted ceiling, imagining that Heaven is just above them.
My mind is drawn back to the Crucifix, the eternal image of my Lord suffering and dying. But it is not my savior: only sculpted metal and wood, a statue that cannot hear me.
Outside, the sun disappears behind a cloud, and the rainbow triangles from the stained glass windows disappear. I turn my head towards the windows, depicting scenes of Jesus’s life. A shiver runs through me. The window directly to my right shows him being laid in his tomb. His eyes are closed, as though asleep. At peace.
His mother is beside him, her face round and pure. The simple artwork does not show her grief, how she must have wept to see her child killed. I study her etched black eyes, searching for depth in her face that the artist could not give. I long for her to hide her head in her hands, or to see tears running down her glass cheeks. But the mourning mother’s face only reflects serenity. For a moment, I hate her for it.
And then the church fills with the sound of my sobs.
I raise my eyes, staring at the Crucifix behind the altar. Jesus’s head lolled back, wounds through his hands and feet, blood running down his side. It used to frighten me--that poor man, who had done nothing wrong.
The curved top of the pew feels too hard against my wrists as I press my hands together. The quiet is stifling; no footfall of a priest, or the groans of old bodies as they make their way down the aisle for Communion. I long to hear just one note from the organ, or Father’s off-key singing, his voice louder than most of the congregation.
In a strange way, I feel like a young child again. I cannot concentrate on my prayers. Instead, my attention is drawn to the ever-spinning fanblades hanging from the high-vaulted ceiling, imagining that Heaven is just above them.
My mind is drawn back to the Crucifix, the eternal image of my Lord suffering and dying. But it is not my savior: only sculpted metal and wood, a statue that cannot hear me.
Outside, the sun disappears behind a cloud, and the rainbow triangles from the stained glass windows disappear. I turn my head towards the windows, depicting scenes of Jesus’s life. A shiver runs through me. The window directly to my right shows him being laid in his tomb. His eyes are closed, as though asleep. At peace.
His mother is beside him, her face round and pure. The simple artwork does not show her grief, how she must have wept to see her child killed. I study her etched black eyes, searching for depth in her face that the artist could not give. I long for her to hide her head in her hands, or to see tears running down her glass cheeks. But the mourning mother’s face only reflects serenity. For a moment, I hate her for it.
And then the church fills with the sound of my sobs.
Tip Jar
Thank you for supporting me! This tier won't include any specific perks, but you will receive my appreciation.
$1/month
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
I came across an writing exercise for evocation, using descriptions and character actions to evoke emotion in a reader. The exercise was to describe a place from the point of view of a parent whose child has just died, without directly mentioning the parent or the child.
© 2017 - 2024 QuixoticApricot
Comments2
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
This is a very moving piece. The imagery in this piece was the first thing that stuck out to me. The details you give about the church and the statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary really puts the reader in the scene. The exercise you described sound interesting and I think you do a good job with the execution. It really showed through in the second to last paragraph when the narrator talks about the Virgin Mary statue.