Flash Fiction

Pink crumbling sandstone, pock marked with bullet holes, verdigris and bird crap. No longer then, a place of worship more a place of whorship. A place of decadence and where the pigeons pirouette and dance on its parapets adding to the decay. Where the drunks and hoboes lie against its walls and columns gathering the reddish dust to be used as pillows.

Inside where these decayers dare not venture, the work of decadence progresses and the non decayers gathered in anticipation. Then as the sun sets through the stained rose window the high priest of the baroque resurrection hits the high note that marks the start of the evening’s events. There is a brief hush of nothingness and then he repeats the shrilling of the high note and a repetitive melody echoes against the cavernous chancel. Around the walls the angels and consecrates shuffle in their well-worn niches and their thoughts are all die. Die the comfort. Kill the thought. Suffocate the reason. They collapsed with their inanimate weight onto the souls gathered there and brought the whole of the edifice with them. Like Saint Catherine for whom such a cathedral was named there was no blood only sweat. No tears only rose petals cast beneath the pink crumbling sandstone.