Untitled - daily15
My God, it's been aeons. Hopefully it'll be remedied soon, as I'd like to actually write something once in a while.
Anyway: daily15, word of the day was "somnolent". Not much here, as I'm rusty.
The dark, stuffy interior of the chapel is warm, and from her back pew, the girl watches the dust motes drift slowly to the carpet, imprisoned in a beam of sunlight. She is bored and a little sleepy, and despite her older sister's straight-backed piety and her younger sister's quiet attention, she cannot bring herself to pay attention to Mass. They go every afternoon in the family chapel; it holds nothing new for her. Everything--including the play of her small white hands with their pared-short fingernails, the pattern on the carpet, and the rites of weddings and funerals--is more interesting than whatever Father is droning on about.
Her eyes take in the stained-glass windows, which look duller and more muted at night, on the rare occasions when they come at night, and she studies the faces of the saints and the stations of the Cross. She hears, distantly, the response of the few people in the chapel, and automatically responds with them; her own voice seems small and dull. There is the creaking of kneelers, and then her own name, in a furious hiss: "Lucy!" Caught off-guard, she is hauled to her feet by her father, whose stern face glowers down into hers. He is not fond of children, except his own, and she has the feeling that at the moment, he is not particularly fond of her.
Flushing, she turns away and stares at her feet, head bowed. She wishes she could have new shoes, like Jane, but her father keeps them deliberately short of money, and she does not need a new pair yet. This is supposed to teach them self-sacrifice, Jane says. Self-sacrifice, like the other virtues, is overrated.
She sneaks a peek, out of the corner of her eyes, at Jane, who stands stiff and noble, clutching her Mass book and responding sincerely. On the other side, there is Angela, still too young to understand most of this. She can't even spell "transubstantiation" yet.
Mass shows no signs of being over. Lucy starts to feel the first sudden heat of sweat, and wants desperately to scratch; it's an uncommonly warm day, and her wool dress is terribly itchy. Jane never scratches, and Angela is too young to be punished for it, but she knows that if she tries it, she is inviting a slap on her wrist. Her parents do not particularly want to be bothered with ill-behaved children.
When they sit again, Lucy rests her head on her hands and closes her eyes, just for a moment, when nobody is looking; before long, the somnolent atmosphere of the chapel goes to her head, and she nods off, only vaguely aware of everything going on around her, the hubbub of the resurrection of Our Lord. The respite from boredom is pleasant for a few minutes, until one of the maiden aunts jabs her in the small of the back and she starts, knocking her head on the back of the pew. This draws her father's attention, complete with pursed lips and shaking head.
Lucy rubs her head, and thinks the bump a small price to pay for the relief of not having to be present for a few minutes.
Anyway: daily15, word of the day was "somnolent". Not much here, as I'm rusty.
The dark, stuffy interior of the chapel is warm, and from her back pew, the girl watches the dust motes drift slowly to the carpet, imprisoned in a beam of sunlight. She is bored and a little sleepy, and despite her older sister's straight-backed piety and her younger sister's quiet attention, she cannot bring herself to pay attention to Mass. They go every afternoon in the family chapel; it holds nothing new for her. Everything--including the play of her small white hands with their pared-short fingernails, the pattern on the carpet, and the rites of weddings and funerals--is more interesting than whatever Father is droning on about.
Her eyes take in the stained-glass windows, which look duller and more muted at night, on the rare occasions when they come at night, and she studies the faces of the saints and the stations of the Cross. She hears, distantly, the response of the few people in the chapel, and automatically responds with them; her own voice seems small and dull. There is the creaking of kneelers, and then her own name, in a furious hiss: "Lucy!" Caught off-guard, she is hauled to her feet by her father, whose stern face glowers down into hers. He is not fond of children, except his own, and she has the feeling that at the moment, he is not particularly fond of her.
Flushing, she turns away and stares at her feet, head bowed. She wishes she could have new shoes, like Jane, but her father keeps them deliberately short of money, and she does not need a new pair yet. This is supposed to teach them self-sacrifice, Jane says. Self-sacrifice, like the other virtues, is overrated.
She sneaks a peek, out of the corner of her eyes, at Jane, who stands stiff and noble, clutching her Mass book and responding sincerely. On the other side, there is Angela, still too young to understand most of this. She can't even spell "transubstantiation" yet.
Mass shows no signs of being over. Lucy starts to feel the first sudden heat of sweat, and wants desperately to scratch; it's an uncommonly warm day, and her wool dress is terribly itchy. Jane never scratches, and Angela is too young to be punished for it, but she knows that if she tries it, she is inviting a slap on her wrist. Her parents do not particularly want to be bothered with ill-behaved children.
When they sit again, Lucy rests her head on her hands and closes her eyes, just for a moment, when nobody is looking; before long, the somnolent atmosphere of the chapel goes to her head, and she nods off, only vaguely aware of everything going on around her, the hubbub of the resurrection of Our Lord. The respite from boredom is pleasant for a few minutes, until one of the maiden aunts jabs her in the small of the back and she starts, knocking her head on the back of the pew. This draws her father's attention, complete with pursed lips and shaking head.
Lucy rubs her head, and thinks the bump a small price to pay for the relief of not having to be present for a few minutes.