flavour of the day, rocky road, grapefruit
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Whitewash
Rating: G
Challenge: FOTD: gimcrack, Rocky Road #26: unholy place, Grapefruit #27: white noise
Toppings/Extras: whipped cream, fresh strawberries, fresh blueberries, malt
Wordcount: 850
Summary: Things have changed in the church of St. Mary’s.
Notes: More flexible history! Timeless is slightly removed from the real world in any case… Gimcrack: Tastelessly showy; cheap; gaudy. Grapefruit PFAH: Isaac : go back the way you came. Strawberries: “Simple eyes”; the jumping spider has eyes of a simpler construct than most arachnids. Blueberries: Those who try to combat the production of shoddy pictures are enemies of the best art today.
Jude, Micah and Isaac Prowse had always been taught to be good Christians. Their grandfather had been a vicar after all. They had never met him but they believed their mother without doubt. Tilly Prowse had died two years ago but her words stuck with her sons. Rain pouring slick on the London cobbles, the three youngsters walked into the church of St. Mary’s, a proud and picturesque chapel planted in Twickenham soil, one of the many markers along the bank of the Thames that told incoming sailors they were nearing the heart of the city.
Snatching his cap from his head and running his fingers through his unwashed hair, Jude led the way like he always did. He still smelled the iron-tinted blood on himself from his day of work at the knacker’s yard even though he had washed his hands a million times, and he felt like he shouldn’t be bringing that sort of smell into the church. The fifteen-year-old didn’t have to worry about it for long-soon it was lost in the overpowering stench of whitewash.
Thirteen-year-old Micah trudged behind him, and behind him five-year-old Isaac. Brow furrowed, the young boy looked around the inside of the church.
“Where are the pictures?” he asked in a voice that bounced, high and unknowing, from the walls. Jude frowned at him and Micah rolled his eyes. Isaac could still see the paintings that used to be spread over the walls, the detailed depictions of the Flood with the Ark bobbing in safety atop the painstakingly-brushed waves, water gleaming like it was going to come pouring out of the wall. The paintings from Creation to Judgment Day were still in his mind, taking up their places on the walls, but instead of paintings there was nothing but white and the whitewash smell.
Tugging his smallest brother down an aisle and sitting him down, Jude turned and made his way towards the front of the church. Bad-naturedly, Micah flung himself down next to the youngest of the brothers.
Noticing Isaac was still staring at the blank walls, Micah snorted.
“The soldiers came an’ painted all over ‘em,” he said. He anticipated his brother’s next question and added, “’cause that’s the right way to do it now.”
“And the statue’s gone,” Isaac said.
“It was burnt.”
“Burnt?”
“Idolatry is sinful,” Micah parroted. He’d heard it enough times recently for it to be ingrained forever on his skull. He knew he was the worst of the three brothers, but he did try to be a good Christian.
“Idol… atry?”
“The statues and the paintings and all of it,” Micah snapped. “The soldiers came and broke ‘em all and painted over ‘em, because it’s cheap and silly and real Christians don’t need it.” His voice quietened as Jude glared at him from the front of the church for disturbing the peace. “’S what I heard,” he continued in a mutter, “but I know the parson cried after the soldiers left, even though he nodded along with ‘em while they were here.”
Isaac was quiet for a while after that. The church was once more swallowed up by silence, and the white of the walls continued to show Isaac pictures that weren’t meant to be there but were burned into his head.
“It was either get rid of the paintings or get rid of the church,” Micah carried on, by now speaking more to himself than his brother. “It’s unholy or somethin’.”
Barely hearing him, Isaac watched his oldest brother nearer the front of the empty church, kneeling on the flagstones with his head bowed. Isaac didn’t understand Micah’s story and decided he would ask Jude about it later. Isaac wasn’t very aware of the complications of Christianity, only that there was God who created everything and was always there. It was an idea that he liked.
The colourful stained-glass windows had been broken through with sticks and stones and when he looked up Isaac realised that was what was missing too: everything was grey and white, aside from the brown. He closed his eyes too, to talk to God, and in his head the paintings all bloomed. Isaac hoped that wasn’t bad, but it didn’t really matter anyway because there in the church he could still feel God and what did some paintings and statues and glass matter, anyway?
Still, he wished the parson hadn’t cried, and he wondered what the church must have looked like the day it happened, with smoke and shattered glass and soldiers. He supposed that was why his brothers hadn’t brought him there that day.
“I dunno if Jude’d agree,” Micah mumbled with a surly little sniff, “but I’d like the paintings back. I liked ’em.”
Isaac didn’t open his eyes. The paintings were still there in his head and he pored over them, every detail, and the calm face of the statue of the Virgin Mary, and the blocky pictures in the huge windows that glowed like the voices of angels.
They would never leave his head, but he wished the smell of whitewash would go away.
Title: Whitewash
Rating: G
Challenge: FOTD: gimcrack, Rocky Road #26: unholy place, Grapefruit #27: white noise
Toppings/Extras: whipped cream, fresh strawberries, fresh blueberries, malt
Wordcount: 850
Summary: Things have changed in the church of St. Mary’s.
Notes: More flexible history! Timeless is slightly removed from the real world in any case… Gimcrack: Tastelessly showy; cheap; gaudy. Grapefruit PFAH: Isaac : go back the way you came. Strawberries: “Simple eyes”; the jumping spider has eyes of a simpler construct than most arachnids. Blueberries: Those who try to combat the production of shoddy pictures are enemies of the best art today.
Jude, Micah and Isaac Prowse had always been taught to be good Christians. Their grandfather had been a vicar after all. They had never met him but they believed their mother without doubt. Tilly Prowse had died two years ago but her words stuck with her sons. Rain pouring slick on the London cobbles, the three youngsters walked into the church of St. Mary’s, a proud and picturesque chapel planted in Twickenham soil, one of the many markers along the bank of the Thames that told incoming sailors they were nearing the heart of the city.
Snatching his cap from his head and running his fingers through his unwashed hair, Jude led the way like he always did. He still smelled the iron-tinted blood on himself from his day of work at the knacker’s yard even though he had washed his hands a million times, and he felt like he shouldn’t be bringing that sort of smell into the church. The fifteen-year-old didn’t have to worry about it for long-soon it was lost in the overpowering stench of whitewash.
Thirteen-year-old Micah trudged behind him, and behind him five-year-old Isaac. Brow furrowed, the young boy looked around the inside of the church.
“Where are the pictures?” he asked in a voice that bounced, high and unknowing, from the walls. Jude frowned at him and Micah rolled his eyes. Isaac could still see the paintings that used to be spread over the walls, the detailed depictions of the Flood with the Ark bobbing in safety atop the painstakingly-brushed waves, water gleaming like it was going to come pouring out of the wall. The paintings from Creation to Judgment Day were still in his mind, taking up their places on the walls, but instead of paintings there was nothing but white and the whitewash smell.
Tugging his smallest brother down an aisle and sitting him down, Jude turned and made his way towards the front of the church. Bad-naturedly, Micah flung himself down next to the youngest of the brothers.
Noticing Isaac was still staring at the blank walls, Micah snorted.
“The soldiers came an’ painted all over ‘em,” he said. He anticipated his brother’s next question and added, “’cause that’s the right way to do it now.”
“And the statue’s gone,” Isaac said.
“It was burnt.”
“Burnt?”
“Idolatry is sinful,” Micah parroted. He’d heard it enough times recently for it to be ingrained forever on his skull. He knew he was the worst of the three brothers, but he did try to be a good Christian.
“Idol… atry?”
“The statues and the paintings and all of it,” Micah snapped. “The soldiers came and broke ‘em all and painted over ‘em, because it’s cheap and silly and real Christians don’t need it.” His voice quietened as Jude glared at him from the front of the church for disturbing the peace. “’S what I heard,” he continued in a mutter, “but I know the parson cried after the soldiers left, even though he nodded along with ‘em while they were here.”
Isaac was quiet for a while after that. The church was once more swallowed up by silence, and the white of the walls continued to show Isaac pictures that weren’t meant to be there but were burned into his head.
“It was either get rid of the paintings or get rid of the church,” Micah carried on, by now speaking more to himself than his brother. “It’s unholy or somethin’.”
Barely hearing him, Isaac watched his oldest brother nearer the front of the empty church, kneeling on the flagstones with his head bowed. Isaac didn’t understand Micah’s story and decided he would ask Jude about it later. Isaac wasn’t very aware of the complications of Christianity, only that there was God who created everything and was always there. It was an idea that he liked.
The colourful stained-glass windows had been broken through with sticks and stones and when he looked up Isaac realised that was what was missing too: everything was grey and white, aside from the brown. He closed his eyes too, to talk to God, and in his head the paintings all bloomed. Isaac hoped that wasn’t bad, but it didn’t really matter anyway because there in the church he could still feel God and what did some paintings and statues and glass matter, anyway?
Still, he wished the parson hadn’t cried, and he wondered what the church must have looked like the day it happened, with smoke and shattered glass and soldiers. He supposed that was why his brothers hadn’t brought him there that day.
“I dunno if Jude’d agree,” Micah mumbled with a surly little sniff, “but I’d like the paintings back. I liked ’em.”
Isaac didn’t open his eyes. The paintings were still there in his head and he pored over them, every detail, and the calm face of the statue of the Virgin Mary, and the blocky pictures in the huge windows that glowed like the voices of angels.
They would never leave his head, but he wished the smell of whitewash would go away.