St. Starkwiver’s

There were lizards that followed the path of ivy up marble pews of an old church. St. Starkwiver’s. The pews were cracked in various places and cool to the touch. Only those with warm blood would find chills in their spine if they ran their flesh against it. There were also snakes, frogs, and other reptiles that made their way up the pews - but where were they going? Each row of wooden seats were broken and stripped down to decay by a chainsaw called time. Wrought out by raw nature, vines took hold and rooted through the crooked and broken marble floors. Vines climbed the pews also, but much slower in a steady pace on a seemingly never-ending journey to... where? The stained glass -- well, stained on the floor with dirt, scorch marks, and blood. A bird’s nest lye in the corner by the windows as the sun would meekly bestow itself on this barron place of pure ruin. The shadows would be as deformed humanoid and abstract objects, and from light rain, a rainbow reflected the sun from the floors.

There was once a church that flourished with followers and worshippers, those told to bow their heads, praise and believe to no end even when they died. St. Starwiver’s. They were the most selfish of beings. “I’ll be in Heaven,” many would think. “Be good now, and live good for ever.” Each row was filled with a rear, and every book was out on the right page. There were tables set with decorative flower, all white, the scent of their freshness cleansing the room and all senses. There was a preacher standing in clear view on a pedestal. He rose his voice with confidence, he used to say

“For we all are one, and one we all are. With the earth, with our god and with ourselves and each other. We believe because it is in our hearts, because we have sinned... We are only human, but our lord will still grant us his love when we leave this corrupt world. ” He smiled when people would reply “Amen.” He would continue, but as if his words really meant “You are all individualistic, egotistical, selfish heathens. You pretend to believe because you want the best when you’re dead. You want a utopia -- paradise. Your struggle for a perfect life after life is the only thing keeping you from worrying about death. You hope you’ll have salvation and forgiveness when you die.” But he said “And when the lord finds his day to chose which of us will join him past the golden gates, we will all be there.” He said, basically “You’re all going to hell because you are human. You live in folly.”

That was then though ... and this is now.

Many sorts of animals roamed around the partialness of the caved in roof, reptiles, mostly.

And ghosts. Mournful ghosts that couldn’t ... didn’t want to leave. They didn’t know they were ghosts, they wandered aimlessly, the reptiles ceasing in their paths to let the apparitions move.

Sobbing, their transparent frames moving unevenly from left to right, their bodies in uncontrollable possession of “black outs.” Like a computer screen, they would pixelate, and like water, they would disintegrate and be lost for a short time.

It was only that one being could let them move freely, but decided a long time ago not to. He had not moved from his so-called throne; the seat in front of the grand organ (which was missing several keys), some keys dented in, and the agitated sound screeched off key when touched.

The boy, his hair became infested with cobbed webs and as the plants broke through the broken floors, would entwine themselves through the flesh of the boy, so he could not move. Slowly, the blood from the boy would leave and would enter the rooted plants. The plans would feed from him. And there was nothing he could do. There was nothing he wanted to do. He lived without purpose.

He had found the church abandoned after a bloody and fiery massacre many years ago, there were still skeletons of the people who’d died in the church, but they rotted away and were taken by carnivorous animals for a meal.

The priest who was once the most revered was then condemned after being accused of atheism, preaching false love to those inside. The priest did not deny it, in fact. The priest became mad with the truth, he said. So mad that he thought it was funny to make people believe in something non-existent.

“There’s no deity watching over any of us,” he told everyone one Sunday evening. Shocked, but pleased with the ghastly expressions he was given, he continued. “We are responsible for ourselves and all our actions. Believing doesn’t mean a thing unless we do something. The life we have was given to us because we chose to live. We wanted life, we wanted everything in it. Everything expires, but it is human will to survive. When we die, we die. Just like any animal that dies. It simply does, nothing awaits us in death but a simple end. A final rest, the end of our diseases, sickness, stress, terror, pain, unhappiness -- all of it. Death is the blessing.”

He finished with, “And in all sincerity, I hope you die.” He smiled, not out of maliciousness.

He was beaten near to death but ... that’s all they really know.

The reptiles, the vines, the dust, the webs, aging -- all made their way up to the top of the pews. One specific pew of the bludgeoned skull of a man who died sat. The ghost of the man, still wandered. The boy, sat, watched, waited.

It rained that day. The floors washed away dirt and any such natural mess. Shattered bones and parts of split bones dragged by the currents of water downward but would get stuck with a small tap sound like a heavy pen hitting a wooden floor.

The boy would sigh, the plants would inhale.

It would rain. ... When the sun would come out, one could see it all clearly. The cold, the weapons, the noose, Death.

The boy would inhale, the plants would sigh.

One more day in time.

Endless, careless time...