Dust Motes

Streams of coloured light falling on rows of people. Stainglass windows off- setting soft golden stone, roughly planed surface casting shadows on the faces of these rows of believers. Casting shadowed chains on our minds, on our souls. Impecably dressed man standing above the heads of the faithful. His voice fading away into a dry croak as it reaches the back of the building. A normal Sunday morning.

Tremor running through gold sandstone walls, twisting stainglass windows into new portraits. Mingling shafts of coloured light filled with spiralling dust motes. Crack of sundered pews, harsh snap of shattered tiles, frantic scratching of feet in terrible symphony with cries of human terror.

I lift my eyes from their respectably demur position-trained on the now shattering floor tiles-and whip to my feet, my every muscle tense. My mind taught, even my soul straining. My gaze latches on to the man at the front, he who delivers the lessons form the Almighty, just in time to see him stumble over his perfect clothing, shuffle into a run, screaming just as loudly as the rest of the supposed congregation.

Crash of falling beams, impact of one slamming into my stomach, tickle of my hair in my face as it flicks up while I come down. Searing agony of my injury coupled with pain of my contact with the ruined floor. My mind snaps back into itself, seperating from my body. Questions. Why did He not protect us? Are we not His faithful? Questions. Is everything we believed in real? Was it all a pretense? Answers. Yes. No. I don't know. Maybe. Answer: It no longer matters. My faith is shattered. Like my body.

My hand reaching up into the shafts of mangled light. Nature's wrath stilling. My hand going limp, thumping down on to the beam stretched over my middle.

Dust motes settle.