Angie Kinghorn

Kakuma

The bells of St. Brigit’s are calling tonight

pealing, appealing,

across the sea.

I cannot go; I am not free

bound here in ministry.

 

Silence and sanctuary are calling tonight

softly, in stage whispers my soul cannot snub.

Slumbering amidst the restless din

I dream of holy hush and polished pews.

 

I yearn for my holy Father tonight

His presence palpable in the nave

I pine for Bibles with broken spines

spaces where I know God to be.

 

I rest, cradled in faith tonight

for the bells call but do not toll.

Grace covers; my debts are paid.

All is well with my soul.


This was a surprise prompt from Write on Edge:  Add 100 words of fiction (any genre) to the following first line:

“The bells of St. Brigit’s are calling tonight.”

Sandblasted

Her steps echo on the slate walk.

She turns; searching, but cannot see the others;

the veritable ghost-army keeping pace.

A whisper of perfume

The familiar oak a skeleton in the yard.

Smells of the past and of a storm yet to come.

 

Memories hits with the open door

and she

falls

down

a rabbit hole,

through the glass of the grandfather clock

its hands spinning backward.

She’s caught – captive in a sandstorm.

There is no shielding herself from the barrage:

– should’ve

– could’ve

– what if?

– why?

 

Flayed raw by the storm, old scars tear open.

She reaches for an anchor, but finds only the hard curves of an hourglass

nipping, shaping, crushing.

No! she thinks. Not here. I don’t fit here anymore!

The glass is strong, unyielding beneath her fists.

 

She weeps, trapped, until she remembers.

Let it go.

Her hands are clenched,

crushing sand to her raw palms.

Let it go.

Slowly, painfully, she uncurls each finger and lets the sand blow away.

 

Standing on the porch, she turns her back on the open door,

clatters down the stairs

suddenly clear;

lighter than when she came up the walk.

She’s remembered: the past is a foreign country:

she cannot live there.

 

Poetry inspired by the Write on Edge prompt: “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.” ~ L. P. Hartley: The Go-Between (1953).

A beautiful ruin

Jamie breathed in deeply. The air was practically water, the essence of live oak and swamp and everything Lowcountry South Carolina. His shirt stuck to his back under his suit jacket, and he shifted from foot to foot.

David leaned over. “The waiting’s the hardest part, right?”

Jamie looked over the assembled guests, programs fanning like so many butterfly wings.

“Yeah,” he said. Butterflies, he thought. She wanted butterflies.

The first time she’d brought him here, they’d come at night with a blanket and a bottle of wine, looking up through the missing ceiling to the stars. “I love the symbolism of this place,” she said. “It can’t be destroyed.”

Jamie disagreed. “It looks like somebody did one hell of a number on it to me.”

“Oh, no,” she said, turning to face him. “This place is magic. It’s strength itself. The British burned it during the Revolution.”

“Ahh.”

“And then it was rebuilt. And burned again by Sherman. But look around. Listen.”

He drank deeply from his glass and listened to the cicadas.

“See, the altar is still there. All these columns are still there. It’s living, Jamie.”

“Maybe you’ve had enough wine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s like the ideal marriage. You can torch it, burn it, but it’s going to stand up, even to Sherman himself. It’s beautiful.”

She paused, interwove her fingers with his. “I want to get married here.”

“Nicole, it’s a ruin.”

“It’s a symbol. I want to get married here and have all the guests release butterflies at the end of the ceremony.”

“I like my churches intact, personally,” he said, then kissed her, twining his hands through her hair.

It felt right, whole, smooth as glass, even when he asked her to dance with him there in the dark, barefoot on the grass.

Jamie had come to love Old Sheldon Church as much as Nicole. He could feel the strength of the round brick columns supporting him as he stood, waiting for the day Nicole would walk down the grass of the aisle to him.

She appeared at the end of the aisle now, and he felt it in his gut. Just as strongly as when he’d first kissed her. It was winter on the waterfront, in front of the Beaufort river; she’d tasted of beer and salt and smoke from the oyster pit.

Clutching her father’s arm, she took slow, careful steps toward the altar. He recognized the dress. Her mother’s. She’d tried it on in the attic of her parent’s house one afternoon. He suggested they go right down to the courthouse and find a justice of the peace, but she laughed.

“No, when I wear this dress, it won’t be to a courthouse.” She twined herself around him and nuzzled his neck. “You know where I want to wear this dress.”

She’d added a green sash at the waist.

“Hey, in case I forget to tell you later?” David whispered, not taking his eyes from Nicole, “You’ve been an awesome best man.”

 

This is a fiction piece for the online writers’ workshop Write on Edge. This week’s prompt was to write a piece inspired by the French phrase “La Douleur Exquise” (the heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have), and a photograph of Bancroft Tower in Worcester, MA. The combination somehow took me to Beaufort, SC, to the ruins of Old Sheldon Church.

The two most famous last words

Stu sat listening to Lola’s breathing. Her skin was ivory wax. Puffs of air escaped through her cracked lips as he strained to hear, adrenaline screaming through him between each inhale and exhale.

Lola woke when the nurse changed out the empty pain pump. Stu grabbed her hand. If he squeezed, surely it would shatter.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, softly.

“What? Who?” Her eyes were glassy, whether with pain or meds, he didn’t know.

“Lola, it’s Stu. You’re in the hospital, honey.” Lord, give me the strength to get through this. For better or worse, I said. This is worse. Give me the strength to give her the peace she needs to get through worse.

“Oh.” Lola looked around, then focused on Stu. She lifted her hand to his face, her wedding band sliding around her emaciated finger.

“Do you remember what Daddy said the night you asked him to marry me?”

Stu smiled. “Hard to forget a night like that. It’s not every day someone tells you you’re too damn young to marry and to get out before they give you a reason to call it a shotgun wedding.”

Lola laughed, then coughed, shattered glass rattling in lungs full of fluid. Stu willed the tears back.

“Was it worth it?” Lola asked.

“What?”

“This,” Lola said. “All of it. Starting with nothing, putting up with me for forty years, and then having my body give out before the warranty was up. You would have done better with Chrissy.”

“It was Catherine, and no. You’re all I ever wanted. I wouldn’t change a thing.” Tears trumped will.

“Not even the dark parts?” Lola asked.

“Especially not the dark parts,” Stu said. “That’s when I learned how strong we are.”

“Not even this?”

“No. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

“Stu, I’m scared.” Lola’s eyelids looked heavier, and he could tell she was fighting to stay awake.

“Lola. Look at me. Don’t be afraid. He won’t leave you, and neither will I.” Stu gripped her hand more tightly, breakage be damned.

“Promise?” Her eyes drifted closed.

“I do.”

 

 

This small scene is part of a larger fictional work in progress. This particular piece was written for Write on Edge, an online writers’ workshop. The prompt: you have 350 words to craft a fiction or creative non-fiction piece inspired by a specific song.

The song I used for inspiration is Andrew Peterson’s “Dancing in the Minefields.” Please, please, please go watch the official video on YouTube. I promise it’s worth it.