Atlasa
Jan 26, 2011
Writing Feedback / (No) Sympathy for the Devil [2]
Light filtered through the steel frames windows creating a harsh reflection off the withered priest's face. One by one he went down snuffing out the candles, his callused hands pushing forward and back as if a small boy running between pews. The white-hot flame having no effect, his face in no grimace. His bony arms dark not because of his ethnicity but because of the rich dirt that filled the concaves of his skin, each crevice holding its own unique story of strife.
Yet a twinkle lit the old priest's eyes on that Sunday evening. For he had gained a sympathy for the devil. Although his dirty hands had committed many wrongs, his eyes still burnt with a passion for all things living, he had recognized that it was not the devil who controlled the greatest realm but rather himself. He knew hell was filled with more darkness then his world would ever be.
So the old man wiped his brow and toppled over. His skull cracking hard on the dull concrete floor a noise rang through the church like none ever before, much like the sound a marble banishing its opponent from the ring. The priest lay there blood seeping from his head painting religious shadows cast through the colorful windows with a crimson red. He lost his grip and came face to face with the devil. Neither of them spoke, yet one simply laughed.
And it was not Satan.
Light filtered through the steel frames windows creating a harsh reflection off the withered priest's face. One by one he went down snuffing out the candles, his callused hands pushing forward and back as if a small boy running between pews. The white-hot flame having no effect, his face in no grimace. His bony arms dark not because of his ethnicity but because of the rich dirt that filled the concaves of his skin, each crevice holding its own unique story of strife.
Yet a twinkle lit the old priest's eyes on that Sunday evening. For he had gained a sympathy for the devil. Although his dirty hands had committed many wrongs, his eyes still burnt with a passion for all things living, he had recognized that it was not the devil who controlled the greatest realm but rather himself. He knew hell was filled with more darkness then his world would ever be.
So the old man wiped his brow and toppled over. His skull cracking hard on the dull concrete floor a noise rang through the church like none ever before, much like the sound a marble banishing its opponent from the ring. The priest lay there blood seeping from his head painting religious shadows cast through the colorful windows with a crimson red. He lost his grip and came face to face with the devil. Neither of them spoke, yet one simply laughed.
And it was not Satan.
