A collection of pieces from BA [Hons] Creative Writing.
Slow Burn
Lottie Scroggie
The small, skinny trail of smoke rose above the heads of the
congregation in the church. For such a small being, it was
able to spread a little bit of sweetness all across the stone,
cold building, which was in turn, spreading miserableness to
the congregation. The crowd struggled to worship, as they
rubbed their numb, blue hands, looking forward to a warm
drink. The children were bored and freezing. The monotone
waffle coming from the priest didn’t interest them. They
wanted to play. The light from the stained glass window
projected a broad spectrum of colours against the plain grey
walls and cracked floor, attracting the attention of some of
the congregation’s eye, devilishly tempting them to lose their
focus on the priest who was not even halfway through his
sermon; if they had kept staring at the dull grey walls
surrounding them, they would’ve probably gone insane. The
priest who was still droning on, had lost the attention of the
congregation, with the exception of the most devout catholics
sat eagerly at the front, taking in the man’s words as if their
life depended on it; and the incense kept slowly burning, as
the mass slowly progressed and it overran, for a good twenty
minutes, for the fifth week running.
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