I missed last week’s #1lineWed and I almost skipped this week’s theme because none of my crew are SAINTS. Nope. Not even the good guys. And yes, that’s this week’s theme: **SAINTS**. Anyway, doing a word search, I discovered I did have a SAINTLY reference in a snippet. It’s a random bit of wordage, part of a flash fiction challenge several weeks ago. Don’t asked me where these words will–if ever–appear. I hope eventually, a story will evolve but if not, I still like them and I’m glad for the opportunity to share them with you.
Her clunky boots echoed in the tomb-like silence of the church. The stone floors were hollowed out by the weight of hundreds of years and thousands of parishioners treading this same path. Rows of flickering blood-red votive candles drew her like the proverbial moth. She felt more like that dead cat, as her subconscious reminded her.
Your curiosity is going to kill you.
Maybe. Maybe not. No time for a chastisement that came far too late.
“Why are you here?”
Her lungs seized, heart pounding as those words whispered across the back of her neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The question wasn’t asked by her psyche, but she considered answers. Why was she there? Redemption? Perhaps. Resurrection? No. Not that.
Movement caught her attention. She watched in fascinated horror as stygian blackness coalesced behind a statue of some forgotten saint.
Who’s there!” She made her words a demand rather than questioning. She waited a heartbeat. Two. When no answer came, she added, “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.” The shadows morphed into the silhouette of a man.
Her heart hammered in her chest but she stiffened her knees and spine. “Not me.”
The figure chuckled, a sound both frightening and enticing. “Everyone is afraid of Death.”
That last word held weight, like a royal title. She was probably foolish for not showing fear. Still, that wasn’t her. Not anymore. She remained silent, forcing the being to speak again.
“Then who will save you?”
“No one. I’ll save myself.” She fancied the figure smiled at her bravado.
“Brash. Perhaps even admirable, but in the end, no one escapes.”
The man who stepped into the uncertain candlelight was too beautiful to be real. She fought the urge to hide her face, conquering the need when he laughed. Her scars had been won honorably. She wouldn’t disgrace them.
“It appears I’m too late. You’ve already been rescued from the—”
“Who are you?” she demanded, cutting him off.
“I have many names.” His smile amped up in wattage. “You may call me Starr.”
She knew then, who she faced. This night, she would dance with the devil himself.
Do you have any saints hanging around? Or do you have unconnected words that need a story? Feel free to share. And out of curiosity, what sort of story should this one morph into?