Rough Draft

So, for lack of anything interesting to blog about, here's some of the draft I was working on today. I've finished the first one, and hope to make it spectacular, and enter it in a comp.

If you'd like to see the full piece, email me and it shall be yours.

The church roof was swallowed in darkness, defying the light that streamed in through the stained-glass windows. This was an old place, a sacred place, and William could feel the sanctity oozing out of the old stone walls. He stopped for a moment at one of the worn wooded pews and ran a hand over the carvings that decorated the edges. It was simple, beautiful, and utterly beyond his skill. The windows were equally masterful. The saints stood in humble poses, their faces pious and their hands clasped. It was amazing, he thought, what man could accomplish when inspired by the divine.

The rich, carved confession boxes were made from the same dark wood as the pews. Perhaps they had even been fashioned by the same patient hand, William could not be certain. His slow footsteps rang as he walked to the confessional booths, all at once in awe of the quiet and aware of his disruption to it. There was something, he pondered, about church-quiet that was different to normal quiet. The air seemed to carry a certain dignity, as if it hung around a learned man on the verge of dispensing incalculable wisdom. It was a sober hush, a peace that had not been broken by anything more violent than Mrs Simmon’s straining soprano.

A soft cough sounded from the confession booth, confirming the existence of a priest inside. Perhaps today, William thought. Today might be the day when his confession was properly heard, and not dismissed out of hand. William swung open the door, and sat in the comforting, still darkness. I, who cannot remember a womb am at home here. Safe. He pulled in one long breath and once more reminded himself to speak carefully. He would not allow a slip-up. He could not. The priest shifted on his hard wooden bench.

‘Bless me father, for I have…’

‘Enough.’

There it was, done before it had even begun. William was aware of a pressure in his chest. He felt like howling, but he was certain that it wasn’t allowed.

‘You know you are not welcome here,’ said the priest, gently chiding. ‘How could you have sinned if you have not the weight of a soul?’

‘I…’ William could not speak. It had been his voice, he decided. The electronic hum was far too obvious, even when he made a conscious effort to control it. ‘I am burdened, father.’

‘No,’ said the priest sadly. ‘You are not. Now go.’ And with that, he stepped out of his side of the booth and disappeared into the church. William heard him leave, but lingered all the same, watching the dim patterns of light slide over his synthetic skin.

‘Order acknowledged,’ He said to himself in a very sad, small voice that buzzed like a cheap answering machine. With that, he gathered himself up and left.

Failure. The church melted away to be replaced by an orderly Buddhist temple, presumably at the request of the crewmember who had booked the space next. What now? O’Leary might be off duty; maybe he’d have that new program that stimulated carnal pleasure. William took a savage delight in infecting himself with illegal programs. They took plenty of processing power and left his joining cables numb for hours at a time. He was half-way back to his small room and still pondering when he heard the bleeping of a crewman’s request on the inside of his metal skull. He tapped a finger thrice against his temple, to allow the memo to be cleared for reading.