Creative Writing: Worship

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He watched them dance, shake, twist and pray. The pews were packed like sardines. Floral print and stripes mashed together to form a mass of exaltation. From the pulpit the churchgoers all looked like strange versions of themselves, more fervent and zealous than the young boy was used to.


His father was to his left, his movements were exaggerated and his features were rapt. He’d always been a man of faith, but he had more reasons to pray as of late. To the boy’s right his mother’s face was porcelain, not a blemish to be found. Her flinty eyes were fixed on the choir searching, searching and searching.


As the procession left the church, he heard their whispers. They were brazen and shameless, his mother’s armor cracked with each passing remark.


“Does she know?”


“I could never stay with him.”


“What about the boy?”


All the while, the little boy held his mother’s hand tightly as they pushed through the crowd. He scanned the crowd for his father, searching, searching and searching.

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