Mary and Josephine

In the derelict church down Eccles street, wicks kiss one another with fire on their tongues, and allonge with a passion that melts down the supple calf of a candlestick. Only surrounding this redundant place of old prayers does wind groan of longing through tree hollows, before diminishing into a draft between a heavily hung door and its worn, wooden frame. The gust slithers across the textured tile like palm oil on a wrinkled tattoo—of a name seldom spoken outside these walls. It lifts two stray confetti strands up to rise and fall, rise and fall, as their bodies caress the terracotta carpet where they lay together, ever since a virgin vow ceased to be sturdier than a stone pulpit. 

Now, dirt sinks between the floorboards, gyrating on sullen shellac while empty pews cackle and crackle like a heap of burning bibles. All but one, leather-bound scripture, with a spine strung tight to text, tucked away beside foam kneelers whose imprints have worn their fabric from royal blue to a dullen navy. Alongside the book, is a programme for a lost son; its cover is cockled from the dried sweat of pale cheeks panting and moaning into its hymns. One of its curled, yellowed corners redirects the strayed gust across the gold-tasseled cloth, strung across the altar. It whistles the shrine’s engraved geometric symbols like braille, spelling Mathew 15:14 in the pupil of a red sun. 

Atop the altar, two symmetrical bouquets in brass vases boast their stature to the loose, plastic petals of remembrance poppies, plucked from their wreath, swooned on the smooth, stone sedilia. In return, the synthetic scarlet leaves requite the gust back to the altar, toppling a glass inkwell, filled with a sticky solution that consists of rain from a leaking roof tile and the dried pigment of the last vicar’s liquor. It seeps down the church floor, past the orant hands of devout spirits, and around the perimeter of the stone font. Watching the dark liquid press against the font’s heels, a silk cloth, decorated with sewn prayers in the shade of an overly-ripe fig, bathes one of its corners in the salted holy fluid. The corner ripples in the water as it laps up the remaining morsels of righteousness, chortling a pile of pennies that lay awake in a satin coin collector by the entrance. Seizing the momentum of the cloth on water, the draft ricochettes into the belfry, intertwining the harsh fibres of the hanging ropes and taunting them into tugging on each other’s threads, and constricting their bodies until they are wound entirely and cry out in the tremor of their bells. The village returns a silence, cut only by the shrieking of foxes, and a voice from across the aisle.

‘Come again, and be humbled before me.’ The voice’s instructions echo up into the wooden struts that hold the ceiling together. ‘Grieve over the unrepentant sinners who have indulged in impurity and debauchery.’ The tongue of the poltergeist pastor smacks against the roof of his mouth. ‘Thieve for greed and drink to slander; swindle the kingdom of God as all will perish as equals under one flesh.’ His bare feet press into the spilled ink and trail down towards the belfry. ‘Corinithian transgressions will curse this cataclysm, for the serpent's tongue sums pleasure on the angels’ lips.’ His scraping fingernails summon dust bunnies from between crumbled cement. ‘And then I will bind you to the words of my prayer, you will confine your breath to my turning of the holy pages, and it will bring you to your knees!’ The figure wraps his tight grasp around the ropes, scratching their surfaces apart and pressing their threads into his flesh. ‘Kneel!’ He commands with thick breath. ‘Kneel!’ He repeats, spitting more air into the room. ‘Knee—’

He stops. His hands unravel from their grip. He tries to bring order once more but his mouth won’t form shapes. The pastor looks ahead and lifts his fists in front of his face. A shard of light pierces his embodiment and shatters his facade. He turns what’s left of his body around and faces the stained-glass mother who lords above him. She sends another dawning glare, and the poltergeist disintegrates into his own empty authority. The last echo of the pastor’s voice fades, swallowed by the heavy silence of the church. The light that pierced him lingers, tender, gentle, a virgin blue, spilling through the cracked stained-glass above and diminishing the sacred symbols on the altar into bruised shapes.

As the breeze pushes through the space, the scent of mildew mingles with something older, something deeper, a scent of earth and decay. The last lustful candles flicker beside the altar—their flames just a hesitant pulse before they too succumb to the weight of the room and harden together in a puddle of wax. In the soft flickering light, the stained-glass mother watches over it all with no judgment, no mercy; just the eternal gaze of something far older than the church itself. Her face, once full of sorrow, now bears only a quiet resignation. The church, now empty and still, waits in silence for nothing and noone.

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'Mary and Joesphine' originated with the idea of wanting to subvert the atmosphere of a Christian church, and reverse the puritanical influence it had on me as a child. While researching for this piece, I travelled around East Anglia and made notes on certain thematic design elements which I could use to bind my writing. The local St Mary's, restored using the materials from another nearby place of worship which had come to ruin, was the focus of my research due to my ease of access. It enabled me to converse with the local parish about their own experiences with worship, including the vicar, Josephine, who divulged me with some allegories surrounding the relationship between her homosexuality and her beliefs. She stated that, similarly to how many Christian churches have opened up to accepting an array of varying religions' prayer, a decolonial approach to onboarding new members of the clergy has not only permitted her to be the church's first female vicar, but has also allowed her to spread the gospel of acceptance to her congregation and the local school. The influence of religion on education is undoubtedly significant; therefore, it is alleviating to know that there are members of the clergy doing work for the Gods and the gays. I have pages of notes summarising the many conversations and observations I had over my weeks of study, and it's funny to see the only thing yet to have been generated from it being the somewhat smutty literature above; however, I'm sure that they will not be wasted. In fact, I have considered expanding upon 'Mary and Josephine' to centre on the two titled individuals as more distinct characters, who demonstrate a beautifully egregious and lustful presence as spirits in the church. Look out for Mary and Josephine in my later posts. As always, thank you for reading.