That Sun, Where Has It Gone (Preview)

"A young woman holds her child tight, as if she alone can protect the young soul from the many bloodied hands that seek to darken the young flame. A spark of hope flares."

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1. Birth

The world holds its collective breath. Cries and screams seem muted, shrieks of happiness softened, roars of anger swiftly silenced. From an otherwise unassuming alleyway, one among many, come harsh breaths, chorusing along with the tune of a small babe’s cries. A young woman, a mother, barely out of her teens, pants as she holds her child tight, as if she alone can protect the young soul from the many bloodied hands that seek to darken the young flame.

A spark of hope flares.

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2. Enthusiasm

Look around. People fill the streets, chatting amongst themselves as they flit through the market. There is a family crowded together on a street-corner, a young man playing the pipes, a friar preaching his faith. Smile and laughter seem infectious, spreading to all who enter the square.

There is a girl. Her clothes are filthy, poor, torn. They hang limply off of her malnutritioned form, dwarfing her already small frame. Greasy hair falls into her face, hiding her eyes from view. Bare feet are cut and bruised as they fall onto the cold cobble and gravel path. A child lies in her arms, swaddled with a thin cloth, crying out to the heavens. The woman is one of the many consequences of poverty that huddle in the streets.

And yet, there is a smile. Despite losing everything, despite having nothing, she gazes upon the form in her arms with a fondness and love that, to most, would seem unreasonable. Should she not be displeased with her state, worn and dirty and shameful? Should she not be searching for a way out, bowing down like a dog, begging for meager scraps?

Should she not be happy?

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3. Love

Snow covers the ground in layers upon layers. The streets are abandoned now, forsaken in favor for the warmth and familiarity of the home and hearth. To those without the comfort, they sit shivering, among the ice and trash as they pray to survive until the next day.

The woman, hunched over, paces. Looking around, windows lit with light and cheer, and the difference of wealth and contentment is more obvious than ever. She continues to walk and walk, until she comes to a stop outside of a place full of music, and glowing with luster. The building lay beyond an iron gate, with a sign that read, ‘St. Francis Church’ hanging from the top. A cross was molded into the entrance, holding the Son of God nailed to his cross, the sacrifice to cleanse humanity of its sins.

Slowly kneeling down, and still holding the child to her chest, the girl quietly raised her right hand, placing it upon her forehead, torso, and then her right and left shoulders, muttering ‘To the Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, Amen.’

She stood, lifted the door knocker, and brought it down three times

Perhaps this time, someone will hear her prayers.

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4. Hate

No one answers.

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Author's Note

Preview of a story I'm working on - "That Sun, Where Has It Gone". It's a hundred prompt story challenge, that I unfortunately don't have the link too right now.

(Another note, this was written near a year ago with little to no edits since.)