phlegmatic celestiality by Constance Lupton

It was dull. It was phlegmatic. It was dim. How could a place which felt so spiritless be dissolving all philosophical conspiracies of being alone? I thrust open just one of the duplicate heavy and ancient doors at the posterior of the not so celestial building, with timid hands and shaking feet. I was at once gratified and thankful for my lack of achromatopsia as, although it was night outside, the street lights shone through the stained-glass windows, that lined the walls, creating coloured artwork on the dusty floor like watercolours paints on paper. I decided to hold onto this thought whilst proceeding to advance into the church. Through the infitesimal cracks and corners of the windows, wind howled and rushed through. I imagined that the wind was my fear, forcing itself in through cracks in my gallantry and bravery. 

To the right, there was a long, winding staircase in which I had to climb. I almost ran over, hoping to get away from the open space of the ground floor. Seeking higher ground and what I could only describe as safety. I went forward, right foot first, only having to lift my foot a few inches of the ground to reach the first step. The stair moaned and creaked as I precariously balanced my right foot on its thin dusty body, I was listening for any signs of movement in the establishment that I may have triggered. The church stood motionless. I progressed up the stairs. Once I had almost reached the top, I could see, through the gaps in the aged wood, the edges of brass piped, systemised by pitch. 

Once at “safety”, I fumbled around in a plastic box for the key to organ, found it, and opened the unclean lid. It swooshed upwards and a four manual instrument was revealed. Churches like this one feel almost forest like; everything is wooden or stone but also quiet and has earthy tones. The organ did seem to calm my nerves. As I rested my hands on the swell and grate and my feet on the pedals; the instrument gave off a sort of reassuring energy, one in which my body received gratefully. I dared to take my hands of the manual’s energy, just to add some sound to it. Carefully, I opened the right box, and selected a few diapasons and flutes, in an attempt to bring sweet sounds to a sour environment. 

As I always do, I took my freshly polished, black shoes off, in order to pay the pedals at the required speed (which was faster than usual due to my increased heart rate). I began hammering at the keys, and so the enrapturing sound of ‘Verne's - Clair de Lune’ filled the infrastructure. The organ itself was behind the pews of the congregation, but the organist could peer over the edge of the woodwork to view the congregation. I took advantage of this, imprudently, and gazed around the church whilst plating the well-practised piece of music. 

I saw, faintly, a shadow, a silhouette even, of what looked like a human in robes holding a cross high above their head, which, due to my previous apprehensive thoughts, instantly sent me into panic. I darted down the stairs, leaving my shoes behind. This time, once I reached the doors, I did not carefully open one door, I pushed forcefully both doors, getting out as quickly as possible. My memory recalls this event in detail. But, it must be noted, that my memory recalls that the organ played on as I left.

In