Dazed and confused, Francis sat up on the floor. How did he end up in this dilapidated structure? Francis stared up, observing the delicate statues, slain by the beast of time. One caught his eye, a statue of an angel, raising a sword to the heavens and her daintily carved feathered wings outstretched, with her head broken off and lying on the floor beside her. He examined the fine fractures that crept across the fine marble and the larger cracks that spanned the base of its wings. They were barely clung on with the weight of the world pulling them down. The cool surface tethered to reality him as his fingers danced across the stone's smooth contours. He bent to examine the angel's head. She had a fierce look in her eyes, as though she had been struck down mid-mission; as though some injustice had been left to fester.
YOU ARE READING
Francis
General FictionFollow a monk, plagued by delusion, guilt, and maybe reality in this southern gothic style short story.
