Elliot wished the singing would come faster—an indicator he’d soon be able to go out and play on the cool rain with the other kids.
The fresh wind carried with it the sound of the sea along with its salty smell. From the second highest hill of the town, the church rose. Imposing, but simple. Three sets of double wooden doors—south, east and west—wide open from dawn to dusk. A welcome to all the parishioners. A soft gale perennially stirred colourful hats—a remainder they were not to be worn inside, he thought. His grandfather always said.
Elliot thanked the heaven for the pouring it provided that Sunday. It was easier not to fall asleep there when it rained. He’d focus on the droplets falling from the outer ceiling, puddling down on the green grass, waiting for careless feet to soak, to infuse with their playful coldness to accompany them all the way home. Excitement pooled on his stomach as fast as the drops gathered on Margherite Orchard’s little hand, extended outside through the west doors, cupped to try to grab the sneaky fluid.
He heard the tambourine start. The singing was here.
The 5 minute freewrite for today's prompt: church!
