The cacophony of trumpets, strings, and eerie screams drowns out her sonorous alto. Erratic echoes are bouncing off the crustaceous limestone arches, crashing into each other as they release discordant visions of stone-faced soldiers of faith.
Turn my monitor up, please, Padraig, I can’t hear myself.
Can’t hear myself. Can’t hear myself. The haunting of whispered repeats floats around the cotton-clad arm Padraig has raised up high at the far end of the nave to signal that he has heard her.
She can see his eager face blushing while he adjusts the controls. Mid distance between her sanctuary and her juvenile saviour a member of the audience coughs.
Her voice now alien to her rises up high. She shrieks at the bloodied mass of the saintly face.
(c) Ash N. Finn, 2017