The Prayer Meeting
by Elizabeth Nelson
He was invisible. A boy of six swinging skinny legs on the seat of a weathered wingback. He was solid. Present. His body was made of bones and muscle. Yet it was as if he were only a ghost, mute and trapped beyond perception.
He was trapped. Where could he go? The closet, perhaps. Tonight, he was determined to stay put, to resist the temptation to run and hide. Temptation was evil. He knew this much in his little soul. He’d heard it often enough, tripping off the soft lips of his gentle father. Be wary, son. Watch out!
His mother touched his knee as she brushed past. A touch! He quickly folded his legs beneath him and placed a palm over the patch of skin. His mother! She loved him, she must, she touched his knee!
She was now opening the door, saying good evening and God bless. The women were filing in now, followed by the men. Hats and handbags were being taken with nods and thank yous, stacked in a pile over in the corner by the fireplace. These strange adult bodies began to breathe all the air, to take up all the space with their swinging limbs, their bulky clothes, like armor, that organized their shapes into a series of impossibly straight lines. The boy began to feel small, very, very small.
The room was a cityscape, the people buildings. The room was a wilderness, the people beasts. The room was some terrifying version of Heaven, the people angry angels. The room was like a peek into Hell, the people either damned or demons. His mind sparked and swirled as he watched them gather.
Someone patted his head and he nearly leapt from his skin. A man, scooting past. Hello kiddo. And then he was gone, absorbed into the growing throng. The boy’s crown burned. Had he been touched by an angel or a demon? Hard to tell in this place, in this time when his home transformed into something unnamable. He wanted to touch his own head, to push away the feeling, the lingering burn, but he was frozen. Paralysis was sinking in. He’d pulled his knees under his chin, was keeping that patch of skin touched by his mother close to his heart. He tried to smell her there, but he detected only his own bland scent.
They were circling now. He could not see his mother or father, but he could hear his daddy’s voice, soft at first, now rising in volume, becoming rich like something thick. Butter. Cooled bacon grease in the stove tin. That voice now transformed, and the boy loved this voice and was also amazed and terrified by its power, its ability to shape shift. The voice began to tremble, to break apart, a packed scoop of brown sugar in a bowl. The voice began to soar, a dove with silver wings swinging gracefully above bowed heads. The voice began to thicken again, through syrup into lard into frying grease into melted oil bubbling like water but with the power to kill.
This is when he usually ran.
The boy did not run. He stayed put, scooched into the deep crevice of the wingback, arms wrapped tight around his skinny legs. He willed himself to watch. So many nights, he’d listened to this ritualistic ruckus from the dark dust of the closet he shared with his sister but not tonight. Tonight, he will stay. He will listen. He will watch.
I am an explorer, he thought bravely. I am going where no boy has gone before. I am a warrior! I am brave and strong! He thought of the picture his mother had shown him many times, the gold trimmed bible opening almost on its own to the page where tiny David was forever hurling a stone into the giant’s weakest spot, felling him with one brilliant shot.
His father’s voice was not alone, was now a single chord in a choir of wagging tongues.
I am David, thought the boy.
His mother’s voice was among them. All of them, all speaking at once, a warbled tapestry of cries and pitches and fevered slips of sound ripping at the seams of the universe.
My name is David, thought the boy. I am David.
The choir was now a cacophony, a riotous roar gaining momentum, churning faster with greater fury into the room, filling the house whose walls began to tremble.
I am the giant slayer, thought the boy. I am safe.
He did not feel safe as the strange words, a foreign language conjured through spirit, became a rocking ocean of ardent clamour. And now their hands were in the air, fists pumping toward the dark sky. And now their faces were thrown back and open, showing teeth, showing pink, cracked, and meaty tongues wriggling like snakes. And now eyes were rolling back into heads, flashing red-veined white. And now some of them were falling to their knees, collapsing to the floor where they vibrated with powerful electrical surges—and the boy was afraid.
The house shook. As the rumble rose and fell, so did the approaching thunder, and as the bodies writhed, the roof lifted from the little house, like a lid on a jar, and the giant was there, peering in.
The boy did not have words for this mammoth presence, for this colossal mass of monster who fixed him with his wicked gaze. The giant simply was. A mountain. A titanic crag of earth. He was rocky and pockmarked, his orifices gaping wounds seeping salty pink sludge. His smell was rot like the warm, brown liquid at the bottom of the trash bin.
The thrash of bodies was racing toward the pinnacle. The lash of tongue-whittled words that were not words but some secret code between these strange adults and God were slicing the air, carving breath into idyllic sculptures. And just as all discernible form within the cacophonous sound fell away, crumbling into a rush of barreling locomotives, the giant reached into the house and began to curl his fingers around the boy.
There were no stones to throw. No sling shot within reach. No king or guardian angel. He was alone, as he’d been before and as he’d be again. He was on his own, naked, and vulnerable. But he was small. He was quick. He was all skinny-limbed lightness and he slithered through the giant’s fingers and off the wingback’s seat to the floor where he scrambled beneath the chair and made a break for the hallway.
The giant swiped at him, sending a rush of foul wind in the wake of his grimy fist. David ducked. The giant cast his other fist, a boulder of hairy fingers, into the living room, crushing a crater into the floor. The resounding boom knocked David to his knees and the giant caught his small, bare foot, pinched them between two tips of rock.
A rock! There in the corner’s shadow, a forgotten baseball, smooth and hard, and a little too big for his hands, but he grabbed the stone and as the giant raised him slowly into the air, his charred cavern of a mouth warbling wide in laughter, David threw back his arm. The stone lobbed into the center of the giant's third eye and with a wail of fury he was let go, falling, falling faster now, striking the napped carpet with a thwack and scramble of little boy limbs.
He may have heard the musical shatter of glass as he scampered into the bedroom where he’d left the closet door ajar, just in case, and now he dived into the dark and pulled that door shut behind him. As the latch clicked into place, the train roar of voices ceased. All that was left was a collective sigh of sniffling, satisfied exhaustion. And the boy was, if not safe, invisible once more.
He was trapped. Where could he go? The closet, perhaps. Tonight, he was determined to stay put, to resist the temptation to run and hide. Temptation was evil. He knew this much in his little soul. He’d heard it often enough, tripping off the soft lips of his gentle father. Be wary, son. Watch out!
His mother touched his knee as she brushed past. A touch! He quickly folded his legs beneath him and placed a palm over the patch of skin. His mother! She loved him, she must, she touched his knee!
She was now opening the door, saying good evening and God bless. The women were filing in now, followed by the men. Hats and handbags were being taken with nods and thank yous, stacked in a pile over in the corner by the fireplace. These strange adult bodies began to breathe all the air, to take up all the space with their swinging limbs, their bulky clothes, like armor, that organized their shapes into a series of impossibly straight lines. The boy began to feel small, very, very small.
The room was a cityscape, the people buildings. The room was a wilderness, the people beasts. The room was some terrifying version of Heaven, the people angry angels. The room was like a peek into Hell, the people either damned or demons. His mind sparked and swirled as he watched them gather.
Someone patted his head and he nearly leapt from his skin. A man, scooting past. Hello kiddo. And then he was gone, absorbed into the growing throng. The boy’s crown burned. Had he been touched by an angel or a demon? Hard to tell in this place, in this time when his home transformed into something unnamable. He wanted to touch his own head, to push away the feeling, the lingering burn, but he was frozen. Paralysis was sinking in. He’d pulled his knees under his chin, was keeping that patch of skin touched by his mother close to his heart. He tried to smell her there, but he detected only his own bland scent.
They were circling now. He could not see his mother or father, but he could hear his daddy’s voice, soft at first, now rising in volume, becoming rich like something thick. Butter. Cooled bacon grease in the stove tin. That voice now transformed, and the boy loved this voice and was also amazed and terrified by its power, its ability to shape shift. The voice began to tremble, to break apart, a packed scoop of brown sugar in a bowl. The voice began to soar, a dove with silver wings swinging gracefully above bowed heads. The voice began to thicken again, through syrup into lard into frying grease into melted oil bubbling like water but with the power to kill.
This is when he usually ran.
The boy did not run. He stayed put, scooched into the deep crevice of the wingback, arms wrapped tight around his skinny legs. He willed himself to watch. So many nights, he’d listened to this ritualistic ruckus from the dark dust of the closet he shared with his sister but not tonight. Tonight, he will stay. He will listen. He will watch.
I am an explorer, he thought bravely. I am going where no boy has gone before. I am a warrior! I am brave and strong! He thought of the picture his mother had shown him many times, the gold trimmed bible opening almost on its own to the page where tiny David was forever hurling a stone into the giant’s weakest spot, felling him with one brilliant shot.
His father’s voice was not alone, was now a single chord in a choir of wagging tongues.
I am David, thought the boy.
His mother’s voice was among them. All of them, all speaking at once, a warbled tapestry of cries and pitches and fevered slips of sound ripping at the seams of the universe.
My name is David, thought the boy. I am David.
The choir was now a cacophony, a riotous roar gaining momentum, churning faster with greater fury into the room, filling the house whose walls began to tremble.
I am the giant slayer, thought the boy. I am safe.
He did not feel safe as the strange words, a foreign language conjured through spirit, became a rocking ocean of ardent clamour. And now their hands were in the air, fists pumping toward the dark sky. And now their faces were thrown back and open, showing teeth, showing pink, cracked, and meaty tongues wriggling like snakes. And now eyes were rolling back into heads, flashing red-veined white. And now some of them were falling to their knees, collapsing to the floor where they vibrated with powerful electrical surges—and the boy was afraid.
The house shook. As the rumble rose and fell, so did the approaching thunder, and as the bodies writhed, the roof lifted from the little house, like a lid on a jar, and the giant was there, peering in.
The boy did not have words for this mammoth presence, for this colossal mass of monster who fixed him with his wicked gaze. The giant simply was. A mountain. A titanic crag of earth. He was rocky and pockmarked, his orifices gaping wounds seeping salty pink sludge. His smell was rot like the warm, brown liquid at the bottom of the trash bin.
The thrash of bodies was racing toward the pinnacle. The lash of tongue-whittled words that were not words but some secret code between these strange adults and God were slicing the air, carving breath into idyllic sculptures. And just as all discernible form within the cacophonous sound fell away, crumbling into a rush of barreling locomotives, the giant reached into the house and began to curl his fingers around the boy.
There were no stones to throw. No sling shot within reach. No king or guardian angel. He was alone, as he’d been before and as he’d be again. He was on his own, naked, and vulnerable. But he was small. He was quick. He was all skinny-limbed lightness and he slithered through the giant’s fingers and off the wingback’s seat to the floor where he scrambled beneath the chair and made a break for the hallway.
The giant swiped at him, sending a rush of foul wind in the wake of his grimy fist. David ducked. The giant cast his other fist, a boulder of hairy fingers, into the living room, crushing a crater into the floor. The resounding boom knocked David to his knees and the giant caught his small, bare foot, pinched them between two tips of rock.
A rock! There in the corner’s shadow, a forgotten baseball, smooth and hard, and a little too big for his hands, but he grabbed the stone and as the giant raised him slowly into the air, his charred cavern of a mouth warbling wide in laughter, David threw back his arm. The stone lobbed into the center of the giant's third eye and with a wail of fury he was let go, falling, falling faster now, striking the napped carpet with a thwack and scramble of little boy limbs.
He may have heard the musical shatter of glass as he scampered into the bedroom where he’d left the closet door ajar, just in case, and now he dived into the dark and pulled that door shut behind him. As the latch clicked into place, the train roar of voices ceased. All that was left was a collective sigh of sniffling, satisfied exhaustion. And the boy was, if not safe, invisible once more.
Elizabeth Nelson is a writer, artist, nostalgia junkie, and marketer living in the Berkshires with her husband, two cats, and a Puggle named Harper Lee. Selected published works include A Seven Letter Word and The Golden Hour (Canyon Voices), Fugue (Black Box Press), and The Going Price (Stage Rights). Colors Inside the Body received a reading at Rattlestick Playwrights Theater in NYC as part of Texas Wesleyan's 2019 Playmarket, and her play, The Golden Hour, was workshopped in 2018 as part of The Athena Project’s Plays in Progress Series. Visit her at www.elizabethnelson.net.