Contest #97 winner 🏆

195 comments

Historical Fiction LGBTQ+

in situ: (adv. or adj.) in the natural or original place


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He is like the jeweled light that dances on the sacred floors. I have tried to capture it before, the exact shade of his smile, the hue that sparkles in his laughter. I have tried to piece the glass together in a way that recreates the curl of his hair in the rain. 


The most glorious window in the world would not do him justice. But that does not stop me from trying.


I form the feet of the crucifix first, always the feet, pinned to the deep brown shades of the beam, floating above my suggestion of Golgotha with a peculiar anguished grace. I form the feet first because that is where I imagine the color was the deepest, the shadow and the blood.


He does not check on my progress often. I have made a name for myself amongst the stained-glass artists, to be sure, and I usually prefer to be left alone to my work. But the workshop has an empty heat to it without him there, which used to feel like home but now scorches me.


I walk by the cathedral every day to watch as its pieces are maneuvered into place, to watch the vaults of his brilliance take shape. Each day, pale stones, carved and sanded by bloody hands, rise towards the heavens. The mechanics of it all astound me.


He stands and monitors the dance of the beams, or he climbs the scaffold with a muscled ease. He laughs with the masons and the laborers, or he yells that a stone must be shifted before the whole delicate monument comes crashing down around them. 


I watch the empty places for the windows take shape, making note of the way they will catch the light.


He deals in wood and stone, in structures that defy the earth and wind. I deal in color and sunbeams, in the scorch of the furnace that turns sand to glass.


After I form the feet and the top of the hill, I piece together the sky. I am careful to follow the shapes I’ve traced, to mix the dyes into the glass with precision. This sky will be shades of violet and gold, interspersed with squares of deep, longing blue.


Some days it feels as though the cathedral has always been, that its skeleton long predated the clumsy homes around it. He took it over when the first architect died of old age. The first architect was a withered man who thought in squares and triangles and uninspired towers. 


He thinks in arches, in the graceful shape of collarbones and the curvature of long necks bent into kisses.


The day I finish the last of the sky, he comes in and tells me to stop. There is to be another war, he says, and there will not be enough laborers or lumber or stone. 


The cathedral must wait.


We are both too old for war, with gray in our hair and lonely years tucked away in our hearts. We are old, but he is called upon to fight and I am left behind, my bad leg weighing heavily on my conscience, along with memories of the last war.


He told me to stop, but while the world forgets to spin I work on the window and try not to think of his footprints on the bloodstained battlefield. 


After the sky is finished, I take a break from the crucifix and design the smaller windows. In one, I craft a dove with silvery feathers. In another, a vibrant tree. I set each image in the deep blue panes of my sorrow and imagine the end of the war. 


It is a strange thing to be alone in a time such as this. I sometimes wander down the village streets, avoiding the half-formed flesh of the cathedral. I limp past women and children, nod at the other infirm men who stayed behind. The world is dull, cast beneath a dark grey sky. 


We receive little news from the front. We hold our breath, or our families, or our bottles close. 


I do not pray. I see no merit in offering my half-cooled shards of hope to a distant Son. There is no god in war, and no glory.


I return to the crucifix after nearly a year. I dye the glass for the broken body, mixing the shade into one that reminds me of him. The arms and legs fall into place quickly and I try not to think of the soldiers who will come home without them.


The panes of glass I fix in place between thin bands of lead called cames. They hold the pieces together, bind each portion of the image as I go. I wish that I could bind the memory of him to myself, if only to cast a glimmer of brightness into this mere existence.


As abruptly as it began, war is over. This is what the villagers say, a whisper passed from neighbor to neighbor under the shadow of the unfinished cathedral. There are new lines to trace on the maps of the world, lines that will surely change again before our lifetimes are done. 


No one will tempt fate by rejoicing. Not until the soldiers have come home. 


I finally bring myself to visit the cathedral. I begin sweeping leaves and dirt from the scaffolded corners, clearing the way for his return. It feels a meaningless task, but I breathe easier in the ceilingless walls of stone than I do in my workshop. 


The villagers take it as an act of worship. Some join me in clearing debris, others offer pious nods as they pass. 


Perhaps it is an act of worship, though my reverence is for someone else.


In a slow trickle, the first of the soldiers return. He is not among them. Many of the villagers celebrate, others fold themselves into mourning like a tomb. I am patient and hold hope tightly, but each day I visit the cathedral the stones feel colder. A few of the laborers come by, skin and bones and colorless eyes, asking when the work will resume. 


I tell them I do not know.


I save the face of the crucifix for last. I craft the crown of thorns, offset against a golden aureole and dark hair. The face is the hardest, and I realize as I set the eyes—honeyed brown ovals of the clearest glass I’ve ever made—that they look like his eyes. The crucifix is supposed to seem peaceful, serene in sacrifice. Mine weeps, tears of colorless glass and transparent sorrow. I see myself reflected in those tears, full of doubts. 


On a warm spring day, one month after the end of the war, he appears in the half-complete cathedral doorway. He is scarred and has forgotten what it is to laugh. But he is back, and my innermost heart sings.


He throws himself into the work. The laborers left uninjured by the war join him, hiding from unseen wounds beneath a sheen of sweat and dust. The village begins to find its way into life again, after so long in the half-light.


It takes months to repair the time-worn sections of stone and scaffold and begin new construction, but eventually the spires of the cathedral begin to rise.


I finish the last windows, impossibly tall lancets, frame them in iron, and wait.


We install the windows nearly a year later on a series of clouded days, the sound of distant thunder ringing in our ears. I watch helplessly as they maneuver my delicate glasswork, guiding each window into its place. The crucifix is the last to be installed, set in the largest south-facing window.


When it is done and the sun returns, he and I enter the cathedral alone. The floors are unfinished, the sanctuary unfurnished, yet the space pulls the air from my lungs.


Dazzling hues dance on the stone, illuminating the soaring vaults in ethereal shades. We pause before the crucifix, struck motionless by its glory in the early morning light. I am suddenly aware of his arm, hanging just inches from mine as we gaze at the most stunning window I have ever made.


He is awash in violet and gold, dappled across his face like feathers. I have never seen anything so resplendent as the small smile of awe that pulls at the corner of his mouth.


For a small, holy moment, he reaches out and we stand, hands clasped tightly together as the light stains its color onto our skin.

June 06, 2021 20:52

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195 comments

Malcolm S
15:50 Jun 23, 2021

Yay congrats!

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Claire Lindsey
13:51 Jun 28, 2021

Thanks Malcolm!

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15:09 Jun 23, 2021

So deep, very relatable! Congratulations!

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Claire Lindsey
13:52 Jun 28, 2021

Thank you Sulekshmie! Glad you enjoyed it :)

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01:18 Jun 23, 2021

Awesome story, beautifully written. Congratulations on your well deserved win!

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Claire Lindsey
12:10 Jun 23, 2021

Thank you Kathleen!

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Amanda Lieser
21:58 Jun 22, 2021

I absolutely loved this story. I thought it was such a beautiful piece weaving religion into a war torn world. I thought it was especially wonderful timing as the Notre Dame is being rebuilt. Thank you for writing it!

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Claire Lindsey
12:09 Jun 23, 2021

Thank you for reading and for the lovely comment, Amanda!

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Gerald Daniels
18:03 Jun 22, 2021

I loved your story, beautiful and moving prose.

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Claire Lindsey
20:16 Jun 22, 2021

Thank you Gerald! I’m glad you enjoyed it 😊

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Teresa Veltman
15:48 Jun 22, 2021

Dear Claire, This is a beautiful story, dripping with gorgeous imagery. My favourite line is: "Mine weeps, tears of colorless glass and transparent sorrow. " I am a new writer and wonder if you wrote this story in just one week? Have you done stained glass artwork or did you research this craft? I hope you don't mind me asking these questions. Thanks

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Claire Lindsey
17:48 Jun 22, 2021

Hi Teresa, thanks for such a thoughtful comment! I don’t mind questions at all :) This story took me about a day to write and then I went through to edit once or twice after posting. I don’t have any experience with stained glass, so I did some research into the process!

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Anjali Venugopal
14:58 Jun 22, 2021

How does one write like this. This has unfolded as beautifully as the craftmanship wielded by your characters. Amazing!

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Claire Lindsey
17:50 Jun 22, 2021

Thanks so much Anjali! I’m glad you enjoyed it :)

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J B
11:56 Jun 22, 2021

"He is like the jeweled light that dances on the sacred floors." "He deals in wood and stone, in structures that defy the earth and wind." "He is awash in violet and gold.." He does not only love him. He's right; he worships him! The parts, "We pause before the crucifix..." and "For a small, holy moment, he reaches out and we stand, hands clasped tightly together as the light stains its color onto our skin," give a picture of a wedding. Subtle but intense! I've some questions 'cause I analyze pieces I love, but I won't bother you.

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Claire Lindsey
17:51 Jun 22, 2021

Awww, I hadn’t thought of that scene that way, but I love that! And it’s no bother if you have questions :)

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Freddy Iryss
23:58 Jun 21, 2021

Beautifully evocative! Congratulations! :-)

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Claire Lindsey
17:51 Jun 22, 2021

Thanks Freddy!

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Des Feller
18:41 Jun 21, 2021

Oh its so gorgeous I just want to gush.. I love much we don't know about your narrator, other then the fact that they had gray hair and was in love, a deep, inspiring love. I love your use of colors, the way I could almost see them myself I love how you incorporated war and that oftentimes we bury ourselves in art so that we can feel just.. light, for a moment. Before you remember the trauma. Congratulations!

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Claire Lindsey
17:55 Jun 22, 2021

Thank you for such a thoughtful and encouraging comment, Des! I love stories in which the narrator isn’t necessarily the main character, which is kind of what I was going for here. And I agree, sometimes it’s nice to hide away in our craft, whatever that may be :)

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Sharmishtha Saha
18:49 Jun 19, 2021

Wow. Loved the story. Congrats.

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Claire Lindsey
12:56 Jun 20, 2021

Thank you!

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Drew Andrews
11:04 Jun 19, 2021

Congratulations. Love the plot. Nice concept. Only issue I have, as a glass blower, glass is not dyed. And the came Glass is colored by adding metal oxides or metal powders to molten glass. Depending on the metal, the glass takes on a particular color. You may have seen “cobalt blue” glass –yes, that color comes from adding cobalt. Copper oxides also make glass blue to bluish green. How Stained Glass Windows Were Made To make stained glass, artisans mixed potash and sand to 3000 degrees Fahrenheit and added various metallic oxide powders...

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Claire Lindsey
13:48 Jun 19, 2021

Hi Drew, thanks for all the info. I did several hours of research while writing this story and I’m now kicking myself for missing that edit. I left the dye part in as a placeholder as I wasn’t sure how I wanted to word that sentence using the minerals (I didn’t like the flow of it when I used it the first time). And then I forgot to go back and edit Thanks for keeping me honest!

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Drew Andrews
14:38 Jun 19, 2021

No biggie... I im glad to see the art being in another format. I'm surprised I haven't talked about it yet lol. I don't think I could have done the same justice to it as you did. The title of the story caught my attention... Having a background in the medical field. I didn't see it being able to be about glass.

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Claire Lindsey
15:18 Jun 19, 2021

I didn’t realize it was a medical term as well as an art term. To my knowledge, it’s a work that’s made either at the site or with the environment in which it’ll be displayed in mind. I liked the multiple meanings but I didn’t realize it has quite so many!

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A.Dot Ram
22:37 Jun 18, 2021

Congratulations! You're on a role. This was a beautiful story. Keep reading the poetry. It complements your style, which is generally really poetic.

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Claire Lindsey
13:24 Jun 19, 2021

Thank you Anne! I think I’m addicted to poetry now and I couldn’t stop if I tried haha

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Scott Skinner
20:47 Jun 18, 2021

Beautiful descritption. Congrats on the win!

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Claire Lindsey
13:24 Jun 19, 2021

Thank you Scott!

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Pamela Brown
19:57 Jun 18, 2021

Claire this story is a poem,, or it seems like one. It's SO beautiful, the flow of words takes us through the flow of colour and light that sees the window grow. I want to go and see your window. Well done. A very much deserved winner. Thank you.

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Claire Lindsey
13:24 Jun 19, 2021

What a beautiful comment, thank you for the kind words Pamela 😊

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19:43 Jun 18, 2021

This was beautiful! I loved your use of Christian imagrey and devotion to this relationship. I was rooting for these two the whole time. Your description of color is unmatched.

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Claire Lindsey
13:25 Jun 19, 2021

Thank you so much Sabrina! I’m rooting for them too 😊

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Janet Crick
19:16 Jun 18, 2021

Beautifully crafted and written. I was pulled in from the very first sentence. I absolutely love the poignant, almost tangible imagery. Well done and congrats!

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Claire Lindsey
13:25 Jun 19, 2021

Thank you Janet!

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Rebecca Weinert
19:14 Jun 18, 2021

I think this is one of the best stories I've ever read. The choice of words, the atmosphere, the way everything fits perfectly together, how do you *do* that? I have nothing else to say. Perfection.

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Claire Lindsey
13:26 Jun 19, 2021

You’re too kind, Rebecca! Thank you 😊

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Kimber Harps
17:57 Jun 18, 2021

Congrats on the win! Beautiful story!

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Claire Lindsey
13:26 Jun 19, 2021

Thank you Kimber!

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Kimber Harps
13:50 Jun 19, 2021

:) Can't wait to read more of your stories!

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Marianna Mills
17:49 Jun 18, 2021

Man, Claire, this was a beautiful read, you are so gifted with your way with words, the minute I read the first line I knew why this was a winner, sigh someday maybe I will get it, congratulations on a well deserved win. Happy writing

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Claire Lindsey
13:29 Jun 19, 2021

Hi Marianna! Thank you so much for the sweet comment. If you’d like some encouragement, check out my early stories (or don’t lol, they make me cringe). Keep writing and seek feedback, you got this!

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Marianna Mills
19:37 Jun 19, 2021

thank u so much for that, I have a lot of stories to read (and write as well), each time someone wins I try to learn and improve. Finding our "voices" as they say, have a great weekend!!!! I will check out your other stories. I read the previous story you had won.

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