As if my wheelchair hadn’t done so already, my age made me invisible.
Any exhibition here would have drawn a crowd of rich, idle socialites, eager to see and be seen. But with such a godless cause to sweep them in, they thronged. Arch upon arch, dome upon dome. The place burst with vainglory.
All to a secular aim. A parade of nudes, a parody of God. I clutched at my crucifix, out of habit.
No one knew that Sister Christopher Joseph had kicked me out of the convent, after discovering my unseemly zeal for chemistry.
Soon all would know.
(Sorry, a little late getting on the bandwagon for Friday Fictioneers. This is last week’s prompt!
Perhaps by Friday I will have figured out the process a bit better! I heard about this group on the podcast
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