It stood in the corner of the block, clear from the line of trees that characterized the neighborhood. The sun shone brightly down as though the heavens were bestowing it favor.

The stucco white church, with a cross standing tall on the tip of its peaked roof, had one large stained glass window, with purples, blues, and reds surrounding a shape of a colorless dove floating high like a cyclone on its steeple. In front of the church, two oak trees sat on a large grassy lawn, on either side of the front entrance. Cutting straight through the lawn, was a stone walkway, with a mosaic of moss and tiny wildflowers growing between its crevices, which led up to double doors. At these doors people would be greeted and handed program pamphlets. It was here, in the church’s front yard after service was over, where the congregation would participate in idle banter while snacking on donuts and coffee, with the din of kids running around, playing—it was like a sort of eden.

The large stained glass window overlooked this Eden, like a divine guardian. 

Clarence stares up at the stained glass window. This window couldn’t see…let alone protect. 

To imagine, not a divine guardian but instead, a bastard watching over Eden, the world would begin making sense. 

Luckily, he was that bastard. 

The vantage of the stained glass window permitted only to that bastard, as heaven is only permitted to God.

He was the bastard watching Eden from above, the bastard who peeked from the clearest part of the stainless glass window, the only part where it was clear enough to see through and low enough to look through. He watched as everyone arrived, watching how some children held their parents’ hands tightly while others ran wildly about.

But even bastards have dreams. 

When the pastor dismissed the children to Sunday School, he would pretend to leave with the kids. He would get up, as all the kids streamed out the church, and walk a few paces to the stained glass window where he would watch the children walk over to a small house across the street—Sunday School. Then he would transition over to his very own corner which he designated for his own Sunday School. Back then, the concept of Sunday School was a dream he could only imagine; he could only imagine the amount of fun and excitement those kids had. 

Clarence steps inside the empty church, his eyes instinctively trailing toward the discrete narrow staircase—the smell of dust and pine, sharp and potent as ever. Every Sunday he used to climb those stairs. He knew exactly where they’d creek. 

It was only after walking up those stairs when he’d see his mother, who was also allowed on the second floor with him, but she remained only a shadow. She sat in silence next to him, not saying a word, a mere statue. Even when he ran around, or peaked through the stained glass window, or started braiding her hair, she stayed immutable. 

The few times he dared sneak down the stairs were the only times his mother spoke to him, and it was with a harsh snap of her tongue. He feared her, not like his stepmother whom he just despised…rather, he feared she wouldn’t like him.

Clarence turns away from the narrow staircase and walks the aisle of the quiet, empty church until he reaches a worn, black piano at the edge of the raised wooden stage. 

Most music to him was a bombardment of noise, a cacophony—a sort of torture. It was unpleasant. Piano was the only type of music he had ever been able to tolerate, and from one particular piano player. 

One kid, probably only a few years older than himself, used to come early to church to play piano. Not as early as when Clarence arrived, but earlier than everyone else. For hours Clarence listened to him play, playing whatever was on his mind instead of rehearsing particular songs. It was natural and fluid. The rises and falls, the movement of the story being told…Clarence often found himself lost in a sort of daydream. 

Clarence jolts as his phone buzzes, once, twice, three times.

He pulls out his phone from his pants pocket and glances at the screen.

It was time to head over to the park…

It was a beautiful day. Drifting cumulus clouds in the blue sky reflected off the surface of the giant city lake. The air was particularly crisp and clear. 

His phone buzzes again.

He silences it. 

He spots a child at the edge of the lake skipping stones. He smiles widely and trots down over to the kid. 

“Can I join you?” Clarence asks the kid. 

The kid, a little plump boy wearing a red hat with a fierce yet cute looking squirrel on the front, looks up at him with an odd expression, but shrugs nonchalantly, “Sure.”

Clarence eyes the ground, then squats down next to the boy, looking for the perfect stone, turning over burning stones, trying to look for the flattest one, until he finally finds a satisfyingly flat stone. 

While holding the warm stone in hand, Clarence cheers on the boy who skips his own, eight times across the lake. Clarence gives the boy a huge high five; the kid smiles and scratches the back of his head in flattered embarrassment. 

The boy watches intently as Clarence’s turn comes and watches as he throws his stone. 

It plops in the water. 

Clarence laughs awkwardly and looks down at the kid, “what’s your secret?” 

The kid instructs him how to throw. Clarence follows his instructions carefully. The angle of the arm, the strength of the throw, how to hold the rock between his thumb and index finger. 

Finally, after a few tries, Clarence is able to skip the rock three times. 

But as Clarence and the kid cheer excitedly, a voice came howlering down from above the hill: