pentecost

this was written with the idea of retelling the original pentecost story (in plain text), but with an added modern day bradford element (in italics)

for full effect have two people each read one of the two accounts - at first alternate, then concurrently with random repeats by other readers to give an idea of cocophony

At first it was just a noise, like the first winds of a storm, softly at first, the sound of leaves rustling as the warm breeze moves around an olive grove.

At first it was just a noise, like the first winds of a storm, softly as if at the end of a summer day just before the rain soaks the hot dry earth back into life.

And then louder, the sound of angry air whipping around tree trunks, the sound filling the room we were in.

But the air was warm and brittle, almost electric and the sound both warm and harsh, a full rich sound. Almost musical in it’s roar.

It was a noise that could lift you from where you were sat. Make you want to stand up and move.

And I stood still to let the air wrap around me, enjoying the feel, and watched as it lifted rubbish off the pavement and whirled it around.

And then we saw the colour, spreading accross the sky, dark reds and oranges with sharp flickers of blue lighting up the clouds from inside.

And the colours of a deep sunset flashed accross the sky, not still on the horizon, but darting about urgently.

Flames licked down. Like long tongues, smooth and rounded, yet firey and darting at the edges. And the flames reached out to touch each one of us. Setting us alight inside.

The sharp cracks of blue fame reached down and hit the tall buildings. I saw a church spire flash. The dome of a mosque illuminated with the reflection for a second. A tall orange pole crack and fizz as the fire looked for somewhere to go.

And we started to talk. We used words we had never heard before. We looked at each other amazed, understanding what we were saying but not understanding how.

And a man stopped beside me to watch and said something in a language I didn’t understand, but it sounded like a prayer.

And we were shouting, not in anger, but rejoicing, having fun with the words, shouting over the top of each other.

And people started to gather outside, wondering at the noise, then marvelling that they could pick out their own language from the cacophony of voices.

And as large wet drops of rain began to splatter around us, he reached out and took my hand in his and shook it gently, nodded in greeting, then turned to walk on into town.

Adrian Riley 2000