I Am The Local Atheist Read Online Free Page B

Callasandra and trying to be
sympathetic to her cause. “I understand sometimes Miss. Schuar that
there are times when you need to speak out, but I wonder if it was
necessary to do it so early in your career. Can you not think about
those also who you might be effecting?”
    The artist
looked devastated. “Can’t you all understand that this is me
expressing myself? It’s not just a statement of dislike, or
criticism; it’s also me putting onto a canvas something that I feel
strongly about. Am I supposed to keep those feeling bottled up
inside?”
    Mr. Brunner
interceded for a moment. “I think its best that we take into
account the fact that this art gallery has decided to give you a
chance to display your work for the very first time but what you
have chosen to display will have an impact on not just your
reputation, but their reputation as well.”
    This just gave
more ammunition to Mrs. Stewart. “It is nothing short of
unpatriotic.” There was solid agreement from a section of the crowd
surrounding her. “You live in a community that chooses to support
each other and to be accepting of everybody’s differences, but
here, you have made a horrible mistake in choosing to attack those
who choose to support you.”
    “ I haven’t attacked anybody who has supported me.”
    “ This town supports you! How do you know there aren’t people in
this audience who were involved in what you are trying to depict?
How do you know that this person here,” – her swinging arm cut an
arc too close for comfort – “or that person there isn’t going to be
adversely affected by these pathetic excuses for
paintings?”
    General
agreement supported Mrs. Stewart’s words.
    Callasandra
looked to the host and then the curator for support, but all they
did was shrug their shoulders, raise their eyebrows in mock
consideration, pop some grapes into their mouths and continue
watching events unfold like disconnected observers at a crash site
– frozen with fascination, but happy to continue feeding their
hunger. She was left standing next to her paintings by herself, a
lonely figure with arms helplessly at her side, hands outstretched
and a pained face questioning what had just happened.
    Her shoulders
started to shake. “But…”
    “ These paintings are despicable!” spat Mrs. Stewart. “This
isn’t art – this is trash.” She took a glass of red wine, walked up
to a painting and splashed wine all over it.
    Callasandra
stood there dumbfounded, her pained expression turning to
hopelessness – a look I knew all too well.
    I felt a
terrible shiver creep over my shoulders and down my spine,
anticipating tears that would soon fall on the girl’s cheeks – if
not my own. I had to turn away. Holding my distraught face in one
hand, I cleared a way through the bodies with the other, ignoring
the rising voices that cursed and shouted around me – whether at
Mrs. Stewart or Callasandra Schuar, I didn’t care; I just wanted
out. I walked directly for the front door. The empty paintings that
lay littered about on the floor could do nothing to stop me: they
were like black holes without a gravity well. I hit the door with
full force and let the cold chill-stained air envelop me. Down the
steps I went, walking as fast as I could to escape the glow of
street lamps, and on into the darkened night where I found security
in the emptiness.
     
     

Chapter 2:
     
    Apostate
     
     

Part I
     
     
    The steeple
rose from behind the houses like a beacon, stabbing a hole in the
cloud-ridden sky and summoning the courage of those who dared to
look upon it with derision. I looked away.
    If I had
thought that silvery steel cross flashing God’s light on it was
hard enough to face, then the gaping mouth of the church doors that
appeared to me as I rounded the corner was even harder: it
swallowed its victims one by one as they entered into the jaws of
the church so happily, so willingly. I wanted to turn and begin
walking away, hang my head low