Will She Remember the Lights?

by Samuel Poots

The reader spits out my finance card, its screen flashing a book and cross in luminous green. The young man behind the counter gives me a wary look as he hands the card back and says, in a carefully neutral tone, “Sorry Brother, your account has been locked.”

His words ripple through the queue of people behind me; their stares prickling across my skin like crawling ants. All I can do is murmur an apology, hoping that I sound more confused than guilty, before hurrying out of the store and making my way to the Financial Office across the town square.

Winter winds have stripped the place bare of people. Even the Security Deacons have found excuses to linger indoors, which is one small mercy. The only other face I see as I cross the open span of concrete is that of the Reverend Father shining from his pole-mounted projectors. The image flashes from fatherly love to stern disapproval, so I’m never quite sure which I’ll see when I look up. Normally I take some comfort from the sight. Light blazes from that face, pushing back the growing shadows of this darkest time of the year. It might be a far-cry from the colourful bunting of my childhood, but I take pride in knowing that it’s often my wiring that keeps the Reverend Father always before us. (Continue Reading…)