"The Armory", Another Short Story of Mine in Progress

    It was, by all accounts and standards, a typical Sunday morning. Cars driving by, dogs barking, women on their daily jog, sun beaming down graciously and earth gratefully receiving it. Nothing was extraneous, nothing unique. On the road were quiet families in minivans and loud teens trying to drive off the night before with sobering music (and equally sobering cars in bad condition). Houses were docile, but excited with the notion of a day off to relax and reload. Quiet noise emanated from the open windows; bacon frying, televisions humming happily, and old couples reliving their old days on swinging porch swings, which had also seen better days. Victorians, ranches, duplexes, Gothics, all houses were at peace, all houses appreciated the day. And the typicality of this Sunday morning was exactly what three small boys were depending on with wistful faces pressed to the gaps of a picket fence.

Garrett lived in a nice new home, with a spacious yard, a picturesque white fence, and a driveway that still reflected fresh cement. Garrett attended a small private school and his classmates acknowledged him as delusional and quite unsound mentally. He made absurd claims about this church that was across the street from his house: odd transformations, unnatural happenings that apparently occurred every Sunday morning. For this, most of his fellow students rejected him, laughed about him, and generally regarded him as the plague, fearing that his alleged insanity might rub off on them. However, there were two students, Omar and Danny, who were more astounded than repulsed at his stories. They agreed one weekend to spend the night at his house, so as to view this supernatural occurrence. Garrett, pleased to have companions, made the arrangements to play games, watch cartoons, and tell scary stories. When they finally arrived, after an interminable wait, Garrett flew down the stairway, let in his friends, and after the parents had been shooed away, took them up to his room. Games, TV, stories; nothing the boys did occupied the two guests. They were anxious and excited to stake out the front yard and watch the church the next morning.

Waking up early, the boys crept downstairs, and after grabbing some juice and cookies to hold them over till lunch, sat in the front yard. They had set up their headquarters under the shade of a small tree that straddled near the white picket fence, quaint enough to be included in a view of the house, yet beautiful enough to be half seeking escape.

“8 A.M. Anytime now…” Garrett said nervously, with the sneaking suspicion that that Sunday would be different and leave his newfound friends just as skeptical as the other students.

“You’re sure?” asked Omar, clearly becoming more doubtful every second he didn’t see a metamorphosis.

“Absolutely. Here comes a car now!” A new minivan sauntered around the corner and quietly pulled into a parking spot at the church. It seemed that the father of the family occupying it didn’t even need to steer, the car simply knew its place in comfortable and sustaining routine. They exited the vehicle, a mother, a father, and two young boys. Happily strolling towards the door, the group looked truly content. The mother, donning a yellow dress, carried under one arm a bible and in the other a cup of coffee. The father, in a smart button down with a classy tie, carried the same. The two boys, one in a blue polo shirt and the other in red, carried much larger bibles, with big colorful words on the front.

More and more families began to show up in the same fashion, carrying a bible, holding hands, toting babies, greeting each other as they entered, and then disappearing once inside. After the influx had died down, all was quiet, save for the occasional car passing by. It seemed that all the cars in the town knew that this was their designated time to be parked somewhere and not move, and those that ignored this general rule were boisterously loud, sad testaments of engineering from days gone by. Omar and Danny were getting anxious.

“Nothing’s happening now, not even boring families in casual clothes! Are you sure that you ain’t crazy? I’ve heard it from more than a few people you know.” said Danny, speaking up, seeming interested for the first time since he had been there.

“I’m sure! I promise that it will be amazing! It happens every Sunday, I sit here and watch, and it happens! I swear!”

Danny’s voracious impatience was curbed temporarily. A sudden but not harsh flow of music started from the other end of the church.

“Here it comes! They always play music extra loud for the end of the service!” shouted Garrett.

Shapes could be seen mingling behind the doors, saying goodbyes and see-you-soons. Nothing amazing was happening however. Tauntingly, a family would near the door, and then be called back to the center of the building, tormenting the boys into aggravation.

“If nothing happens soon, I’m going back inside.” said Omar with clear regret of compliance to this absurd plan.

Just then, the door to the church swung open. As they glanced through the parking lot, they gazed upon the man who was wearing the button down and tie and drove the minivan. But to call him that same man would be truly an insult. He now looked otherworldly, majestic, a tribute to medieval chivalry.

In glistening gold armor, with silver encrusted hinges and accents, and a large blue cross emblazoned on his chest which glittered in the sun, the man walked back to where he had parked his van before. His head was shrouded by a helm that must have been fashioned with the flames of God’s fireplace. Its contour matched his crown perfectly, with leading curves and inlays that confused the eyes as to what beautiful part of the helmet should be watched. On the sides of the helm were miniature wings that curled up to the heavens, so gold they had stolen the identity of yellow, glowing and vivid. The man’s gait was well measured, and as each step was lain down on the ground, no harsh clanking sound could be heard as one might expect. The suit appeared so majestic that it should have surely been a burden, but it moved and bent fluidly as it obeyed its wearer. In his hand the man now carried a shield rather than his bible. The shield was finely polished, and the boys behind the fence squinted their eyes as light reflected off its surface and hit them in the face. The shield’s blue color complemented the cross on the man’s chest. It was a large disc, made from two thick pieces of iron. Around the rim of the bulwark were stationed visibly the rivets that held the plates together. The face was solid sapphire blue, with a golden cross in the center of the shield. The boys just knew as they saw it that the cross would repel any blow.

Perched on his flank was the most fearsome yet admirable component of his armor: A large sword, about four feet long and forged out of fine silver. It thudded gently against his leg with each stride, encased in its stupendous golden sheath. As he dislodged the blade to inspect it, the three boys’ jaws dropped further, defying anatomy. The blade had a long wavy indent carved into the blade, stretching from the point and leading the boys’ eyes blissfully spiraling down to the hilt. The hilt was a spectacle in and of itself. Spreading about a foot wide, with gently curved ends, the hilt flashed as the light played off of three mammoth rocks pulled from the most secluded paradises of the world. All three were deep burgundy in color, arranged in a triangle, with one in the center of the hilt and one each near the top of the curves in the strong arms that reached to either side. He reinstalled the blade into its body-hugging case, and continued his stroll, at ease, but simultaneously full of purpose.

Trailing him, walking side by side in flawless formation and synchronized steps, were his two sons. Garrett, Omar and Danny looked with jealousy at the two sons. The two boys were not much older than Garrett, Omar, and Danny, but they looked more like fantasy heroes and legends than the three spectators did. The statuesque children were clad in identical suits. Their small and slender frames were housed in a copper colored armor, detailed with ebony colored metal shapes and vine-like designs. The designs wove about the armor in fabulous absurdity, but all branches led to the center of the righteous breastplates and cradled a royally purple crucifix. The crucifixes leapt out towards the beholder and stole their breath. They donned helmets of bronze with traces of silver, with crosses cut into the cheeks, and a full mask with narrow and intimidating slits to peer out of. A red feather was poking out of the top, bobbing cheerily with every step the brothers took in cadence. The brothers walked in such synchronicity and determination that a passerby may have taken them for a machine being remotely controlled. Perhaps the signal was coming through the regal feather standing like a pillar atop their heads.

The sons also carried weapons fit for a knight: they toted miniature broadswords upon their hips in a reddish-gold scabbard. Upon watching them pull the blades out to feel the splendid balance and comfort they offered, the three boys were more jealous yet. Each pondered their parents’ reactions when they requested swords like that for Christmas. No, the chances of Garrett, Omar, or Danny procuring a relic like that were slim, but closer to none. The blades were unique and unlike anything seen in cartoons or comics the boys frequented. They were double-edged, but the edges were terrifically exceptional. One side was straight as an arrow, coming to a sharp point at the tip of the sword. The other edge was like a rolling wave, a smooth curve that stretched the length of the blade. To be attacked with this weapon would be fearsome indeed; any wound may prove to be fatal. The design of the blade seemed to have a straight side to puncture, but a curved side to pull itself into its enemies, all the way to the hilt. And the hilt was a decoration as well. It consisted of a convex silver piece that could completely shield the wielder’s hand, almost reaching down to cover it entirely. On this convex slab were twelve luminescent pearls arranged in a ring around the place where the blade and hilt met. They also carried shields, but smaller than their father’s. Theirs were small and diamond shaped, worn on their arms and attached with straps. The faces of the bucklers were divided into four triangles. A pair of the triangles, opposite each other was colored in copper bordered by silver, and the other pair was silver bordered by copper. Situated in the center as though it caused the division of the shield was a cross of the same magnificent shade of purple that sat on their chest.

Omar and Danny looked at Garrett wide-eyed, grinning stupid with delight. Garrett knew there was more though, and he pointed back to the church. The boys’ heads followed his finger and saw the final member of the procession.

The mother exited the building steadily scanning the horizon and nearby environment for anything that may harm her family. She was taller than when she had entered the church, and brought up the back of the formation as the lookout. She too had a newfound outfit, with a less constrictive but equally eye-catching chain mail suit. It was a venerable silver hue, and each chain linked to the next with breathtaking continuity. The cross on her chest was orange, carved from a crystal sized in saga-like proportions. She wore leather pants with metal kneecaps and elbow pads of bronze, bordered with a thin line of gold. Her helmet was open-faced, with a chain mail coif guarding her neck. It was made of blindingly bright silver, accented by gold rims, and the front came to a thin point that covered the mother’s nose. A four-sided spike of gold and silver was embedded in the top of the helm.

She held a crossbow at the ready, and on her back dwelled a quiver to hold the bolts. The bow itself looked like a cross, golden and effervescent with color. Silver tracings garnished the side of the bow, weaving a web of entrancement. The trigger was of fine silver, and had imprints for the woman’s fingers to fit into. The band that propelled the bolts was supple and strong, and looked as though it had been woven from the clouds. The quiver rollicked to and fro with each step. It was constructed of black leather with a white cross stitched into it. The bolts had tips shaped like crosses, sharp on all sides, and the shafts were made of the strongest wood available on heaven and earth.