Hugh bolted down the gallery, getting caught in the polychrome sunshine on every third step. The high facades of stained glass projected a dancing light on the cold flagstones, producing steam on the damp pavers and giving the stone sheets and ethereal pallor. Barefoot and every bit a boy of the countryside, Hugh took long, leaping strides and took no care to hush his voice in the place of God. “Ah! Cold... So damn cold!” Down, down, down below, a chorus of angels lifted their voices to the heavens... They wish, Hugh thought as he reached the end and jolted down the stairs. As he did so, he looked out the window toward the virginal fields, largely untouched by the hand of man, except farmers' flocks. Somewhere outside, a car tooted its horn and Hugh smirked, his features perfectly mimicing the rolling hills. His eyes were green like the grass, his hair a blonde-brown like tall, swaying rushes; his hands were smitten with grazes and dirt like the knobbly roots of time-forgotten willow trees. His lips curled in a satisfied grin with all the litheness of a willow wand.
BANG!
“Mr. Hood!”
A supple leather strap slapped the polished table followed by the shrill berations of the choir teacher. Just another day... Hugh thought as he took his place in the row.