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To say Uriel's place is off the beaten path is an understatement. Relying on the traditional means of transportation, one would have to leave the main interstate in favor of lesser traveled highways, turn off the highway onto a local road that hasn't been repaved in years, then leave the road for a dirt path that winds past railroad tracks, through fields of rice and corn, and over a couple small creeks. Other houses can be glimpsed through the trees on occasion, but to call the area a town would be something of a joke. It isn't a town so much as a general store and a scant handful of farmsteads scattered across the landscape. Time has not simply passed this place by, it almost seems to run backwards, the open fields and old homesteads a long-lost relic in a world full of concrete and glass metropolises. There is a sense of community about the area though, of people banding together for companionship in the otherwise-deserted countryside.
Uriel's place clearly needs work, but also shows sign of recent renovations. The wood siding is old and worn, white paint cracked and flaking away, but all the truly damaged pieces have been pulled away and replaced. Rusted fencing sits in a pile to the side, having been removed in favor of wide open spaces. The plants are growing wild, hydrangeas and wild rose bushes growing in an untamed riot around the porch, ancient mimosa and pecan trees surrounding the house, but the dead underbrush has been cleared away and there's not a single weed** to be found. The crumbling cement walkway leading to the house has been filled in with gravel, rotting wood on the porch torn out and replaced, the railing mended and repainted.
Inside, the house consists primarily of a single, large open space cluttered with an odd collection of old furniture and mismatched rugs. Books are stacked nigh unto everywhere, holy texts in nearly every language ever spoken, history books, classical literature, an assortment of how-to guides and even a few illustrated children's stories. At the back of the open room there are stairs leading up to what is presumably an attic, and a door that leads to an addition - not new, but certainly not part of the original plan - that houses a small kitchenette and the only bathroom.
Though crosses and signs have long since been torn down, broken stained glass windows replaced with heavy textured glass, the pews and pulpit inside removed, it retains something - an undefinable air or spirit - of the small church it once was. Perhaps that is why Uriel was drawn to it, damaged faith coming to rest where faith gathers no more.
If you are looking for him, he can be found on the front porch swing, looking relaxed in dirt-stained jeans and a white T-shirt, glass of iced tea in hand, absent-mindedly watching a pair of feral kittens as they race across the limbs of an old mimosa tree.
* Yes, it exists. No, it isn't called "Middle of Nowhere". The kittens were terribly cute. The raccoons were also terribly cute, but tended to be a pain in the ass.
** Well, there's always the kudzu, but good luck*** getting rid of that.
*** Actually, Uriel's gardening skills seem to quell even the kudzu. Poor angel has something of a black thumb. If the roses and hydrangeas weren't quite so stubbornly of the opinion "we were here first, you can sod off", they probably wouldn't last long either.
Uriel's place clearly needs work, but also shows sign of recent renovations. The wood siding is old and worn, white paint cracked and flaking away, but all the truly damaged pieces have been pulled away and replaced. Rusted fencing sits in a pile to the side, having been removed in favor of wide open spaces. The plants are growing wild, hydrangeas and wild rose bushes growing in an untamed riot around the porch, ancient mimosa and pecan trees surrounding the house, but the dead underbrush has been cleared away and there's not a single weed** to be found. The crumbling cement walkway leading to the house has been filled in with gravel, rotting wood on the porch torn out and replaced, the railing mended and repainted.
Inside, the house consists primarily of a single, large open space cluttered with an odd collection of old furniture and mismatched rugs. Books are stacked nigh unto everywhere, holy texts in nearly every language ever spoken, history books, classical literature, an assortment of how-to guides and even a few illustrated children's stories. At the back of the open room there are stairs leading up to what is presumably an attic, and a door that leads to an addition - not new, but certainly not part of the original plan - that houses a small kitchenette and the only bathroom.
Though crosses and signs have long since been torn down, broken stained glass windows replaced with heavy textured glass, the pews and pulpit inside removed, it retains something - an undefinable air or spirit - of the small church it once was. Perhaps that is why Uriel was drawn to it, damaged faith coming to rest where faith gathers no more.
If you are looking for him, he can be found on the front porch swing, looking relaxed in dirt-stained jeans and a white T-shirt, glass of iced tea in hand, absent-mindedly watching a pair of feral kittens as they race across the limbs of an old mimosa tree.
* Yes, it exists. No, it isn't called "Middle of Nowhere". The kittens were terribly cute. The raccoons were also terribly cute, but tended to be a pain in the ass.
** Well, there's always the kudzu, but good luck*** getting rid of that.
*** Actually, Uriel's gardening skills seem to quell even the kudzu. Poor angel has something of a black thumb. If the roses and hydrangeas weren't quite so stubbornly of the opinion "we were here first, you can sod off", they probably wouldn't last long either.
