Tambourines clanged and drums kept time as voices from a choir lifted up from the stage. Through the blistering heat, hundreds of people descended on Wilmington, Delaware to experience the Big August Quarterly. Song and praise dance took the center stage, but what also shown in the spotlight remained the delectable victuals prepared by church mothers, sisters, and brothers.
Stainless steel surrounded most of the room. In fact, the table and two chairs shared the same substance. The only things that weren't steel were the missing ceiling and the floor which shined with wood polish. A desk lamp and tablet resided on the table. Save for the lamp, darkness shrouded the place. A door opened and a woman named Donna Beck aged thirty-five-years-old sat down at the table. She engaged with the tablet. A few minutes passed and the door opened again. This time, it was a one hundred and two-year-old man named Horace Maddox who used a cane as he walked, slightly hunched over and with slow and steady paces. He sat down at the other chair.
Digital photographs and videos sprang up from the mobile device. In three dimensional, full color display, the names and ages of the young children in West Virginia appeared. It was like a panoply of joy and youth sprung up from the cell phone. The children didn’t look downtrodden or sad or impoverished despite the conditions that showed in other pictures of Appalachia. Acorn colored Redmond Stratton furrowed his brow. He and his white wife Glenda singled out a boy with cerulean eyes and a little girl with flaxen blonde hair.
“It’s the last shipment of the carbon fiber ladders, Miss Alese.” Corey Salisbury says.
Various portraits lined the convention center on the Riverfront in Wilmington, Delaware. All of them depicted the image of the prophet Mohammad. He himself walked around the place like it was Jannah. Dressed in a hoodie, hat, and sunglasses, the prophet meandered around the place unnoticed. He delighted in the pictures of himself. He enjoyed seeing himself as the spark to over a millennium of bloodshed that would arise around the faith associated with his name. He smirked like a serial killer wrapping his hands around his victim’s throat. He walked with a slow and deliberate gait.
Green bills unfolded and folded in is hands. Jertavious Dawe spoke under his breath each count of the money. The dollars in ones and fives mostly, turned over like water off of a mill. The circulative motion of the greenbacks enticed the young man of only eight years. His brother came into the house and saw Jertavious alone and almost in trancelike mode in his Newark, Delaware home.