Written for Great Minds Think – “Flash Fiction
Challenge”. Rohini and Sarah ask us to write a
story or poem using this sentence as our opener:
“The staircase ended in the middle of the sky.”
The staircase ended in the middle of the sky, dangling seventy feet above the scorched courtyard of the half-finished cathedral. Master Builder Thomas gripped the rough-hewn timber railing, his knuckles white, as the November wind ripped through his wool cloak. Below him, the tiny, upturned faces of his masonry crew looked like dropped pebbles amidst the gravel and lime pits.
King Edward’s coin had run out two weeks ago, freezing the construction of the grand tower. The massive stone blocks sat idle at the base, their hoisting ropes rotting in the autumn rain. Thomas looked out over the sprawling slate roofs of the medieval township, then down at the bare, unfinished joists beneath his boots. He had promised the bishop a monument that would touch the footstool of God. Instead, he had built a monument to bankruptcy.
Thomas reached into his tunic, pulled out a piece of charcoal and a scrap of parchment, and began drafting a revised, modest design for a timber roof. They would have to cap it here.
Thomas descended the trembling scaffolding, the wind whipping his face until his boots finally touched the solid, mud-caked earth of the cathedral floor. He didn’t look at his men. He walked straight to the mason’s lodge, where Bishop Ambrose sat huddled over a brazier, his fur-lined robes tucked tightly around his knees.
Thomas slammed the parchment draft onto the trestle table. The bishop stared at the sketch of the squat, timber-capped tower, his face darkening like a gathering storm.
“A roof of common pine, Thomas?” Ambrose spat, his voice echoing off the damp stone walls. “We promised the King a spire that would pierce the heavens, and you give us a stump.”
“The King’s treasury is empty, Your Grace,” Thomas said, his voice flat. “We have no lead, no mortar, and the quarrymen refuse to cut stone without silver. If we do not cap the vaulting before the first hard winter freeze, the rain will seep into the mortar joints. The frost will crack the arches, and the entire structure will collapse into a heap of rubble.”
Ambrose stood, his ringed fingers clutching his gold crucifix. He looked past Thomas, out through the massive, open arched windows toward the dangling staircase that ended in nothing. The ambition of a decade was hanging in the open air, utterly naked to the elements.
“Give me three days,” the bishop whispered, his anger fading into desperation. “The diocese has relics. We will put the finger-bone of St. Jude on display in the market square. We will sell indulgences to every merchant from here to the coast. Do not cut the timbers yet, Master Builder.”
Three days later, the air smelled of snow. Thomas stood once more in the courtyard, watching the grey clouds giving way to purple as the winter front rolled over the valley.
The bishop’s market-square spectacle had been a disaster. A rival abbey had brought a larger, grander relic …. the supposed jawbone of St. Peter …. just two miles down the road, utterly draining the pockets of the pious merchants. Bishop Ambrose had returned to the lodge hours ago, his hands empty, refusing to see anyone.
Thomas had given the bishop his three days; in return, he and his crew got nothing. He knew what he had to do, despite the risk of the bishop’s anger. Ambrose’s ego was not Thomas’ concern; the cathedral was. He raised his hand and gave the signal.
The sharp, rhythmic bite of axes echoed through the stone nave as his carpenters fell upon the massive pine logs. They worked by torchlight through the freezing night, hoisting up the heavy timber trusses. They would not touch the stars, but they would keep out the rain.
By dawn, the stark, skeletal frame of a great wooden roof capped the cathedral. The dangling staircase was gone, dismantled to serve as the very rafters that secured the building’s survival. Thomas looked up at his completed work, exhausted but at peace; he had not built a bridge to heaven, but he had given his people a sanctuary on earth.
NAR©2026
This is “Cathedral Spires” by Judas Priest
Everything on The Elephant’s Trunk was created by me unless otherwise indicated, and may not be used without permission. Thanks for your consideration. NAR©2017-present.
A beautiful story Nancy
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