Talons That Go Unnamed

Excerpts from my novel, of the same title as this blog. Let me know what you think:

Chapter 1
This chapter is set in one of the main character's Catholic church, he essentially quits the church during this chapter:
The Father extended his arms in messianic posturing, the bulge of a second chin bobbing under the emphatic “O” of his tone-deaf mouth. Al was feeling a public rage at this man, for the first time a personal indignation for the very individual that had Confirmed him into the Catholic church. The father swiveled from side to side on generous hips, nodding to generic spots in the audience based on his vague grasp of the timing of the piece. This technique of blatantly ineffective encouragement, rendered comical by the modest swelling at his gut, had always fallen at Al’s feet but only now did he feel offended by it.

....

Out in the lobby the muffled sound of the choir lost all sanctity, pushed through tiny speakers in the corners hidden in the dust-free corners. Al remained quiet, he wanted to speak his excuse effortlessly, gracefully if possible. Could there be one impervious phrase that would win over Rose absolutely? They dipped their hands in the fountain of holy water, Al making his last sign of the cross, and walked towards the door. On the verge of things, smiling as they pointed into the future, Al thought. Without the spectre of a vengeful god, or weak-kneed reliance on his miracle Al could envision the family growing closer, trusting each other, creating beautiful lives for their children.
The décor in the lobby was less bleak but no more organic, every piece polished and in place, every wall free of the smudges of little hands. Near the door, Al stooped to inspect a congealing stain on the carpet. Down to the hardwood. Al pulled back a flap of carpet that had been cut back to scoop out chunks of saturated padding. A grease stain of inordinate damage that essentially disqualified all of St. pete’s other efforts to impress and comfort. Is it bubbling up? Or soaking in?




Chapter 2
Starts with a little dream sequence. Melanie is his daughter and a central concern of his.
Disassembled Al drifted down the plank stairs, no intimation of cellar beasts reaching through the slats to grab ankles. Melanie’s Lilliputian hand a smoldering ember, soft in his hand.
The eventual floor was dirt, black tendrils of unguessable trees poked thru the walls and floor in search of water and sprouted slowly twirling pink blossoms that occasionally dropped to the floor. But the cellar was dim, it would be impossible to find that jar of preserves or jug of wine. Al began to look for a dangling chain to yank or a gleaming touch-screen to activate. Melanie was whimpering something backwards about the dampness, the cool draft that emanated from the center of the room.
...