(no subject)
it's my job to litter your friends' page.
it was a two page story on a specific character. we were provided with a list and i chose the priest who hears a murder confession. i immediately shat out four pages and took out some minor things and was finished by three. i wish term papers were as easy. the next morning (today), i woke up late and never printed out the story to hand it in. well, shit. i don't know why i'm doing this. putting it here. it's friday and at least one of you needs something to do. it's dry, fast, and corny. enjoy.
the man, priest, and church
It was dawn, and the man was walking past the joggers and early businessmen. He had his hands in his coat pockets and his sneakers on his feet, shuffling down some lonely sidewalk in the middle of the awakening city. The church was closer, block by block.
Inside of it, a priest was inside the dark booth. His mind weaved through irrelevant thoughts as an old lady on the other side mumbled through her confessions. The priest sat but failed to listen. The habit gradually presented itself through years of experience. The god-fearing elderly lacked valid confessions. He could see and hear them groping around in their minds, searching for some innocent fib committed months ago. On this discovery, he felt most elderly required no extra attention from him.
The old lady left, her face rose and there was a quick flash of clothing and the booth was dead silent. It was just the priest and the ghosts of confessions occupying the space, now. For centuries, those confessions reverberated against the walls and eventually seeped into the dark velvet lining of the booth, like the smells that never leave homes and schools. It’s almost like they’ve become part of the structure, part of the floor, walls, and ceiling. The priest felt it, and was almost positive that the room and its confessions weighed more than the entire structure of the church.
Built on this ancient and majestic structure, gargoyles and useless pieces of architectural design loomed over the man as he stood in front of the entrance. He did not feel welcomed into this house of god and did not really believe it was god’s house. He was pretty sure god didn’t exist, either. He knew sin existed, though. It was red like the blood caked under his fingernails and black like the gun in his coat pocket.
Walking down the aisles, the man hesitantly chose a dark booth. He stopped a few feet in front of it, as fear circulated through his every vein. What if the priest told the police? What if the priest was angry with him and started to yell? He considered both questions for a few seconds and decided that he deserved to be arrested. He was no longer scared of the inevitable. The evidence would be found and the hound dogs would lead to him. It was logical to assume so and he accepted it, entirely. The second question hovered over his head and kept repeating itself. What if the priest was angry with him and started to yell? This man did not fear committing murder or jail, but there was something about angry priests that froze his blood solid cold with fear.
The priest sat with his head down and his hands pressed together in front of his face. To anyone entering, it would appear as though the priest was deep in prayer, but it was a decoy. He slept instead.
The man entered and sat down, and priest’s body jumped slightly as he lifted his head and woke. Through the sheet of metal, the fence dividing holy and sinner, the priest saw a man in a coat. The bleak, yellow-tinted lighting in the booth cast shadows that made everyone appear slightly older and sicker. This man was probably twenty-something but looked to be thirty. He looked at the priest and the priest looked at him and started to greet him while they examined each other. The man had terribly dark eyes but the rest of his face was handsome. His jaw was clenched and there might’ve been fear in his voice as he spoke, but the priest wasn’t positive.
So the story unfolded before the priest. He sat like a human sponge, gathering all of it and keeping silent. The man was afraid the priest had fallen asleep. When he went to look up at him, the priest sat with piercing blue eyes, nodding.
Never before, had the priest heard the words that hovered around him, the sentences, actions, and pain that made the man’s voice crack as he wept and spoke at the same time. Sometimes the man would stop speaking and just sob to himself. A few minutes later, he’d start to talk again and the story continued. The priest weighed his options, unsure that he was legally allowed to tell the police. He sat and thought. The booth was silent. The attractive man with the dark eyes and gun in his coat-pocket, sniffled like a seven year old.
The priest came to a decision and softly spoke to the man. He told the man he was forgiven, without even consulting Jesus. It was all an act anyway, Jesus never answered him. This man did not believe in god, and the priest himself believed in lying to make the sinners feel better. He wasn’t sure if any of the other priests had conversations with god. He didn’t. He tried, all fifty years of his life, and it never worked. But the people who begged for forgiveness received it. The priest just sat and listened, but he understood that the people were forgiving only themselves. That’s all they needed.
He gave the man some prayers to say, and noticed the man had stopped sniffling. His jaw was no longer clenched.
They both stood up, this time. They left the booth, on their separate ways, making sure to leave from different exits. The man was headed to the police station, to turn himself in. And the priest was headed home.
it was a two page story on a specific character. we were provided with a list and i chose the priest who hears a murder confession. i immediately shat out four pages and took out some minor things and was finished by three. i wish term papers were as easy. the next morning (today), i woke up late and never printed out the story to hand it in. well, shit. i don't know why i'm doing this. putting it here. it's friday and at least one of you needs something to do. it's dry, fast, and corny. enjoy.
the man, priest, and church
It was dawn, and the man was walking past the joggers and early businessmen. He had his hands in his coat pockets and his sneakers on his feet, shuffling down some lonely sidewalk in the middle of the awakening city. The church was closer, block by block.
Inside of it, a priest was inside the dark booth. His mind weaved through irrelevant thoughts as an old lady on the other side mumbled through her confessions. The priest sat but failed to listen. The habit gradually presented itself through years of experience. The god-fearing elderly lacked valid confessions. He could see and hear them groping around in their minds, searching for some innocent fib committed months ago. On this discovery, he felt most elderly required no extra attention from him.
The old lady left, her face rose and there was a quick flash of clothing and the booth was dead silent. It was just the priest and the ghosts of confessions occupying the space, now. For centuries, those confessions reverberated against the walls and eventually seeped into the dark velvet lining of the booth, like the smells that never leave homes and schools. It’s almost like they’ve become part of the structure, part of the floor, walls, and ceiling. The priest felt it, and was almost positive that the room and its confessions weighed more than the entire structure of the church.
Built on this ancient and majestic structure, gargoyles and useless pieces of architectural design loomed over the man as he stood in front of the entrance. He did not feel welcomed into this house of god and did not really believe it was god’s house. He was pretty sure god didn’t exist, either. He knew sin existed, though. It was red like the blood caked under his fingernails and black like the gun in his coat pocket.
Walking down the aisles, the man hesitantly chose a dark booth. He stopped a few feet in front of it, as fear circulated through his every vein. What if the priest told the police? What if the priest was angry with him and started to yell? He considered both questions for a few seconds and decided that he deserved to be arrested. He was no longer scared of the inevitable. The evidence would be found and the hound dogs would lead to him. It was logical to assume so and he accepted it, entirely. The second question hovered over his head and kept repeating itself. What if the priest was angry with him and started to yell? This man did not fear committing murder or jail, but there was something about angry priests that froze his blood solid cold with fear.
The priest sat with his head down and his hands pressed together in front of his face. To anyone entering, it would appear as though the priest was deep in prayer, but it was a decoy. He slept instead.
The man entered and sat down, and priest’s body jumped slightly as he lifted his head and woke. Through the sheet of metal, the fence dividing holy and sinner, the priest saw a man in a coat. The bleak, yellow-tinted lighting in the booth cast shadows that made everyone appear slightly older and sicker. This man was probably twenty-something but looked to be thirty. He looked at the priest and the priest looked at him and started to greet him while they examined each other. The man had terribly dark eyes but the rest of his face was handsome. His jaw was clenched and there might’ve been fear in his voice as he spoke, but the priest wasn’t positive.
So the story unfolded before the priest. He sat like a human sponge, gathering all of it and keeping silent. The man was afraid the priest had fallen asleep. When he went to look up at him, the priest sat with piercing blue eyes, nodding.
Never before, had the priest heard the words that hovered around him, the sentences, actions, and pain that made the man’s voice crack as he wept and spoke at the same time. Sometimes the man would stop speaking and just sob to himself. A few minutes later, he’d start to talk again and the story continued. The priest weighed his options, unsure that he was legally allowed to tell the police. He sat and thought. The booth was silent. The attractive man with the dark eyes and gun in his coat-pocket, sniffled like a seven year old.
The priest came to a decision and softly spoke to the man. He told the man he was forgiven, without even consulting Jesus. It was all an act anyway, Jesus never answered him. This man did not believe in god, and the priest himself believed in lying to make the sinners feel better. He wasn’t sure if any of the other priests had conversations with god. He didn’t. He tried, all fifty years of his life, and it never worked. But the people who begged for forgiveness received it. The priest just sat and listened, but he understood that the people were forgiving only themselves. That’s all they needed.
He gave the man some prayers to say, and noticed the man had stopped sniffling. His jaw was no longer clenched.
They both stood up, this time. They left the booth, on their separate ways, making sure to leave from different exits. The man was headed to the police station, to turn himself in. And the priest was headed home.