What could you possibly be doing at this hour?
Meeting Saint Peter
Sunlight swayed through the windows of the slowly moving train like yellow curtains in a gentle summer breeze, waking a man whose arousal from rest came as a pleasant surprise. The sleep crept up on him, and with no thoughts to trouble his mind, the man found his dreams to be as elusive to him as a peaceful night’s sleep had once been. So it was that when he discovered himself entering this new place in a drowsy haze of restfulness, his head resting upon his briefcase and the train pulling into its station, he knew that by simply arriving he was rejoining with the scattered fragments of his former peace of mind.
The man found that his place of destination was almost empty; its solitary train station, a cracked, red brick shell covered in dark green ivy that clung to its walls as if the earth was trying to hold back some part of a time long forgotten, was the only building the man could see. Its citizens - all older, though none too much wiser than the man-strolled by on a sidewalk marred by the jagged, risen pieces of cement which seemed to be as restless and full of a desire to stretch as the people who walked upon it. They all moved in the same direction. Their faces were sullen: their eyes downcast toward the crooked ground they walked on; their mouths, blank holes from which no dusty sounds could creep, and where light could find no place amongst thick cobwebs; their ears, long shut to the sounds which tried incessantly to break through. They walked slowly, as if they had no place to go and no time to be there.
The man dodged his way toward the exit of the crowded train, explaining to those who obstructed his path that this was his stop. He left his briefcase on the train. He had no need for it anymore.
As soon as he had walked through the train’s door and stepped out onto the platform, the locomotive resumed its journey across the tracks and was out of his sight before he even thought to turn around and look.
Standing in the sunlight, watching the people walk by him on the cracked pavement, the man felt a warmth and rejuvenation that he thought he would never feel again. He reveled in it as though he was tasting some sweet dessert or drinking water in a sweltering desert. He felt as though he could live in the sunlight, forever comforted by its warm radiance.
The man finally pulled himself out of the light. His journey wasn’t over yet, and, looking to see where the people of the sidewalk were going, he noticed an immensity of brightness caged by pearly white gates. Before the gate and above them all stood a single, bearded saint, dressed in white robes and facing a line of long-faced and eager souls. In his left hand, he held a long and skinny wooden crucifix which stretched all the way down to the ground from the podium upon which he looked on at those beneath him.
The man walked toward the line, attracted by the shine which hovered behind the white gates. As he passed the sullen people by, he watched the saint upon his podium. His eyes seemed to follow the man as he pushed through the line toward his final destination. When he finally reached the gates, he looked up at the holy figure upon the podium. He watched as the figure nodded at him, smiled, and stretched both arms to either side in a welcoming embrace.
The gates seemed to part with a supernatural fluidity, and as they separated, the man felt himself being pulled toward it. The man made no effort to move, yet he was not being taken against his will. He found this sensation haunting, but, as he came closer to the light, was comforted by the ease of his motion.
He glanced over his shoulder and noticed that the light was closing around him, enveloping his form and warming his being with its emanating glow. The man could not help but smile as he found his heaven in a beam of golden sunlight.
Wrote a new story... dunno what prompted it. Every time I feel compelled to write something, I never know how it's going to turn out. I sit down to write one thing, and it comes out another. It's almost as though I'm not even writing, just watching things happen in front of me. So, a story about a guy waking up on a train (which I tried to write a few weeks ago, though it took place on a subway for some reason and, if developed further, could be the exact opposite of this story) and it turned out as a guy going to Heaven. It's more interesting to me that way, I suppose, then figuring it all out in my head and trying to wrestle it on paper. Concepts work fine like that, but when it comes to actually creating it, there's nothing more satisfying than just letting it find its own way onto the page.
It's also 2 A.M., and I'm not sure what significance the late night has to me writing stories but I can't seem to get anything to come out until after midnight.
I'm glad it's the weekend, I'm glad I don't really have much planned, and I'm glad that I can go to sleep now that I'm finished with this.
Goodnight.
Sunlight swayed through the windows of the slowly moving train like yellow curtains in a gentle summer breeze, waking a man whose arousal from rest came as a pleasant surprise. The sleep crept up on him, and with no thoughts to trouble his mind, the man found his dreams to be as elusive to him as a peaceful night’s sleep had once been. So it was that when he discovered himself entering this new place in a drowsy haze of restfulness, his head resting upon his briefcase and the train pulling into its station, he knew that by simply arriving he was rejoining with the scattered fragments of his former peace of mind.
The man found that his place of destination was almost empty; its solitary train station, a cracked, red brick shell covered in dark green ivy that clung to its walls as if the earth was trying to hold back some part of a time long forgotten, was the only building the man could see. Its citizens - all older, though none too much wiser than the man-strolled by on a sidewalk marred by the jagged, risen pieces of cement which seemed to be as restless and full of a desire to stretch as the people who walked upon it. They all moved in the same direction. Their faces were sullen: their eyes downcast toward the crooked ground they walked on; their mouths, blank holes from which no dusty sounds could creep, and where light could find no place amongst thick cobwebs; their ears, long shut to the sounds which tried incessantly to break through. They walked slowly, as if they had no place to go and no time to be there.
The man dodged his way toward the exit of the crowded train, explaining to those who obstructed his path that this was his stop. He left his briefcase on the train. He had no need for it anymore.
As soon as he had walked through the train’s door and stepped out onto the platform, the locomotive resumed its journey across the tracks and was out of his sight before he even thought to turn around and look.
Standing in the sunlight, watching the people walk by him on the cracked pavement, the man felt a warmth and rejuvenation that he thought he would never feel again. He reveled in it as though he was tasting some sweet dessert or drinking water in a sweltering desert. He felt as though he could live in the sunlight, forever comforted by its warm radiance.
The man finally pulled himself out of the light. His journey wasn’t over yet, and, looking to see where the people of the sidewalk were going, he noticed an immensity of brightness caged by pearly white gates. Before the gate and above them all stood a single, bearded saint, dressed in white robes and facing a line of long-faced and eager souls. In his left hand, he held a long and skinny wooden crucifix which stretched all the way down to the ground from the podium upon which he looked on at those beneath him.
The man walked toward the line, attracted by the shine which hovered behind the white gates. As he passed the sullen people by, he watched the saint upon his podium. His eyes seemed to follow the man as he pushed through the line toward his final destination. When he finally reached the gates, he looked up at the holy figure upon the podium. He watched as the figure nodded at him, smiled, and stretched both arms to either side in a welcoming embrace.
The gates seemed to part with a supernatural fluidity, and as they separated, the man felt himself being pulled toward it. The man made no effort to move, yet he was not being taken against his will. He found this sensation haunting, but, as he came closer to the light, was comforted by the ease of his motion.
He glanced over his shoulder and noticed that the light was closing around him, enveloping his form and warming his being with its emanating glow. The man could not help but smile as he found his heaven in a beam of golden sunlight.
Wrote a new story... dunno what prompted it. Every time I feel compelled to write something, I never know how it's going to turn out. I sit down to write one thing, and it comes out another. It's almost as though I'm not even writing, just watching things happen in front of me. So, a story about a guy waking up on a train (which I tried to write a few weeks ago, though it took place on a subway for some reason and, if developed further, could be the exact opposite of this story) and it turned out as a guy going to Heaven. It's more interesting to me that way, I suppose, then figuring it all out in my head and trying to wrestle it on paper. Concepts work fine like that, but when it comes to actually creating it, there's nothing more satisfying than just letting it find its own way onto the page.
It's also 2 A.M., and I'm not sure what significance the late night has to me writing stories but I can't seem to get anything to come out until after midnight.
I'm glad it's the weekend, I'm glad I don't really have much planned, and I'm glad that I can go to sleep now that I'm finished with this.
Goodnight.