A very short story about a Nun.
She was on her knees in front of the statue of the saint, praying in a feverish, frantic voice, her fingers rubbing over the rosary beads so hard, she worried they may break. She prayed and prayed to the saint to save her from this situation, to free her of her sin and petition God to help her through these tough times.
Then it hit her.
It was a statue. She looked up at it, yep, just a painted statue. And it wasn't even a very good statue, the face didn't look very realistic, and the paint was peeling from around the ears and neck.
What had she done?
She had lived in this convent for over ten years. Ten years and all of a sudden now, for reasons she couldn't explain, it seemed awfully silly for her to be kneeling in front of this tacky statue, begging it to help her. What business did this statue have talking to God? And if it had any, how a hunk of plaster and cheap paint have more business with the Lord God Almighty than she did?
And what would Father Aaronson think if he knew these thoughts she was thinking? She began to laugh. Father Aaronson may not approve of her lapse in faith, but who was he to judge her? He was the reason she was asking forgiveness now. He was probably more fake than this stupid statue.
She rose from her knees, kissed the cheek of the chunk of plaster, and said, "Thank you, oh Holy saint, for you have shown me the true way to my God".
She dropped her rosary at it's feet and walked out of the convent, pulling her habit from her head as she did.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Thursday, January 11, 2007
The Mosh-Pit
another excerpt from "Saint Impossible". Jude and Roxanne are at a punk club, enjoying the music.
The room was too small, way too small, the bass was so low it felt like it was regulating his heartbeat, the electric guitar raised the hair on his sweat slicked arms. Roxanne was laughing and he watched her, smiling broadly. It was impossible to hear anything, she flung her arm around his neck and screamed to him, his neck warm and wet with sweat. He barely made out that she was thanking him for bringing her, he turned, kissed her hard. She jumped up, wrapping her legs around his waist and kissed him back, she flung her head back and laughed deeply, then jumped down and flung herself full force into the writhing pit. Her long bangs were sticking to the side of her face as she danced around in the circle, pushing and shoving and kicking her legs out.
He stood back from the pit, watching her. Her calf length jeans just tight enough to show off her perfect, petite body, her thin white tank top clinging to her stomach. Looking at her teeny feet in the faded Converse All-Star sneakers, he almost laughed, looking down at his own feet, in almost identical shoes, twice the size. He could see her give herself into the music, her body seeming to move effortlessly, and beyond her own control in and out of the circling mosh-pit. Then, suddenly, she was right up in his face, clutching his shirt in her hands, saying something.
“What?” he yelled over the obscenely loud music.
He could tell she was yelling, but still could barely hear her, “What?” he asked again, turning his ear to her.
She pulled him close and yelled “Stop staring at me and get your ass in the pit!” She pulled him hard by his arm into the pit with her and he felt himself let go as well. It all felt so good, the music pounding in his ears (the club was so small, no matter where you went, you were still too close to the amplifiers), the arms and elbows pushing into his back, shoving him into the punk kid in front of him as he danced around, singing along to the band. He couldn’t even hear himself.
The room was too small, way too small, the bass was so low it felt like it was regulating his heartbeat, the electric guitar raised the hair on his sweat slicked arms. Roxanne was laughing and he watched her, smiling broadly. It was impossible to hear anything, she flung her arm around his neck and screamed to him, his neck warm and wet with sweat. He barely made out that she was thanking him for bringing her, he turned, kissed her hard. She jumped up, wrapping her legs around his waist and kissed him back, she flung her head back and laughed deeply, then jumped down and flung herself full force into the writhing pit. Her long bangs were sticking to the side of her face as she danced around in the circle, pushing and shoving and kicking her legs out.
He stood back from the pit, watching her. Her calf length jeans just tight enough to show off her perfect, petite body, her thin white tank top clinging to her stomach. Looking at her teeny feet in the faded Converse All-Star sneakers, he almost laughed, looking down at his own feet, in almost identical shoes, twice the size. He could see her give herself into the music, her body seeming to move effortlessly, and beyond her own control in and out of the circling mosh-pit. Then, suddenly, she was right up in his face, clutching his shirt in her hands, saying something.
“What?” he yelled over the obscenely loud music.
He could tell she was yelling, but still could barely hear her, “What?” he asked again, turning his ear to her.
She pulled him close and yelled “Stop staring at me and get your ass in the pit!” She pulled him hard by his arm into the pit with her and he felt himself let go as well. It all felt so good, the music pounding in his ears (the club was so small, no matter where you went, you were still too close to the amplifiers), the arms and elbows pushing into his back, shoving him into the punk kid in front of him as he danced around, singing along to the band. He couldn’t even hear himself.
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