One of These Days

A priest has his doubts about the afterlife on his way home. Inspired by Pink Floyd "One of These Days" hence the title.

     It is dark now, and the rain has stopped, the first wave of the storm has hit New York, but that was just a prelude of what is to come. A strange wind blows momentarily lifting scraps of garbage, then abruptly releasing them to fall back down, to clump in an alley or cling against a fence. Back where they came, back where they belong. An eerie calm is prevalent now, the smell of rain still clings in the air, he can almost taste it its so thick, he can feel it all around him like a stranger’s presence on the street, he knows its not over, off in the distance he hears the thunder. Stepping down from the stairs of Saint Andrews Cathedral is Father McKenzie. It is quiet outside, so quiet that as he walks along the sidewalk he can’t help but hear the off beat rhythm of the souls of his shoes as they occasionally kiss the gritty sidewalk. The passion his shoes and the cement share fades, his mind is on other things, Father McKenzie is on his way home.

     Up ahead the Priest approaches a large pool of rainwater. Proof, evidence of the storms existence; nature’s receipt. Abandoning his thoughts for a moment the priest gazes at the moon’s reflection in that murky puddle of rainwater. Slowing to a stop he switches his attention upwards to see the moon first hand, but those dark gray storm clouds roll shut like grandiose silk curtains denying him a glimpse at the heavens. It reminded him of The Imperial on 43^rd when he saw a showing of Waiting for Godot, a show he saw many moons ago. The priest looked back down into the murky pool where the moon’s reflection once was. Where that bright white beacon in the sky once shined is now replaced with his reflection. Funny how unnoticeable that lump on his neck is in that stormy weather light, in that murky pool of rain water, in fact its not even there. Droplets of rain ripple the calm water, the second wave has arrived. The stunning power of nature has always frightened him, reluctantly the entrance to the subway is just ahead.

     Approaching the platform the Priest is all alone, all alone with the echo of his footsteps on that cold subway platform. He begins to gaze in awe of the Goliath like size of the empty platform, its so massive it seems to swallow him. Staring down he wonders whose decision it was to pick that emergency room white tiles the city uses in its subway system. Getting lost in his gaze the tiles appear to stretch beyond the walls of the platform. He thinks they probably creep right up those square pillars, up through the roof, to the street surface. His eyes relax and his vision blurs, he can only see a sea of white, those lines that used to part the white sea fade away and the blur of his black Priest clothes are the only thing drifting in this white sea; lost.

     The screech of the upcoming subway startles him and his eyes quickly adjust. He doesn’t like being alone down here alone, it reminded him of when he used to work at the Garden when he was younger. He would clean up the isles after Knicks games, after the teams left, after the fans filed out, they would turn all the lights down to just those dim florescent work lights. No noise, just the sound of his foot steps going up and down the stairs and the faint scratch of his straw broom on cold cement floors. Sweeping away garbage, where it belonged.

     The subway train he heard blows by him in an awesome force comparable to the gusts of wind on the street surface in the storm. His train is usually here by now, but tonight is different, tonight, Father McKenzie is on his way home.

     The Priest continues to wait a very long time for his subway. Off in the distance he can hear footsteps descending the stairs, however when he looks back the footsteps stop, nobody there.

     They resume when his back is turned.

     The corners are dimly lit on this platform, the shadows seems to creep beyond their boundaries in the Father’s peripherals, turning his head sharply, it seems he just missed them.

Only if he turned faster he would’ve caught the shadows out of place.

     A loud crash and the lights struggle to stay on, but the storm proves to be too powerful. The Priest waits in total darkness, blacker than his clothes. The footsteps draw closer, they are right behind him, the shadows have successfully crept from the corners they are all around him. The presence behind him softly whispers to the priest, "One of these days I’m going to cut you into little pieces". The priest can hear every articulation of the letters especially on the ‘s’ and ‘t’. A pin and needle sensation emits from his heart and trickles down his spine. Calmly the priest lifts up his one piece of luggage, a black book with pages lined in gold. A light so powerful flows out of these gold rimed pages illuminating the platform in a calm warm welcoming light. The shadows retreat to the corners, the footsteps make their way up the stairs, fading until he can no longer hear the passionate kisses. Above the subway platform on the surface there is a storm in New York City but the calming golden light erupts out of the subway tunnel like a flashlight aimed at the night sky. A solid beam standing out against all the darkness. A light that burns too bright for stormy rain clouds, burns too hot for wet drops of rain. Garbage breaks loose of alleyways, scraps separate from the fence, now free, now floating, where they came from and perhaps where they belong. Father McKenzie is home.

Reviews

[Ani Ashford]

Your story keeps me wondering all the way along. An attention getter. Interesting symbolisms... BTW it doesn't matter where the inspiration comes from, the important thing is that you used it as a tool. It is a good story.. better than good. I would give it a little while and come back to it with fresh eyes. Can't wait to read more of your work.

[Harley (arbiter)]

Pink Floyd baby! Rockout. And the stroy was friggin awesom too man. Wow this was writen a while ago! But still good. You should read my poem numb

[fogisbeautiful]

Wow. I know this story was written a while ago, but I just wanted to say... wow. I agree with pretty much everything everyone else has said, including the suggestions by Michael about looking it over with fresh eyes and looking for grammar and punctuation. The most obvious thing to me (only because I struggle with this myself in my own writing and have to keep an eye out for it) is run on sentences. Sometimes they work in a literary sense, but there were quite a few there that I saw. The story itself was just breathtaking. I love it when stories leave you hanging like that, kinda wondering what really happened, letting you use your own imagination a little bit. Really great, you should write some more.

[James Takeo Panton]

Nice intro......got me reading more.....nice reference to Waiting for Godot! (extra points for that!)

[alternative_be]

An intriguing piece of writing which I added to my reading list. It evokes a feeling of mystery. The suspense is built up to the top at the end leaving the reader confused about what really happened. But may be this was your intention.
The environment and the weather conditions in which the story was set, provides the perfect scenery for inexplicable phenomena!

[Micheal Axelsen]

Returning the favour and have read your story above. Very nicely paced, a touch of the fantastic. I love the word pictures you build up slowly over the story, and the use of the imagery throughout particularly of the garbage, and the 'home'. It strikes you when 'his train is usually here by now but tonight is different - he's going home' that the 'home' reference is kinda special.

Again nicely paced and good word images.

I think the story could use a fresh set of eyes (yours or someone else's) to review it as there are a couple of minor technical errors (punctuation, word use, spelling etc) still in there that get a little in the way of reading (e.g. 'alone' and 'alone' used twice in the same sentence, rimed instead of rimmed, etc) but you probably don't want a detailed listing of those.

Also I suppose a possible improvement is that I am actually left wondering exactly what the heck happened by the end of the story - I think I know but I'm not really sure... I suspect though that that's exactly what you're aiming for so kudos for that :).

A really good story that is good to read.

[THE BLACK SEAL]

the idea of the sotry is good. work on the flow a bit and i am interested to see future writing from you

[Jd Young]

I love the whole tone of the story. The pondering this man does on the way home is powerful and the Pink Floyd Allusion is wonderful. If there is more to the story I would definitely like to read it. I enjoy this Priest and his storm thinking as he travels through it.

[Texas Ink]

Read My Story and Make your Own Comments about my Work before reading this PLEASE:



I'd just like to point of some of the techniques I tried to use in this short story and maybe tell me if they "jumped off the page" at you so to speak? I am not by any means trying to too my own horn here by suggesting I am a great writer, i just tried to impliment these things into my short story and want to know if any of them came across :D :

First of all, I really did get this idea when listening to Pink Floyd, it is very "college boy" of me but oh well.

Secondly I tried to use the 5 senses with the priest, they represent tools of the flesh, as opposed to tools of the spirit, like faith, which our father is lacking. A man of faith, perhaps would believe the storm is passed or believe it is to come again, i was careful not to use those words that might suggest hope or faith because my character is lacking it, its still there but it is weak.

Thirdly. Symbols like the "Souls" of his shoes kissing the dirty city streets, the idea that the shoes of a holy man, the dirtiest part since they touch the ground, nonetheless still holy kiss the dirty "sinful" streets. Another Symbol I tried to use was the garbage. Dirty garbage succumbing to the wind, getting stuck on fences or alleys. Garbage is ugly it is dirty like sinners who get stuck on sins, maybe they belong on the dirty street? Maybe they find their place and get lifted by religion? maybe THEY're JUST TRASH? haha. Umm The play he say when he was younger Waiting for Godot is a play which can be inturpreted as 2 men waiting for god, but god never shows up and they waste all this time doing nothing and even consider suicide, little irony? Um the white tiles are like Emergencey room tiles? Maybe the father dies and is in limbo. Afterall he is alone a lot. Umm I throw in some biblical references, the parting of the white sea (red sea) the subway platform is described as goliath (david vs goliath).

Fourthly- I use words like "Seem" or "as if" to imply a surreal enviroment. Is it real is he dead is he alive. Does the subway Platform represt hell? Does He have faith, he turns to his bible in time of need when surrounded by darkness, however he's still in hell, wehat good is scripture if its just words on a page, he is still in hell at the end, Father McKenzie is home...In hell.

Anyways those are some of the things I tried to throw out there and was wondering if they came across as you the reader. If not what can i do do solidify these ideas? Maybe you have some ideas for me to try. I think when i tried to establish mood on the streets and even in the platform it fell a little short of "creepy" how could I make it more life like? I wrote this story in about 15 hours, from listening to the song over and over letting the noises write my story, I Knew i somehow wanted to use a train or a subway because the bass to me in the song sounds like a train.

Enough of my blabbering, what do you think?!? Thanks for reading!!!