Amen

Prayers are not always answered.

John looked at his hands, they were bloody and bruised and what little nails he had, were grimy and bitten down to the quick. Once again, he found himself in an overnight holding cell. Another cold, sleepless night, fighting off his demons. He acknowledged the fights all started with him, for the most trivial of reasons, but just couldn't help it. His anger was his only relief and the physical hurt that accompanied any altercation, was ultimately his penance to pay. It bled out the poisons like his own personal stigmata, temporarily relieving the pain.

The troubles had begun soon after his eighth birthday. Unable to contain his fury and not having anyone to confide in, the internal volcano just had to erupt, and erupt it did, with a continuous flow of vicious boiling, caustic lava, not unlike the pictures he and his friends had found in an old religious book, which depicted hell in all its fury.  
His teachers at school were the first to notice the change. They were shocked to see a popular boy become sullen and withdrawn, seemingly overnight. An intervention with his parents and teachers yielded no clue to the cause of the transformation. It was as though John had simply morphed into another being.  Endless probing proved futile and John was gradually, over time, put in a little box labelled 'hopeless cause’ and placed on a high shelf out of sight, which gathered dust at an alarming rate.

He once came close to divulging his secrets, when he had been assigned a male counsellor. After exhausting and defeating a long list of others, Mr Edwards had been seen as his saviour. He was kind and patient and had seen the hurt and pain behind John’s eyes. He understood.
After a few weeks, just when John was on the verge of telling all, Mr Edwards had reluctantly been reassigned to a more pressing case. John had, at that moment, felt the acid settle back into his stomach, spreading out to his clenched fists, all with a rage he had never experienced before. He felt betrayed and vowed never again to allow himself that small tiny glimmer of hope. 

Growing up, John had be raised in a staunch, tight knit, Catholic community. It was only a matter of time before Father McGonagle, the revered local parish priest, requested that John become an alter boy. When John told his parents, it was as though a temporary halo miraculously appeared, hovering above their heads. They were so proud, they felt blessed. John didn't have any say in the matter, once ‘chosen’ it was a foregone conclusion. His mother immediately started to tell everyone she met, and by the smiles he received, along with the continual pats on the head, John soon realised that he had become the golden child, the chosen one, the elite. In an instant, all previous misdemeanours were forgiven and all other everyday bad habits, were suddenly overlooked. It was as though his standing as 'alter boy' permitted him licence to misbehave, a luxury not afforded to others.
John hadn't given much thought to the actual deed itself. He had seen other boys performing their duties every Sunday and although boring, it seemed a small price to pay for his sudden promotion and high standing amongst his family and friends.

Many months went by and familiarity set in. Much to his parents delight, Father Mcgonagle had requested John help out at the church on a more regular basis. They really felt elevated amongst their peers. He would assist in stacking chairs for coffee mornings, ensure the hymn books were placed the right way up and generally be there to help with anything Father Mcgonagle asked of him. His parents so revered the church that he had at first been scared to even address Father McGonagle, fearing divine retribution should he say anything wrong, but slowly, over a period of time, he had learnt to see him as more of a man, rather than a priest.
To his surprise, he found Father McGonagle easy to talk to and was encouraged to confide in him, rather like a friend. Even when John told of 'borrowing' Amanda's new sharpened colouring pencils from her desk, or pocketing Jamie's coveted corgi jaguar XJS,  Father McGonagle just gave out a chuckle and smiled. John really did feel blessed. 

One afternoon after school, John was at the church as usual, however, something was wrong. Father McGonagle was unusually quiet. When he did speak, he sounded dismissive and gruff. John became nervous as everything he did appeared to be wrong. Whether he was sweeping out the hall, or washing up the used coffee cups, nothing he did could please him. John was so anxious, he began to cry. The thought of how angry his parents were going to be, finding out that he had somehow managed to upset him, was just too much to bear. Suddenly, Father McGonagle beckoned him close and asked that he kneel before him to repent for his sins. John did as he was told, all the while wracking his brains to try and remember what sin he had committed that had invoked such anger.
That was the beginning of the end. John knew what was happening was wrong but his senses had shut down. Thinking back he remembered the deadly silence around him and the sickening pulse of blood rushing through his ears. His whole body had screamed with the injustice of it all but he felt totally helpless, paralysed and numb.  
After, Father Mcgonagle had sat John down and explained at length that his parents would be very displeased with him if he were to talk about this, and that it was completely natural  to express physical affection in various different ways between 'friends'. From now on, it was to be, their special secret. 

John was awakened by PC Bailey shouting out his name. He was told to move on, think about what he was doing with his life and to try and stay out of any more fights. Blah, blah blah, he had heard it all before and nodded acquiesantly in all the right places. Overnight, he had reached the conclusion that one thing, and one thing only, could change this downward spiral. Everything he knew, led back to Father Mcgonagle and John imagined at least twenty ways to eliminate the problem, once and for all. In each scenario, he was absolved of any wrongdoing and  considered a saint despite all the gruesome endings. 

Therefore, having realised that no action would eventually be his downfall, his mind was set. He would right the wrong, whichever way he could. He just couldn't imagine another day, being eaten from the inside out. Absolutely resolute in his thoughts and determined to eradicate the problem, he vowed to take immediate action.  
On the chosen Sunday, he approached the rectory behind St. Bernadette’s and hesitated. Memories came flooding back which almost immobilised him to the spot. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then willed himself forward, joining others in the congregation, all gathered up like shoals of fish caught up in a net. They were swimming forward one after another, all hoping to be instantly absolved from all their wrong doings. Most were dressed in their Sunday best, as though their prayers may be looked on more favourably having made the effort.

John sat in the third pew from the front, in an aisle seat. He wanted to make sure he was in a prime position to make immediate eye contact with Father Mcgonagle. He had rehearsed this moment over and over in his head. John was no longer the little boy who could be smothered into silence, he was determined to stand up to him and wanted his presence to make a difference, he owed it to all the boys who had suffered, their shattered lives ruined.

Father Mcgonagle started the Mass and was addressing everyone in his usual manner, warm and welcoming. His eyes momentarily swept past John, but within a second, they came back and fixed firmly on his.
John suddenly felt alone. Everything around him became a blur and much to his horror, he had begun to shake. He was aware and dismayed at the same time, to see that Father McGonagle appeared perfectly normal. By now, he had imagined him to be a blubbering wreck, at the very least to be uncomfortable under his gaze, however, that just wasn’t the case. He was as confident as ever. John felt defeated.

Father McGonagle, with arms open wide, addressed the whole congregation without once taking his eyes off John. He proceeded as though he were talking only to him, and John felt compelled to watch in horror, as though hypnotised. His mouth became dry and his hands were wringing wet, while his body was hot and visibly shaking. John clenched his eyes shut and willed himself to turn and run. But it was all too late. The words, which he knew were coming, instantly transported him back to being a skinney, frightened, eight year old boy. 

"I'd like to invite you all to kneel" 

Reviews

[Levi Levin]

This story is no doubt the truth of many individuals who have experienced the same. You did a great job!!!

[JayG]

A few comments and suggestions on things that you might look into.

In general, you’re treating this as a report on John—focusing on facts, background, and history. The problem is that the outside-in approach you’re using, where the narrator is telling the reader a story, instead of making the reader live it, has some inherent problems:

The first hits us in line one.

• John looked at his hands, they were bloody and bruised and what little nails he had, were grimy and bitten down to the quick.

This is a report. It happened, but… Why did he look at them? Dunno. What did he think when he did? You don’t say. So why do I care? They’re bloody from…? I have no clue. And in what way are his nails, “what little nails he had?” Without context we have facts, but they're unrelated to anything meaningful, as the reader views it. And the story was written for that reader. Were his nails pulled out by torture? Deformed? No way to tell. You know. You also know why this is important enough to appear in the first line. And, you not only know the scene and what led to it, you have intent for telling the reader this. But because the background is so obvious to you, you don’t feel the need to include information the reader requires if they’re to have context. And you don’t see that lack of context when you read it because your mind automatically fills in the blanks. One way to help avoid this is to have your computer read it aloud, to hear what the reader does. But that's only a partial solution.

That’s why it’s better to tell the story from the inside out, presenting what matters enough to him to react to, not reporting what the author is focused on. The result of the present approach—telling about the situation rather than showing his viewpoint—tends to result in important parts of the story remaining in your head, while at the same time making it impossible for you to notice that. For you, the words act as pointers to image, events, and action that reside in your head. But for the reader, too often, the words act as pointers to image, events, and action that reside in *YOUR* head.

There’s another effect that’s also not obvious to the author: You're transcribing yourself telling this to an audience. But...verbal storytelling is a performance art. How you perform matters as much as what you say. Can the reader hear the emotion in your voice? No. How about the expressions you use to illustrate emotion, and the gestures which visually punctuate? No, again. But when you read the story it’s all there, so the story lives.

The short version: Professional knowledge is acquired in addition to our schooldays skills. And in the case of the Fiction-Writing profession, it’s in addition to the report-writing skills we’re given to make us useful to employers.

Unfortunately, it’s something we all miss because the skill we were given is called writing, as is the profession. But there are many kinds of writing. Think of engineering. The person designing a computer, and one who designs a building at called engineers, as is the one who drives a train. In our field, the profession of scriptwriter, tech-writer, journalist, screen-writer, etc., are very different. But all are writers.

The nonfiction skills we were given in school are designed to inform, clearly and concisely. Such skills are what employers need us to have in order to write reports and papers. But people read fiction for an emotional experience. We don’t read romance to learn that the protagonist has fallen in love. Nor do we read a horror story to learn that the protagonist feels terror. We want the author to make US feel those emotions. And no way can our book-report writing skills do that. It takes an approach not mentioned in your school days—one that’s emotion, not fact-based, and character, not author-centric.

So…you have the desire, the perseverance, and the writing skills. And for all we know you may be loaded with talent. But until you give that talent some tools to work with…

And that’s my point. Your reader has been choosing only professionally written and produced books since they began to read. So they expect the fiction they pick up to have been created with that knowledge and technique-set. But unfortunately, reading fiction no more teaches us those techniques then does eating teach us to cook. It therefore makes sense to invest a bit of time, and perhaps a few coins, on acquiring the tricks the pros take for granted. Not good news, I know, but it is a reality of the world we live in.

The library’s fiction-writing section has lots of books on the subject, but to acquire the basic, nut-and-bolts knowledge of how to create scenes that sing to a reader, and link them into an exciting whole, I have several suggestions.

Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict is a warm easy read, like sitting down with Deb as she talks about writing.

Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer is a bit more difficult, goes to greater depth, and so, can be a bit dry at times.

Both cover the basics better than any other I’ve found, aside from the writing books of Jack Bickham (who taught with Swain), which are an alternative.

I favor Swain’s book because it’s more complete, and because that book was what guided me to my first sale after writing six unsold novels, and reading a book or two on writing.

I would definitely recommend them, because while they won’t make a pro of you—that’s your task—they will give you the tools and the knowledge with which to do that if it’s in you.

For a kind of overview of the issues, you might check a few of the articles in my writing blog. But whatever you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/