Sally and the Demon
I should stick with my doggerel, which is far more popular in terms of visitors than all the prose I have posted, but every now and then I get the urge to write an article or story and show it to the world.
One night, while I was on a brief holiday with my sister and her husband, I dreamt about the first part of the story below. She was not in the least interested, so I decided to tell you instead. And added the ending to give it some sort of meaning.
*
I am not a believer, so I went into the church for purely secular reasons, to escape the racket and confusion of my life for a few minutes, to sit somewhere quiet among some decent internal architecture.
The noise in there was like a simplified form of speech made by a very large person.
“Urmmm… Urmmmm… Urmmmmm…”
It came from behind a pillar, next to which a woman in a powder blue business suit was standing, looking up at something. I walked forward slowly until I could see who was making the noise.
It was a demon. Ten feet tall. Bright red. Horned. Glistening.
It ignored me, but the woman glanced at me, gave a small, social smile, then returned her gaze to the demon.
I went right to the back of the church, where I could not see what was behind the pillar, and sat down. Soon after, there was an eruption of smoke and the stink of rotten eggs. The woman emerged from the smoke, walking towards me.
She sat down next to me. She was very average and in other circumstances would have been unmemorable.
“I’m Sally Johnson. I come here in an unofficial capacity to help people. Do you need any help?”
I looked at her and wondered what sort of help a woman who talked to demons would give. I said nothing.
“What did you see just now, behind the pillar?”
“You.” I said.
“I was next to the pillar. What did you see behind it?”
“The… person you were talking to.”
“Go on.”
“That’s all.”
“Would you care to describe this person?”
One does not share one’s hallucinations with strangers.
“The priest?”
“Really?”
“The guy in charge of this place?”
She laughed. “You have unusual gifts. If you wish, I could help you set up a lucrative practice as a psychic.”
“No, thanks. I already have job.”
“Come back here if you change your mind.”
She stood up and walked away.
I left the church converted. Converted from excessive drinking, drugs, late nights and junk food to clean living. I never went back to that church.
One night, while I was on a brief holiday with my sister and her husband, I dreamt about the first part of the story below. She was not in the least interested, so I decided to tell you instead. And added the ending to give it some sort of meaning.
*
I am not a believer, so I went into the church for purely secular reasons, to escape the racket and confusion of my life for a few minutes, to sit somewhere quiet among some decent internal architecture.
The noise in there was like a simplified form of speech made by a very large person.
“Urmmm… Urmmmm… Urmmmmm…”
It came from behind a pillar, next to which a woman in a powder blue business suit was standing, looking up at something. I walked forward slowly until I could see who was making the noise.
It was a demon. Ten feet tall. Bright red. Horned. Glistening.
It ignored me, but the woman glanced at me, gave a small, social smile, then returned her gaze to the demon.
I went right to the back of the church, where I could not see what was behind the pillar, and sat down. Soon after, there was an eruption of smoke and the stink of rotten eggs. The woman emerged from the smoke, walking towards me.
She sat down next to me. She was very average and in other circumstances would have been unmemorable.
“I’m Sally Johnson. I come here in an unofficial capacity to help people. Do you need any help?”
I looked at her and wondered what sort of help a woman who talked to demons would give. I said nothing.
“What did you see just now, behind the pillar?”
“You.” I said.
“I was next to the pillar. What did you see behind it?”
“The… person you were talking to.”
“Go on.”
“That’s all.”
“Would you care to describe this person?”
One does not share one’s hallucinations with strangers.
“The priest?”
“Really?”
“The guy in charge of this place?”
She laughed. “You have unusual gifts. If you wish, I could help you set up a lucrative practice as a psychic.”
“No, thanks. I already have job.”
“Come back here if you change your mind.”
She stood up and walked away.
I left the church converted. Converted from excessive drinking, drugs, late nights and junk food to clean living. I never went back to that church.
posted by Robert Muir at 7:37 PM
1 Comments:
Oh dear, two comments and they are both about somebody else trying to make money. If I can be bothered, I will investigate how to delete them and leave room for those who are interested in Art rather than A Quick Buck.
Post a Comment
<< Home