Page 133 of Satan's Spawn
“Actually, I’m gonna take a raincheck on the pancakes. I’ve got a whole list of places I’ll be touring today.” I gesture to the TV. “And it looks like I should make sure to be back before it gets dark.”
I kept my word to Potato and did take him on his walk, but made my way out of the house in full stealth mode as Mom and Roman argued about wall colors in their bedroom.
You never truly know how good you are at running quietly until you’ve tried it in flip flops.
I visited two out of the three places I intended. A local beach and The Museum of Modern Art, which I was really hoping to gain some inspiration from for this poetry project. But, as beautiful as the museum was and as bizarre as that poor excuse of a beach was, neither have sparked anything inside me besides utter disappointment and a newfound respect for squiggly lines.
The beach hit the hardest.
I mean, who throws some boulders along a shore and calls it a damn beach? I could barely walk without cutting my feet.
I hold my notebook and pen close to my chest as I make my way through the street…adjusting the bag over my shoulder as I breathe as evenly as I can the closer I get to my final Hail Mary.
Stay tuned for the pun.
This area of Manhattan is busy, but not quite as much as Midtown where tourists swarm the pavement.
It seems to be a much more residential area as I look around, mostly apartment buildings and some smaller carriage houses, all pretty quiet even though they’re only around six blocks away from the bus stop.
I continue strolling the neighborhood, stopping to pet a couple dogs being walked by their owners.
What can I say?
I’m better with animals than I am humans.
I’m a mere block away from where I need to be when tiny hairs on my neck stand at attention, and suddenly I feel this chill down my spine, as if my body’s telling me I’m being watched.
I stop, turning quickly to find nobody but two old men sitting on a bench, and scan the street on the other side. But, other than a black cat, I come up empty on anything conspicuous.
My mind must be playing tricks on me because of what I heard on the news this morning.
Shrugging, I begin my trek again, finally getting to the corner of Droyer Street, where my destination stares me right in the kisser.
The Church of St. Michael the Archangel.
I chose this one because it was ranked the oldest and least visited in the city.
Google did not lie. It looks straight out of the renaissance.
It’s half the size of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, but still has its charm with the stone arches and columns built into the front.
I’m staring up at the cross on the dome when a frail voice disrupts my gaping.
“It’s quite a beauty isn’t it?”
I look to my side and find the cutest old man in priest attire smiling kindly at me.
“Uh, yeah, it sure is.” I tell him, looking down.
“My name is Father Stanley. Come on inside, all are welcome here.”
I lick my lips, feeling my feet cementing into the ground. “Uh, if I’m being honest, it’s been a while since I’ve gone to church.”
“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m holding confession tonight.”
Oh, great. Confession.
I wonder how many “Our Father’s” have to be recited for pining after evil incarnate?
