Falsified

By on January 27, 2010 ·
Saint Peter's Pearly Gates
Image by skylarprimm via Flickr

The gates swung shut with a sonorous clang and St. Peter turned to the line.

“Next.” A man stepped forth from the head of the milling throng and approached.

“Wow,” the man said gazing at the tall gates, “I’m finally here. It’s a long wait on line.”

“Name?” said St. Peter.

“Those gates sure are pearly,” the man said. “I expected bars so you could see through. Like in the movies I guess. But these are pretty. Imposing but tasteful, you know?”

“What is your name?”

“Oh, sorry,” the man said. “You know I kind of expected you to have wings.”

“I’m not an angel,” Peter said. “I’m a saint and I need your name.”

“Right a saint. Saint Peter,” the man said, nodding. “No wings but that’s a nice halo. Beatific.” The man and the saint stared at each other for a few moments.

“Your name?”

“Oh, right,” the man said, nodding again. “Hamilton. Michael Alexander Hamilton.”

St. Peter ran his finger down the page of the book in front of him. The book was huge, a vast tome. It was bound in gold chased leather with parchment leaves crawling with calligraphy and illuminations. St. Peter turned a few pages looking for the man’s entry.

“Paper records, huh?” the man said. “I’d think you guys would move to a computer system. That’s quite a line to process.”

“Yeah, well when we started it was all on papyrus scrolls,” said Peter. “So this is actually an improvement. Here you are.” Peter’s finger moved up and down the page and he muttered as he read.

“No murder, no rape, not much blasphemy…stole a candy bar when you were seven.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Church going man…” Peter’s finger stopped and he looked up. “A little more lust than we care for.”

“Yeah you got me there,” the man said, “but I never cheated on my wife. Not in thirty-five years of marriage.”

“It says here you were married for thirty-six years.”

“Uh, yeah…I’m counting the engagement.”

“Everything looks alright here,” Peter said. “Michael Alexander Hamilton, you may pass.” The pearly gates opened and the man walked through into a golden light filled with harp music. The gates swung to with a sonorous clang and St. Peter turned to the line.

“Next.” A man stepped forth from the head of the milling throng and approached.

“Name?” said St. Peter.

“Hamilton,” the man said. “Michael Alexander Hamilton.”

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creative writing exercise – falsified

By on December 22, 2008 ·

“What, do you think I heave the crystal balls?”

Since I had been dealing with the Russian for quite some time, I automatically substituted the word “have” for the apparent word “heave” in his speech.  But, for the life of me I had no idea what he was talking about.  “You mean, like for telling the future, Sergei?” I asked, tentatively.  I had found that it was always best to just keep him talking and hopefully glean the real meaning of his words.

“I am not fortune teller like gypsy with the Tarot.  I mean my balls,” he said, gesturing toward his crotch for emphasis, “Do you think I am heaving the glass for balls?”

I still didn’t understand what he was trying to get at, but I knew well enough that whenever his testicles became a part of the conversation, he was at his most serious.  Lucky for me, he continued without any further prompting.

“You bring me this deal, acting like American cowbuoy, like you think I heave the fragile, this side up, do not drop, balls.  Well, the joke, it is on you.  Sergei wears the brass balls in the pants of this family.”

“So, the deal isn’t to your liking?” I probed, knowing full and well that this was going to be the case.  My employers had given me instruction to double the offer if necessary.  Both Sergei and I knew about where the deal would be struck, but it was important to the ongoing relationship for there to be some negotiation before that point was reached.  It was the Russian’s way and therefore it was the way this one was going to go, especially since he was the best at procuring the type of falsified identity documents that my employer sought.  Even though we now stood at point A and pretty much both agreed where point B was going to end up, we still had to make the trip between them.  This brought an image of Sergei and I on a cross-country road trip together and I had to stifle a laugh.

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Falsified

By on December 21, 2008 ·

Falsified                                                       Eric M. Bahle December 20, 2008

 

The gates swung shut with a sonorous clang and St. Peter turned to the line.

“Next.” A man stepped forth from the head of the milling throng and approached.

“Wow,” the man said gazing at the tall gates, “I’m finally here. It’s a long wait on line.”

“Name?” said St. Peter.

“Those gates sure are pearly,” the man said. “I expected bars so you could see through. Like in the movies I guess. But these are pretty. Imposing but tasteful, you know?”

“What is your name?”

“Oh sorry,” the man said. “You know I kind of expected you to have wings.”

“I’m not an angel,” Peter said. “I’m a saint and I need your name.”

“Right a saint. Saint Peter,” the man said, nodding. “No wings but that’s a nice halo. Beatific.” The man and the saint stared at each other for a few moments.

“Your name?”

“Oh right,” the man said, nodding again. “Hamilton. Michael Alexander Hamilton.”

St. Peter ran his finger down the page of the book in front of him. The book was huge, a vast tome. It was bound in gold chased leather with parchment leaves crawling with calligraphy and illuminations. St. Peter turned a few pages looking for the man’s entry.

“Paper records, huh?” the man said. “I’d think you guys would move to a computer system. That’s quite a line to process.”

“Yeah, well when we started it was all on papyrus scrolls,” said Peter. “So this is actually an improvement. Here you are.” Peter’s finger moved up and down the page and he muttered as he read.

“No murder, no rape, not much blasphemy…stole a candy bar when you were seven.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Church going man…” Peter’s finger stopped and he looked up. “A little more lust than we care for.”

“Yeah you got me there,” the man said, “but I never cheated on my wife. Not in thirty-five years of marriage.”

“It says here you were married for thirty-six years.”

“Uh, yeah…I’m counting the engagement.”

“Everything looks alright here,” Peter said. “Michael Alexander Hamilton, you may pass.” The pearly gates opened and the man walked through into a golden light filled with harp music. The gates swung to with a sonorous clang and St. Peter turned to the line.

“Next.” A man stepped forth from the head of the milling throng and approached.

“Name?” said St. Peter.

“Hamilton,” the man said. “Michael Alexander Hamilton.”

 

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