We'll See (690 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.5 on 13 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by <murphydog5.at.hotmail.com> (View user info) at 2004-07-14 15:38:37 EDT
Killian was a sculptor. He was a sculptor because he was afraid of death.
He wanted something to outlive himself and he found that in work that reflected the way he felt about the world around him. It was the subtleties he enjoyed the most... the smirk on the Nun's face suggesting that this all might be a joke after all. Suggesting that she believes in something because she found no reason to believe in herself yet she could not take the leap of certainty. Doubt still plagues her, despite what she presents to the outside world. All of this in a smirk. He wondered how many people who looked at his lime stone and bronze and marble carvings would see that smirk and smile themselves.
Killian, as an artist, had thoughts on beauty. He defined beauty as lust or understanding.
His father was a Catholic priest named Paul. One month before that day, the last day, Killian asked his father, who was in the hospital, about God. "Why do you believe in God, Father," he said, "when you have no PROOF?"
"You don't understand, my son," Paul said. "This has nothing to do with believing anything without proof. Faith in God is not proof but trust. Trusting without reservation."
When Killian was a small boy he held his father in awe. He loved his grace, the way his black suit would flow and ripple as he walked. Killian enjoyed reading Rice novels back then and Catholicism always carried with it a dark mysticism that he quite enjoyed. Watching his father, with his silver hair and eyes bluer than the sea, the deep grooves written on his face with the pencil of age, and the permanent expression of love and compassion and understanding, fascinated him. He loved his Father.
Paul died of a heart attack that night. And Killian went to work.
He wanted to capture his love on Italian marble. For one month, Killian hammered and chiseled and polished the posture of his father. On several nights, he would wipe tears from his fathers face, pause, fall back on his bottom, and weep uncontrollably. His thoughts weren't focused or clear, masked by prescription drugs. In his haze, Killian would collect himself, wipe his eyes, and continue hammering his chisel in to his father's cheek or eyes or perfectly combed hair.
One month later, he finished. His father's sculpture lay in his workshop, which was in his garage, surrounded by dust and tools and CD's and empty bottles of medicine. Killian spun For Whom The Bell Tolls, an opera song, on his CD player and he knelt before his father with a shotgun, loaded with six slugs, resting in front of his knees. He looked up at his father, his kind and knowing eyes, his serious lips. And he cried. His belly jerked in hitches and tears pooled up around his father's ankles. All the sound of suffering was masked by beautiful dark opera.
He put the shotgun in to his mouth and pulled the trigger. It clicked. The next day, Killian called six Catholic men to help him carry his sculptor to the kitchen. After they left, Killian turned to his Father and softly wiped the back of his hand over the marble cheek.
He turned on the gas stove, cut both arms from wrist to elbow with a pearing knife, and cocked the shotgun with his slippery red arms. The room was hissing with sulfur-smelling fumes. More opera filled the kitchen with noise. After lighting six candles and turning the lights off, Killian knelt before his father a second time, put the shotgun in to his mouth, reached as far as his arm could extend, and pulled the trigger. Bits of skull and mush and blood smeared over the soft white marble, painting it brown and red.
His last words were, "we'll see."
Murphy
User Reviews
Submitted by Zoidberg (user info) at 2004-07-15 08:35:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Good posts always get like 10 reviews
and the latest Habeeb monstrosity usually gets about 50
Submitted by Scott_James (user info) at 2004-07-14 23:57:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Actually, do you history, naysayers. It was only after the first few hundred years that the clergy were forbidden to marry and that still doesn't mean they can't father children.
Submitted by Scott_James (user info) at 2004-07-14 23:48:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Natophelia (user info) at 2004-07-14 23:39:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
My grandfather was a Catholic priest. Grandma cured him of that. I'm not kidding.
Submitted by chipolatte (user info) at 2004-07-14 17:51:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Very good writing. How did a Catholic priest have a son, though?
Submitted by William_Q_Percy (user info) at 2004-07-14 17:13:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
you're too smart for me a lot of the times...
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2004-07-14 16:08:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
"His father was a Catholic priest named Paul."
Catholic priests aren't allow to marry.
Submitted by FreZno (user info) at 2004-07-14 15:55:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: -1
Was this supposed to have some sort of point? Was it really just a poorly-written story about some schmuck who kills himself (in a conveniently graphic manner) because his dad died?
Seriously, this piece came out like a half-aborted fetus.
Submitted by Phinch (user info) at 2004-07-14 15:50:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Badlands (user info) at 2004-07-14 15:48:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Yes!
Submitted by spedmonkey (user info) at 2004-07-14 15:46:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Can't not like Murphy stories.
Submitted by JMG114 (user info) at 2004-07-14 15:44:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This is the stuff that keeps me coming back to Uber day in, day out.
Submitted by reallybored (user info) at 2004-07-14 15:44:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
where can i get the cliff notes for this?