Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-35711173-20190813084030

This idea came to me as I was writing Mansion in the Sky. Is there enough meat and creepy sauce to build a decent pasta on? Does it resemble other recent stories too closely?

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As the hospital equipment beeped around him, the young Chaplain recited the ancient ritual. "God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

"Through the holy mysteries of our redemption, may almighty God release you from all punishments in this life and in the life to come.

"May he open to you the gates of paradise and welcome you to everlasting joy.

Archbishop Walsh managed to gurgle "Amen" through the oxygen mask. After all the times he had given the Last Rites, this time he was the one receiving it. His end was near. The physical world around him was slipping away. Memories of a lifetime crowded his mind as the nurse wet his lips with a sponge. Christ on the cross was offered the sponge for his parched lips but refused. For decades, he had struggled to become a Prince of the Church. His only concern now was for his immortal soul. Had his confessions been enough? The priest he confessed to also confessed the same sins to him. Did they grant each other too easy penance? Were they forgiven?

Should he call the chaplain back? Painful memories made him burst into tears. His last chance to confess slipped away when his nurse saw the stream of tears flowing down his face. She thought his pain was physical, so she pressed the "Morphine" button to relieve his torment. Unconsciousness overcame him. He found himself standing in a long line, still wearing his hospital gown. People of every appearance stood in queues that stretched from horizon to horizon. Behind him, an Asian woman shouted questions at him in a language he didn't recognize. The man in front of him talked to a little girl from Africa in Hindi. As he neared the head of the line, all he saw were people standing and directing traffic. A quick direction to go to the left or to the right. Rather anticlimactic, he thought. No pearly gates and no sign of Saint Peter. Walsch went to the man who seemed to be in charge. He wore a white business suit and had been talking to a woman in Russian. Walsch interrupted him. "Excuse me. Am I in the right place?" The man studied the gold tablet in his hand and froze. His mouth slowly opened as his eyes grew wide and then narrowed. "Archbishop Thomas Walsh!" A woman in a simple white tunic and a cloak that covered her hair glanced at her tablet and nodded. "This way, Archbishop Walsh. My name is Mary. It will be my pleasure to personally escort you to your eternal reward." Her tiny hand tugged on his and led him straight back. "Thank you," he said, following. "I was getting concerned. There were some very unsavory looking people in that line." "This is Central Receiving," Mary said. "Everyone starts off here, no matter their station in life. Your works have earned you special treatment before God." She led him through an archway. On the other side was a series of small changing booths. Mary stopped at one and pointed. "Change your clothes here." He stepped in, anxious to get out of the embarrassing and drafty hospital gown. Clothes far grander than anything he had ever imagined appeared before him. Every piece was incredible. Spun gold footed leggings and a diamond-studded gold cassock. Most exquisite of all was triple crown tiara of gold and diamonds. It made the Napoleon Tiara in St. Peter's Basilica look like costume jewelry. He put them on, and they fit perfectly. When he stepped out of the booth, Mary pointed to a golden pedestal. "Stand here," she said. After inspected him, she handed him a harp. "God has named you to play the song they will never know. You will testify that every judgment of God and the Lamb is just." Archbishop Walsch had so many questions but wasn't given a chance to ask them. The pedestal rose up and flew to an immense building that shined like pearl a pearl. He sailed through the doorway. The walls glowed with the silvery light of the moon. When he saw a glorious throne, he knew who would be sitting there. As he flew around this marvelous building, he recited from Chapter 14 of the Book of Revelations.

"Then I looked, and there was the Lamb, standing on Mount Zion! And with him were one hundred forty-four thousand who had his name and his Father's name written on their foreheads.

"And I heard a voice from heaven like the sound of many waters and like the sound of loud thunder; the voice I heard was like the sound of harpists playing on their harps, and they sing a new song before the throne and before the four living creatures and before the elders. No one could learn that song except the one hundred forty-four thousand who have been redeemed from the earth.

"It is these who have not defiled themselves with women, for they are virgins; these follow the Lamb wherever he goes. They have been redeemed from humankind as first fruits for God and the Lamb, and in their mouth no lie was found; they are blameless.

He was to become one of the 144,000 written about in the Book of Revelations. He would wear the seal of Christ and his Father’s name on his forehead and would sing the song with the power of thunder that no one else can learn. Then it struck him as odd that there was no celebration in his honor. The pedestal took him to an open spot. He wondered what was going to happen next. His right arm answered that question. It plucked a single note on his harp in unison with a sea of others. The roar was like cannon fire. The vibration rattled his entire body. He was assaulted by a sudden flash that as bright and hot as an atomic bomb. His eyes were seared, and his skin was flayed off by the shockwave. The heat of the nuclear explosion made his golden garments glow red. His most tender bits burned in searing agony. Still in pain and shock, a moment later he found himself plucking the harp again. The sheer violence of the harp shook every bone he had. His teeth chattered, and his ears felt like they were exploding. If he were alive, the nerves in his body would be burned away. Here in Heaven, he felt the agony all over again. When he tried to throw the harp away, he found that it was welded to his arms. As hard as he struggled, he couldn't get rid of it. When he tried to leave, he found that the feet of his golden leggings were now part of the pedestal. They gripped him tightly. The pressure made the pain in his manly bits turn from excruciating to beyond imagining. He tried to remove the triple crown, but it constricted about his head with unendurable force. Any one of these torments caused far more pain than anything cancer had done to him. These struck all at once and grew worse by the moment. Despite the agony, his hand kept plucking the harp in time with the sea of others. If he were alive, he would have passed out from the pain. Here, his suffering was without end. The Queen of Heaven watched God's judgment of Archbishop Thomas Walsch on her tablet. She smiled and repeated a verse from the Gospel of Luke. "It would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck and he were thrown into the sea, than that he would cause one of these little ones to stumble." How true her son's words were. Walsch had stolen from children their innocence and their faith in God. He knew right from wrong better than night from day. There would be no forgiveness for such sins. Above all, Mary was a mother. After centuries of listening to the pleas of other mothers, there were sins for which she had no sympathy. She took tremendous satisfaction in delivering God's justice. Deceived by his pride, Walsh wanted all the prestige Earth had to offer him. Unfortunately, he abandoned the glory in heaven given to everyone who obeys God's word. Walsch would behold that glory forever, even as he received eternal punishment. 