Gabriel’s Gift (Lexington Avenue Express) Reviews
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Gabriel’s Gift (Lexington Avenue Express) Overview
Gabriel’s Gift (Lexington Avenue Express – Short Fiction)
The priest peered from beneath the angel’s wing and tried to focus his eyes. His breath was heavy with the familiar, sweet stench of alcohol, the residue of another evening filled with despair. Five teenage boys were moving about silently in the dim light of the choir loft. He’d seen them there every Thursday night for several weeks now, quietly observing them from his vantage point in the corridor hidden behind the ornate altar. The small window below Gabriel’s marble wing afforded the priest an excellent view of the gallery that stood thirty-feet above his sanctuary prison.
“Why are we whispering,” the chubby boy with a crew-cut giggled. He was kneeling, attaching a snare drum to a tripod stand. “No one’s gonna’ hear–”
“‘Cause we agreed, that’s why,” a taller boy with blonde hair in bangs interrupted. “We agreed we’d record here so we can use the Hammond, but it’s still a church.”
“Oh, man,” crew-cut muttered, but the priest was too far away to understand the balance of their conversation.
Father Patrick had come to Saint Vincent’s straight from the seminary. Twenty-eight years of desperation in the tiny Kansas community had reduced him to a sad caricature — comically lean, expression stern, eyes dark and void of hope.
The priest’s dream of contributing to the greater good of mankind had long since been abandoned. He spent most every evening sitting in the vestibule tunnel behind the altar. He drank himself to sleep there, seated at a small table and chair he’d positioned in the shallow recess between the Angel Gabriel and Saint Francis.
“Okay,” blonde bangs said softly, “help me hang the mike.”
Breathing labored, the priest leaned heavily against the damp marble wall and watched as two of the boys hoisted a third on their shoulders. From this unsteady perch, blonde bangs reached toward the heavens, attaching a small microphone to the dangling piece of piano wire that had secured the Star of Bethlehem last Christmas.
A distant hum signaled the Hammond’s first gasp. As the air continued to build in the organ’s air box, the priest could hear the other instruments coming to life; three amplified guitars and a small set of drums. The confused discordance slowly began to merge into the cover of an Animals B-Side and for a moment, the priest’s thoughts drifted.
The first time he’d discovered this ritual, Father Patrick’s anger had flared. He’d wanted to burst from his burrow, casting the sinners from the temple, but something had stopped him; he’d recognized one of the boys. Five years earlier, when he gathered the Saint Vincent’s sixth-graders in the gym to announce the tragic news about John Kennedy, the blonde boy had been among the students. To this day, the priest could vividly recall the emotion mirrored in the boy’s face as his innocence was pulverized into atoms by the weight of the spinning earth.
After many weeks, the driving melodies the boys played were becoming familiar to the priest but he largely ignored the music the band practiced. Instead, he found himself studying the faces of the boys, their expressions earnest, their voices full of conviction, full of life.
With a leaden sigh, Father Patrick sat heavily and leaned forward, pouring himself another generous portion of bourbon whisky. Absently, he dipped his fingers into a mostly melted tray of ice. The resulting overflow sent rivulets of moisture racing along the warped topography of his little table. The priest held the few remaining slivers of melting ice in the palm of his hand, watching them as they warmed and withered; like him, ever diminishing. He deposited the fragile reflections of his soul in the drinking glass and closed his eyes as the Animals-cover reached a discordant crescendo. The final note echoed through the church as the tune came to a somber end.
I
Gabriel’s Gift (Lexington Avenue Express) Specifications
Gabriel’s Gift (Lexington Avenue Express – Short Fiction)
The priest peered from beneath the angel’s wing and tried to focus his eyes. His breath was heavy with the familiar, sweet stench of alcohol, the residue of another evening filled with despair. Five teenage boys were moving about silently in the dim light of the choir loft. He’d seen them there every Thursday night for several weeks now, quietly observing them from his vantage point in the corridor hidden behind the ornate altar. The small window below Gabriel’s marble wing afforded the priest an excellent view of the gallery that stood thirty-feet above his sanctuary prison.
“Why are we whispering,” the chubby boy with a crew-cut giggled. He was kneeling, attaching a snare drum to a tripod stand. “No one’s gonna’ hear–”
“‘Cause we agreed, that’s why,” a taller boy with blonde hair in bangs interrupted. “We agreed we’d record here so we can use the Hammond, but it’s still a church.”
“Oh, man,” crew-cut muttered, but the priest was too far away to understand the balance of their conversation.
Father Patrick had come to Saint Vincent’s straight from the seminary. Twenty-eight years of desperation in the tiny Kansas community had reduced him to a sad caricature — comically lean, expression stern, eyes dark and void of hope.
The priest’s dream of contributing to the greater good of mankind had long since been abandoned. He spent most every evening sitting in the vestibule tunnel behind the altar. He drank himself to sleep there, seated at a small table and chair he’d positioned in the shallow recess between the Angel Gabriel and Saint Francis.
“Okay,” blonde bangs said softly, “help me hang the mike.”
Breathing labored, the priest leaned heavily against the damp marble wall and watched as two of the boys hoisted a third on their shoulders. From this unsteady perch, blonde bangs reached toward the heavens, attaching a small microphone to the dangling piece of piano wire that had secured the Star of Bethlehem last Christmas.
A distant hum signaled the Hammond’s first gasp. As the air continued to build in the organ’s air box, the priest could hear the other instruments coming to life; three amplified guitars and a small set of drums. The confused discordance slowly began to merge into the cover of an Animals B-Side and for a moment, the priest’s thoughts drifted.
The first time he’d discovered this ritual, Father Patrick’s anger had flared. He’d wanted to burst from his burrow, casting the sinners from the temple, but something had stopped him; he’d recognized one of the boys. Five years earlier, when he gathered the Saint Vincent’s sixth-graders in the gym to announce the tragic news about John Kennedy, the blonde boy had been among the students. To this day, the priest could vividly recall the emotion mirrored in the boy’s face as his innocence was pulverized into atoms by the weight of the spinning earth.
After many weeks, the driving melodies the boys played were becoming familiar to the priest but he largely ignored the music the band practiced. Instead, he found himself studying the faces of the boys, their expressions earnest, their voices full of conviction, full of life.
With a leaden sigh, Father Patrick sat heavily and leaned forward, pouring himself another generous portion of bourbon whisky. Absently, he dipped his fingers into a mostly melted tray of ice. The resulting overflow sent rivulets of moisture racing along the warped topography of his little table. The priest held the few remaining slivers of melting ice in the palm of his hand, watching them as they warmed and withered; like him, ever diminishing. He deposited the fragile reflections of his soul in the drinking glass and closed his eyes as the Animals-cover reached a discordant crescendo. The final note echoed through the church as the tune came to a somber end.
I
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