He crossed to the platform edge, clasping his sacred satchel. The indicator radiated its message: first train, via Bank, four minutes. He was pleased; the pews and aisles would be stuffed with agitated City zombies, their newspapers fixed like cracked tombstones. Three minutes. Maybe Charing Cross was more appropriate? No, mass was all important today. Two minutes. A thought flickered through his mind: 'be sure your sin will find you out'. One minute. The metallic serpent slid into the station and hissed open its doors. Martin hustled his way into the congregation, undid his satchel, and proclaimed, 'God is great'.
1 comment:
i enjoyed this "slice-of-life" vignette! in its terseness, it effectively conveyed a feeling and mental imagery.
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