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ISO Editor - Fantasy - 8.5K


C.T. Piatt

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Hi, looking for an Editor for next story to post. I've worked on this story with a fellow writer 2014, but figure I should redo to post here. It is finished.
Mostly I'm looking for line edits, but if you feel it need something, please tell me. My style is not always grammatically correct and I might not agree with suggested changes, but I'll always consider them.

 

I use Word, happy to receive edits back as comments to inline edits, or whatever you are comfortable with.

 

 

Sentinels - Blurb

Father Allen is one of the few. It is his duty to visit Heaven and listen to the confessions of the fallen angels and to give absolution if he feels the regret is sincere. Without the priest's absolution, the fallen angel cannot go before God to ask for forgiveness.

The normal procedure was to visit the angel, hear the confession, give absolution and Father Allen returned to his congregation on Earth.

The fallen angel he sees this time will test his patience, his trust in the Bible, his beliefs. For this fallen has lain with a man, and regrets neither his act nor his love for the man. He will not confess nor ask for absolution. Not even when his own existence is to be ended.

 

 

Sentinels - Extract

My fingertips traced the names carved into the joined headstones. First Elizabeth's, then John's; their deaths no more than a year apart.

It was a habit to visit the cemetery every Sunday evening, as the light faded. One I started at the first church I was assigned. I walked the cemetery, looking at the headstones, reading the names, the dates, the inscriptions. Linking those gone to God to those still living, to those a part of my congregation.

A habit I kept long after I knew everyone. Every tombstone.

I knelt, head bowed, said a prayer for them both. Then clipped a few stray grass stems with the pair of scissors I always carried on these walks.

My knees creaked as I stood, a reminder of my age as much as the constant kneeling. But the walking eased the pain. So I walked, remembering those I knew, wondering about those I did not, offering a prayer for each, tending their graves as needed. Until I stopped at the recent grave.

I had not known the man, though I buried him. No one came to his funeral. No one tended his grave. Empty beer and soda cans and cigarette butts littered the dirt. Heavy boot prints marred it as if the grave had been stomped. The simple plaque, paid for by an unknown someone, was defaced. White paint announced to the word 'fag'.

The act of vandalism had angered me. The fact he was buried on consecrated ground, that I had performed the service sat like a ball of fire in my chest.

Somehow something always interrupted me from cleaning the grave.

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