Irreverent

Charles Mandrake was a very poor priest. He was not living sparsely, in point of fact he lived very well, but managed that which he was entrusted with very badly - spending the excess contributions and taking the donations largely to his fund is personal wants and needs …

The price of smokes had escalated over the years and his own holy fire needed the small stubs of light … midnight when the cathedral had evacuated, when the prayerful and the mournful had departed to their solitary beds; Father Charles strode the aisles of his empty church, drawing breaths of Frankincense and Marlboro. Stubs were buried beneath the prayer candles, where he had snubbed them into the tray of sand.



Spicy imported foods littered his fridge, half eaten. Chocolate wrappers glittered in the bin. Silk and Cashmere piled in his wardrobe. Designer watches and assorted gifts from his adoring Parish draped his bookcases and filled his drawers.



Father Charles loved life and it loved him. He could recite the newspaper backwards and his congregation exalted its meaning imaginatively. He would analogise the racing form, or sing the bingo with intermittent psalm references, rich with obscure context and subliminal affirmations.



All in all he was an ecclesiastical success.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Finding Self - Second Guesses- Azlander Series