CHAIRS

"Quentin said there was this place...a way station. Do you know of it?"

The old codger wiped his hands in his haggard beard, a thoughtful swipe. He stared at me for a brief eternity, wondering if my question was an interrogation.

"Well, you know Quentin," the Keeper began, "said a lot of wild things. Said we was goin' to hell. Always drummin' up some noise about this here rapture."

"What do you know of this...rapture? Do you believe?" I continued.

"Don't know what I believe. Ever since the Creed was declared, I ain't been sure of nothin'."

"But what is this place then? All these chairs.
Quentin spoke of this too. That this was..." I was interrupted by the old man, completing my thought.

"...this was where the angels came? Quentin was censured by the committee. Shouldn't have been speakin' his mind like that, I'll tell you!"

"Why do you just sit here old man? What is your purpose?", I asked, making the first query of interrogation.

"I am just minding my mind" he replied. "You sought me out, Intellectual! "

He saw it. Through my wrapping and gilding, the Keeper saw it. The Intellectuals were the first to depart. Quentin was an Intellectual. Our ilk posed a threat. The geezer knew.

"Did I miss it?" I asked of the rapture.

The Keeper's grin was ominous. His laugh hideous. I simply grasped his cloak to establish control. His neck snapped with the slightest of pressure.

Quentin always spoke the rapture; of us going to hell. I propped the limp shell of a man into one of the chairs, and prayed we weren't desolate. For I was not sure if we were too late for the exit, or bound here to this hell.

Either way, I was screwed.