The ground felt uncertain, its outwardly placid surface only a mask for the treacherous unfaithfulness of the warping instability he found with every step. Poor Saint Peter, he mused, must have been something like this he went through.
He took another lurch, vaguely in the direction he meant, and prayed the earth wouldn’t just swallow him up. He wondered, a moment, how those around him seemed to be walking without difficulty, but before he could take the thought to an illogical conclusion, something gripped his arm, which was of momentary relief.
He looked up with some favor upon the rock upholding him, but a frown slowly creased his expression when he saw that it was a policeman who, he was piecing a few of the words he’d heard together, was saying something about, “Better come along quietly.”
“Well that’s fine,” muttered the man. “I hope you catch him, young man.”
Tale Told 