If Holden Caulfield, “The Catcher in the Rye,” had a Conversion

I asked A.i. to write me a short fan-fiction story imagining Holden Caulfield’s life had he had experienced a Catholic conversion. This is what it came up with. Pretty good stuff.

I sat in a dimly lit Church, the smell of incense swirling around me like a comforting blanket. The quiet was new to me, a contrast to the ceaseless noise and phony facades of New York. I had come here in search of something, though I wasn’t sure what exactly. I wasn’t even sure why I stayed.

It all started when I was wandering the streets, feeling like a damned fool as usual. I’d tried to convince myself I didn’t care about anything—about people, about the world. But deep down, something gnawed at me, a hollow emptiness I couldn’t ignore. I’d always thought religion was a bunch of nonsense, something old people clung to because they were afraid of dying. But then, one day, a Priest—one of the real ones, not one of the fake, show-off ones you see in the movies—struck up a conversation with me. He was kind, without any of that condescending attitude I expected. He listened, really listened, to what I had to say. It was different.

Next thing I knew, I was sitting in the back at a Mass, trying not to look too awkward. There was something about the rituals, the old hymns, the way the congregation seemed genuinely connected—it spoke to me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. It was like finding a hidden room in a house I thought I knew inside out. I went a few more times, and each visit felt like uncovering another layer of my own confusion.

The day I decided to convert was a mix of fear and beauty. I was scared of making a mistake, of giving in to something that might just be another form of phoniness. But as I dipped my fingers in holy water and whispered a Prayer, I felt a strange peace settle over me. I’d never felt so… grounded. It wasn’t about becoming someone I wasn’t; it was about finding a part of myself I’d buried under layers of cynicism and anger.

After the Liturgy, I sat in the Church alone, though I wasn’t alone, reflecting. I thought about my little sister Phoebe, and how she’d understand—she was always the one who seemed to get it, even when I didn’t. Maybe this was my way of finding the kind of truth she always saw so clearly. I wasn’t entirely sure where this new path would lead, but for once, I felt like I had a direction, even if it was just one step at a time.

Maybe I’d never be completely free of the world’s empty glimmer. Maybe I’d still have my moments of doubt and rebellion. But now, there was something more substantial to cling to—a faith that, at the very least, promised a chance for redemption and a bit of understanding.

I walked out of the Church with a newfound sense of purpose. The city around me still felt chaotic, but it was different now. I wasn’t just drifting through it; I was a part of it, looking for the moments of truth hidden among the madness.

And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel so lost.

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That was awesome, thank you for sharing that! What a great idea for an AI post!