Cancelled...

Today's impending post has been cancelled due to an unnecessary and unwelcome illness. Forgive me?

After much thought and worry, I have crafted a story to fill this gap. Enjoy and feel free to comment. I have reworked this story a couple of times and am curious to get reactions from people who aren't me. Yes, that's you. *applause*

C-A-N-C-E-L-L-E-D

Bold letters painted in red implied the permanence of the crisscrossed boards bearing this message. Imogene’s feet stopped though her hand continued reaching for the door handle. She reserved this time and this place for her communes with God. How could anyone deny her these few moments with her father in Heaven?

Despite the gray hair piled high on her head, she showed surprising strength. As slender fingers wrapped around the doorknob and the muscles in an equally slender arm tightened, the double doors creaked and pulled apart. She peered through the crack into the dim interior of the church.

“Pastor Johnson, are you in there?” Her voice dripped honey as she leaned across the rough boards to call through the opening.

Receiving no response, she released the doorknob. As the door snapped closed, footsteps approached on the loose gravel of the parking lot. Imogene turned to face the tall man walking toward her. He showed two rows of slightly yellow teeth as he removed a wide-brimmed hat.

“Imogene, I thought that was you.”

“I always come to the church on Sunday afternoon, Pastor Johnson. You know that.”

“Yes, well...” He cleared his throat. “I did tell you it wouldn’t be open today.”

“Excuse me.” Imogene placed a hand on each hip and tapped one foot rhythmically.

“I announced last week that we didn’t have the funds to keep the church open.”

“I am sure the tithes cover…”

“Are you?” The pastor placed his hat back on his head, shielding his eyes from the sun and his bare 

head from the old woman’s displeasure.

“They always have in the past.” She crossed her arms.

“Sadly, this is a new time.” The pastor shook his head and turned to walk away.

Short, quick steps carried her to the edge of the porch. “Wait, pastor.”

“Yes?”

“Maybe we could do something since…”

The pastor gazed up at her expectantly.

“…I need my weekly time with God.”

“We all do.” He nodded in agreement, tipping the brim of his hat up to see her face better. “What do 

you propose we do?”

“A bake sale?”

He shook his head.

“A raffle?”

“What would we raffle?”

“Good point.” She stared off into the horizon. “I think I know what to do.”

“Yes?”

“Pray.”

The pastor laughed. “That will help, but I think we need to do some of the work as well. Consider that 

your sermon for today.”

This time when he walked away, he didn’t turn back. Imogene stood staring up at the peeling paint on the church steeple for a while before shuffling home.

After a long night pacing the floors, thumbing through dusty old volumes, and sorting yellowed documents, she finally found the solution. Careful steps brought her back to the closed doors. She leaned against them, ignoring the rough surface of the wood digging into her back.

She didn’t wait long. The pastor’s long legs brought him quickly from his house beside the church. A satisfied smile brightened his face as he almost marched up the steps to tower over her.

“Dear Imogene, have you found a way to save our church?”

“I have, pastor.” The flint of her voice caused the pastor’s smile to waver.

“That’s wonderful.” Though he tried to sound confident, the pastor’s voice wavered under her gaze.

“It is indeed.” Imogene reached into the large pocket of her loose smock dress and pulled out a thin pile of papers, folded in half and yellowed by time. “It is all right here in the charter for the church that my dear husband drew up.”

“Charter?” The smile completely vanished at this revelation.

“Yes. My late husband established this church.” As the pastor continued to regard her disbelievingly, Imogene unfolded the pages, scanning them quickly before continuing. “If the tithes and offerings provided by those who worship in the Farthing Church of Christ fail to provide for the needs of the church, the pastor will open his home as a boarding house to defray costs.”

“That can’t be right.” The pastor reached for the document.

Imogene pulled the papers away from his outstretched hand, scanning the contents again before continuing. “You must realize that the house doesn’t belong to you and the tithes and offerings should go to paying the debts of the church. Any excess funds are intended to help the poor not buy luxuries. I do know about the investment account that my husband set up when he was the pastor.”

The pastor’s eyes darted to the shiny, red Audi parked outside his house as he raised his hand to stop the flow of her words. “I believe I understand.”

“I hope you do. I expect to see these doors open and welcoming next Sunday morning.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Imogene nodded slightly. “Have a good day, Pastor Johnson.

Tongue-tied, the pastor watched her go.

Shaking her head, Imogene muttered to herself. “That fool thought I’d give him money out of my own pocket. I’ll give him the opportunity to seek new employment at the next board meeting.”

The pastor didn’t hear any of this. While his mind raced through schemes to make this all better, his long strides carried him to the garage.

“I’ll make this right. I should have put the car in here.” He grumbled to himself as he reached for the hammer. “I’ll just open the church and give a moving sermon and all will be forgotten.”

He smiled reassuringly into the side mirror of his car but doubt looked back at him.

Guilt

Today's offering was inspired by one of my dear readers. I saw a couple of ways I could go with this topic, but I decided on this one for personal reasons. Enjoy and keep commenting.

“I can’t believe it is for sale.” My voice filled the car with sound.

I blushed to realize I had spoken aloud in my excitement. From the first day I drove past the rambling old house on Chesapeake Avenue, this house called to me. Every daydream of my perfect adult life had featured a house like this with a dozen bedrooms for as many children or more. As I slowed down a little to commit the number to memory, I noticed a flash of brown racing toward my car. I focused on the moving shape long enough to see the soft grey fur bristling on a fluffy tail and a bit of red string trailing out from its neck.

THUD!

My foot instinctively sought my brake. The following car honked, delaying my remorse. My heart still slipped south into my stomach. I pushed down on the gas reluctantly fighting back tears. By the time I got home, the lump in my throat melted away. When dinner passed without a recurrence of my guilt, I believed I would be fine.

I woke up in the middle of the night. Tears moistened my cheeks. My stomach felt hollow. Guilt gnawed at my mind.

“It was just a squirrel.”

My outcry didn’t assuage my guilt. Tossing and turning stole away any chance of sleep. The alarm barely had a chance to sound before I forced myself out of bed. The rest of the day passed in a blur. As soon as work ended, I climbed into my car, unsure how I would make it home without guilt creeping in on me again.

As I neared the house, I noticed multi-colored balloons floating up from the for sale sign. Pastel streamers flow out from them to announce an open house. Without thinking, I pulled over to the side of the street, squeezing my car in among the others that have come to take a peek at the interior. I was more interested in a small, dark lump lying in the middle of the road.

I looked for oncoming cars before stepping into the street. I didn’t want to share the squirrel’s fate. As I drew closer, I could see that the lump consisted of a wadded up pair of panties with ruffles of lace, dyed a dark, sullen grey by time. My eyes scanned the asphalt in search of any sign of the squirrel I had hit the previous day.

Slightly reassured, I turned back toward the house. A movement caught my eyes. As I focused on the moving form, I saw a grey squirrel pause as if to look at me. It quickly launched itself again, scurrying across the close-cropped grass with a red ribbon streaming out behind it. With that sight, the weight on my heart seemed to fade away. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, little squirrel.” I whispered at the disappearing fluff of tail in the branches above my head.

Room For Rent

(Through years of extensive research with roommates who annoyed me or were annoyed by me, I feel I have a real grasp of the subject of what can ruin a roommate relationsip. A random thought tied with that one brought forth this tale. Sadly, I couldn’t decide exactly how it should end. Three options presented themselves, so I decided to treat this like the Choose Your Own Adventure books I enjoyed as a child. Which ending is your favorite?)

A soft knock on the door interrupts my train of thought. I close my notebook, sliding it underneath the couch. I glance around the room one last time before stepping toward the door. Reassured, I step toward the door as another impatient knock resounds through the room. Taking one last deep breath, I swing the door open to reveal my potential roommate.

Tight-fitting black jeans hug her hips. Her babydoll t-shirt, which barely meets the top of her jeans, features a silhouette of a woman frozen in a graceful dance pose. Long blond hair hangs in soft waves on either side of her slender face. Her grey-blue eyes return my inquisitive look. Finally, she offers a nervous smile and an extended hand.

“Hello. My name is Janice. I’m here about the room.” Her voice sweetens the air between us.

I feel my own anxiety begin to fade away. “I’m Ellen. Please come in.”

As I step back, she breezes past me into the room. Her eyes rove over the tiny living room, taking in the couch and television stand. She shrugs her shoulders a little and sits on the couch, bouncing once before settling in and kicking off her shimmering, silver ballet flats. She pats the seat beside her and I sit stiffly beside her.

I open my mouth to speak, but she gets her question out first. “Is it okay if I ask about a few things?”

I nod my head, and she begins addressing shared concerns. I answer most of her questions with very little thought. One does leave me stymied. I continue to gaze at her in confusion as she awaits an answer.

With a sigh, she repeats it. “Do you prefer over or under?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I wet my lips worriedly as a couple of possible meanings involving bets and bunk beds cross my mind.

“Your toilet paper? Does the loose end go over or under the roll when you put it back on the holder?” 

She says each word slowly and clearly, explaining to a child.

My face scrunches up as I try to remember. “Over?”

***Choose how the story ends.***

A. Over? Read the underlined text below.

B. Says over but means under and Janice checks. Read the italicized text below.

C. Says over but means under but Janice believes her. Read the bold text below.

POSSIBLE ENDING A

“Good.” She flashes me her winning smile again. “When can I move in?”

“The new lease is effective tomorrow, so…”

“Excellent. Thank you so much.” She envelopes me in a hug and leaves, closing the door softly.

I stare after her in surprise. With a shrug, I walk toward the bedroom that will be hers. Opening the door, I realize she didn’t see either bedroom or the bathroom. I hope that doesn’t prove to be a problem.

The next day finds me helping her and a few of her friends lug boxes up the two flights of stairs to our apartment. Realizing that the over under question could influence our life as roommates, I always remember to make sure the end of the toilet paper always flows over the top.

POSSIBLE ENDING B

She shakes her head, obviously recognizing the uncertainty in my voice. “Let’s go see.”

Janice stands up, slipping her shoes back onto her feet before taking a few steps toward the narrow hallway. With a glance back at me, she enters the open door to the right. I step toward her as she flips on the light and makes a quick assessment of the room. The frown on her face reveals that I answered incorrectly.

“This won’t do. Thank you for your time.”

She pushes past me, denying me the right to respond. I still stand in the doorway with my eyes riveted to the offending roll of toilet paper as the door slams behind her. I shake my head at the tail poking out from under the roll.

“Guess I still have interviews to make.” I sigh.

POSSIBLE ENDING C

“Good.” She flashes me her winning smile again. “When can I move in?”

“The new lease is effective tomorrow, so…”

“Excellent. Thank you so much.” She envelopes me in a hug and leaves, closing the door softly.

I gaze after her in surprise. With a shrug, I walk toward the bedroom that will be hers. Opening the door, I realize she didn’t see either bedroom or the bathroom. I hope that doesn’t prove to be a problem.

The next day finds me helping her and a few of her friends lug boxes up the two flights of stairs to our apartment. She bubbles over with excitement at the light pouring through the window and the size of the closet. When she has everything set up to her liking, she takes me out to dinner to celebrate. By the time we get home, yawns break up our conversation until we slip into our bedrooms to seek sleep.

Something pulls me roughly from sleep. The bathroom door slams and mine opens. A blurred silhouette crosses the room. A harsh voice breaks through the nighttime peace, pulling me further into the waking world.

“You lied to me.”

I try to wipe the sleep from my eyes as I look up at Janice’s distorted face. Surely, her lips could not contort in such rage. As I blink away the last remnants of sleep, she joins me on the bed, straddling me so that I can’t move.

“What’s wrong?” My question comes out in a hoarse, breathless whisper.

“I was just in the bathroom, and you know what I saw?”

I shake my head as she leans closer, forcing the rest of the air from my lungs. “It was under. You said over, but it was under.”

“I…” Words fail me.

She growls deep in her throat, releasing me from the death grip of her legs. As she storms out of the room, the door slams closed. I lie transfixed in my bed, afraid to move. My own breathing seems too loud in the darkness of my room. I don’t remember falling asleep.

I wake up to the same heart hammering fear that preceded my second attempt at sleep. I listen for sounds of an impending attack. After a couple of minutes of silence, I slowly creep out of bed. I sneak across the room to press my ear to the door until I am satisfied that no one stirs on the other side. I shudder as the door squeals.

The door to the other bedroom stands ajar. Relief washes over me as I push the door open and step into an empty room.

Letter

Sometimes a letter tells a better story. Sometimes a letter gives solace that nothing else offers. Sometimes it just alludes to something more. What do you think?

Dear Karan,

Since the first time I saw you, I knew we would always be friends. That day could have been yesterday for how clearly I remember it. Whenever I think of you, I feel that young and lost again for a moment. Do you remember how we met?

It was our first day of school, and I was scared.  When my mother let go of my hand and walked away, I felt that the whole world had turned inside out. Tear after tear streamed down my round cheeks. I could hear other kids laughing. I assumed it was at me. I tried to bury my head in the soft fleece of my jacket, but you wouldn’t let me. You put your hand on my arm, waiting until I looked up before flashing me a dazzling smile. Just that small act made me feel a little better. I smiled back at you through my tears as you reached out to brush them away.

That was not to be the last time that you would bring me back from drowning in my tears of sorrow or fear. You were there for the realization that my first crush did not share my ardor. Your smile made me forget when I lost my first real love. You were the one who reassured me everything would turn out okay when the doctors expressed concern about my oldest daughter before she was born.  The tissues I used to dry my eyes usually came from your purse. Now tears threaten to envelope me again, and I don’t know what will keep them from washing me away.

What causes them to flood so quickly down my cheeks to splash on this page is more shame than sorrow. How could I not know that my rock was crumbling? How could I not see that you were wasting away? James assures me that no one else knew either. You married a strong man and a sweet man who took time out of his own mourning to reassure me when he was the only one burdened with knowing you were slipping away from us for so long.

I know heaven exists. I know that I will meet you there someday. I know that I will be afraid, and, if our souls can cry, I will weep. I hold onto the assurance that you will greet me with that warm smile and pull me into your arms to comfort me. I just wish I could have told you how much I love and admire you one more time before you left this world, but this letter will have to do, for now.

Love,

Tina