Alex couldn’t believe he had lost his temper and his job. Again. The last one, at the dental office, lasted only three months. This one, at the bakery, only five days. He knew Mom was right when she said. . .
Pastor Raymond adjusted and smoothed his vestment in the mirror, tugging it straight over his shoulders. It was an ordinary Thursday. He would say a few words to honor the passing of a woman he had not met and no one really knew. If it wasn’t for his frozen yogurt habit he would’t even be standing here, though he did not begrudge the favor. It was all part of the job.
He leaned into the glass and on impulse opened his mouth wide, stretching out his tongue, curling it, touching it to his teeth, trying to imagine. He closed his mouth, watching himself swallow, aware of every muscle involved in the simple motion.
Stepping up to the pulpit, he was not too surprised to see Jill, the social worker, sitting silent and straight-backed in the first pew, the afternoon sun stretching multicolored over the empty rows behind her. What surprised him was the activity brewing in the shadowy narthex. It was packed shoulder to shoulder with murmuring voices increasing in volume. Upon noticing Raymond at the pulpit, they began to file in. He waited, reviewing his meager notes as the shuffling of feet and creaking of wood subsided into coughs and whispers.
When he lifted his gaze, every pew had filled and the last of the crowd were lining themselves up to lean against the back wall. There were a handful of business men and women neatly tucked and pasted in place, a young mother held a baby on her lap, teens of every shape, size, and color squirmed and elbowed one-another, a uniformed policeman rose to give his seat to a grandmother, and there was Alex, still dressed in his pink YoFro t-shirt, squeezing in beside Jill.
Alex couldn’t believe he had lost his temper and his job. Again. The last one, at the dental office, lasted only three months. This one, at the bakery, only five days. He knew Mom was right when she said he was too wound up. Who wouldn’t be? It wasn’t his fault every job he landed was the one no one else wanted. He was getting better at figuring out why. People were assholes and idiots.
Now Mom was kicking him out. He had ninety days to save up and find a place. What was it she said? “My help isn’t helping you anymore, son. You need to figure this out on your own—and you will. I believe in you.” She believed in him. Some comfort that was. How the hell was kicking him out supposed to solve anything? He was more wound up than ever. Thanks, Mom.
The vibration of the door as he slammed it behind him echoed his shame which only fanned the rage burning his ears. He strode uphill toward the city park. Reaching the lawn, he could no longer contain his anger. He picked up a fallen branch and threw it hard at the nearest solid object, a tree trunk. It clattered harmless to the ground.
Multiple caws sounded from above.
Crows. Alex cringed and walked faster. As a kid, he once chased a crow and threw a rock at it. Just once. But the stupid pests somehow recognized him after that. They would gang up and attack him on sight. He avoided the park for the rest of his childhood. That was long ago, at least fifteen years. Surely they had forgotten him by now. He straightened, took a breath, and tried to regain some of his dignity.
The first black bomb came from nowhere, landing a hard peck above his right ear. Alex ran, arms held over his head as the noisy demons took turns diving from the sky at him. He could see nothing but the paved walkway and a few pairs of sneakers as he ran. Laughter rose around him. He felt the aimed points of a fingers. “Look!” A girl shouted. “The crows are chasing that man!” Alex growled like a beast. Sneakers backed off, making room for his blind dash. Girlish giggles grew louder.
Ouch! Damned birds! Was that blood he felt trickling down his forehead? He had to find shelter fast.
There was a rec center in the middle of the park, its promising blue doors less than fifty yards away. Alex sprinted for it.
He stumbled . . .
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You and I are watching this story unfold together. I do have a quick outline, as always. I know what will happen, but not how it will happen. I’m answering the questions I’m creating as I go. I trust you’re enjoying it. I would love to hear from you if a comment strikes.
I have barely done any writing or editing this week, though I did join in on the local writers’ group sprint yesterday. Family here and visiting family have been my main focus. Our Missouri and Massachusetts relatives came and went. Our visitors from Texas, Montana, Idaho, and Denmark will be in town for a few more days.
Monday, I was honored to read aloud one of my grandfather’s letters to my grandmother, from his deployment during WWII, to a group at an assisted living home. One of the residents had prepared a slide show with various images from her past trip to New Guinea. One of the photos was of the camp where my grandfather lived during the war, and that’s when I stepped up to read. Papa’s words from 1944 had the audience’s rapt attention. They laughed at the right places, and Grandma cried, remembering her sweetheart. I was so glad I could be there and do this little thing.
I hope your week is full of unexpected joys. Grab them up every chance you get.
Sat., 7/25 — Short Stuff: Episode 3 of A few words for Fanny
Sat., 8/1 — August Post Schedule + Episode 4 of A few words for Fanny
Odds may crop up here and there as inspiration strikes.
I randomly post little updates in Chat for anyone who happens upon them. So you subscribers can spy on my progress anytime you want—even make comments if you feel like it.
I know you’re out there and I am truly grateful!
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