The Existential Woman (page 14)
St. Catherine's Sunday Church Service
Saturday was a long day for Shanna, yet by Sunday she could hardly remember what happened. She had said several prayers for her son. She had written some poetry and read some poetry. She had eaten and bathed. She had taken a nap. She had sat in the backyard and looked the wild weeds growing. She had picked up some donation food for the cubboard. She had begun watching a new show on Netflix. She had perused through a magazine. She had folded some clothes and hung some of Norman's clothes. Besides that, the day was long and forgettable. Mostly she just remembered thinking about Maui's fire and devastation. All those people now homeless. She knew exactly how they felt. It had happened to her too many times. She spent at least a few hours each day thinking about a way to create a lifestyle that was homeless-proof, but she still hadn't come up with it. She would watch the birds a lot. How they would build a nest,but not stay there long. That had to be the way. Just keep flying. Let the air be home. Let any tree be home.
Shanna awoke at 4 a.m. After a warm cup of coffee, she decided to get dressed for church. She had heard an angel give her some advice the other day. She promised the angel she would go. So she took one of her nicer dresses off the hanger and put it on. She put on her silver earings, her gold bracelet, and her black sandals. She did her make-up, making sure to conceal the wrinkles and blend the cream well. She had some cash in her wallet for the church basket. The mass she wanted to attend began at 9 a.m. Around 8 a.m. Shanna got into her van and drove to the church. The parking lot was not full yet, but that didn't worry her. She walked into the church and met with one of the female church leaders who explained a few different projects they were working on. Shanna signed up to volunteer, then made her way into the main hall to find a seat at a pew.
The service was lovely and mostly the way Shanna remembered it from her childhood with a few improvements that seemed to make the Catholic church seem more modern and friendly. She was happy for them and glad to be back. Everything was formal and orderly the way she had hoped to find it. After mass, she went to see if the cell phone store was opened, but it was too early on a Sunday and the store was still closed.
As she drove home she thought about God. She thought about the ceremony of confession and how that formality was long overdue. She thought about the various ways she could contribute at the church. She was more than rusty. She'd been a black sheep so long she wasn't sure if she was ready, but she knew that denying God or one of his angels was a big mistake, so she humbly abided even if she felt more than inadequate.
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The Existential Woman (page 13)
The author of Shanna's life was interrupted. Chapter 13 in the series could not be told. Perhaps it was a punishment because the Author wanted to make a living out of writing. Perhaps it was some plague against Freedom of Speech. Chapter 13 was rejected.
By Shanon Norman9 months ago in Fiction
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
So Shanon ~ Where you Been ~ I miss your existential self. I will "Sucker Punch" you if you don't view "Pink-Slip" you may relate? J-Bud