Another Ficton

This is something that has been on the back burner for quite some time... maybe posting it here will bring it back to a boil. It is cleverly titled "A Storm is Coming".

***

The day was hot; “stormin’ hot” the older folks called it. Not a breath of wind stirred the hazy white dust that hung over the parking lot. The sun punished the white canvas of the blue and white striped revival tent like lazy hellfire. Clouds to the northwest promised relief, but carried their own dangerous potential.

The people filed into the tent, ushers in white gloves holding back the flaps. Inside there was a sort of atrium where they had set up a card table carrying pamphlets like “Are You a Sinner?” and “The Rocky Path to Salvation”. The larger pamphlets went first; they made excellent fans.

Only about half the seats were taken when our local minister, Reverend Baker, began his welcome. He said a prayer of thanksgiving for our opportunity to see this up and coming evangelistic star, the Reverend Alvan Keye. As he spoke, my mind settled into a relaxed state, that state between waking and sleep, where thoughts tumble of their own accord. I thought of my mother at home, her gout too painful to allow her to attend the revival. I thought about how long the grass was getting, about my old blue-tick hound Hadley sleeping fitfully on the front porch.

A sudden gust of wind caused the tent to shift, the center pole creaking as it accepted its new burden. I snapped back to wakefulness. There was a slight murmur from the crowd, a shifting of weight and shuffling of feet that indicated I wasn’t the only one drowsing.

I realized with a flush of embarrassment that the Reverend Keye was standing center stage, his hands crossed in front of him, a microphone in his left hand, his head bowed as if in prayer. He stood silently, unmoving, the tension in the crowd increasing. When I started thinking that perhaps he was dozing like the congregation had been, he raised the microphone slowly; so slowly that I could see a bead of sweat run down the side of his hand, reverse itself, then run down his wrist to soak into the sleeve of his cream colored jacket. He held the microphone in front of his thin lips for a further silent moment, then spoke.

“There’s a storm comin’.” He said it quietly, so quietly that only the first couple of rows could have heard it. He waited another moment, and then spoke again, a little louder. “There’s a storm comin’.” The whole congregation heard him this time, and chairs creaked as their occupants settled in for the feature presentation.

“There is a STORM comin’!” He finally raised his eyes and scanned the crowd. His forehead was furrowed. His face was set in a severe scowl. His bushy white eyebrows gathered around the deep vertical line separating them like the frothing waters surrounded Moses’ Red Sea path. He looked like a real Old Testament holy-roller.

“There is a storm COMIN’!” He shouted it this time, the tiny speaker set into the podium distorting the final word.

He raised his right hand, fingers splayed, closing his eyes. “THERE IS A STORM COMIN’!” he yelled. A strong gust of wind suddenly blew the exit flap next to the stage open. Before an usher rushed over to tie it shut I caught a glimpse of the trees across the parking lot. They had a yellowish cast, as if the sun were shining through pale amber. That color, in June, in Kansas, meant only one thing: tornado.

Reverend Keye was now striding back and forth on the stage. He switched the microphone to his right hand and gestured broadly with his left, slashing the humid air with it.

“An’ this ain’t no storm of wind,” he continued. The congregation was now getting into the swing of things, a couple of amens popping up from the back of the tent. The tent darkened as clouds crossed in front of the sun.

“An’ this ain’t no storm of rain.” The first fat drops of rain plopped on the roof of the tent, making a sound like a toad dropped onto a sidewalk.

”An’ this ain’t no storm of hail. This ain’t no storm of thunder an’ lightnin’! No sir!” He strode back and forth on the ramshackle stage like it could barely contain him. “No ma’am!” He stopped and center stage and stared directly into my eyes. I heard an amen, only afterward realizing that I had said it.

“This is a storm of retribution!” He took a step forward. “This is a storm of judgment!” He took another step forward. “This is a storm of holy vengeance!” He stepped forward again, his toes now overhanging the edge of the stage. “This! Is! A! Storm! Of! Divine! Justice!” He raised his hands in the air, a look of sheer exultation on his face. The congregation rose to its feet shouting amens and hallelujahs.

“The Lord God has looked into each of your hearts and found you WANTING!” He backed up, cradling the microphone in both hands. He strode to the side of the stage and placed his hand against the fluttering side of the tent. “There ain’t no bed you can crawl under.”

He pointed at someone in the congregation. “Sinner! There ain’t no basement to hide in.”

He pointed at someone else. “Sinner! There ain’t no storm cellar to close up behind you.”

He pointed again. “Sinner! There ain’t but one shelter from this storm. Stand before the holy Lamb of God, and you will be safe from the wind.”

The storm outside was building. The tent quivered and shook, like an animal pulling at a leash.

“Sinner! There ain’t but one shelter from this storm. Kneel before the Son of God and you will be safe from the rain.”

The wind outside began to howl, thunder rolling across the plain.

“Sinner! There ain’t but one shelter from this storm. Prostrate yourself before your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and he will shelter you from the stinging hail.”
A deluge of rain struck the tent. The weight of it strained the side ropes, the walls puckering at the attachments.

“Sinner! There ain’t but one shelter from this storm. Allow Jesus Christ into your heart, and he will armor you against the storm, though the very fires of Hell assault you!” The back wall of the tent was suddenly torn away in a blinding flash. A sound too loud for sound pressed against my ears, eyes and chest. The congregation fell away from the stage like wheat before a scythe, smoldering scraps of the lightning-blasted tent blowing over us.

I looked up and the Reverend Keye was standing triumphantly, hands raised over his head, a beatific smile on his face. Sinuous traces of St Elmo’s fire crawled over his body.

At that moment I had a vision. I saw my mother start awake, staring dumbfounded at her legs. She stood and walked, tentatively at first, around the bedroom. As she realized the pain was gone, she smiled and danced around the room.

I knew that the Reverend had healed her, and I have followed him to this day.

***

That last line is just kind of tacked on, but it gives an idea of where I was going with this: the whole apocalypse thing, which has always fascinated me in all of its incarnations.

Thanks for reading!

Practice, Practice, Practice

I read somewhere that the first line of a book is what really sells it. I believe "Call me Ishmael" was the classic example. While I've decided that novelling is strictly out of the question for me, I still enjoy the occasional short story.



I try to keep the above advice in mind when I write, and very often it's exercising that first-line muscle that generates a story for me.



So, let's practice.

Here's one: Though Harold was tan and lean, he had the eyes of a fat man.



Hmmm. Okay, let's try another: Basic laws of physics predicted Jimmy's imminent demise, but Jimmy had never studied law.



Ugh. Cliché. Sounds like Roadrunner and the Coyote.



One more: The calculator tape was too short to fall backwards under it's own weight and curled directly in front of the display. I hated that.



Ummm, okay. The adventures of your local neighborhood CPA, I guess.



So, no Hugo Award winners tonight. Maybe tomorrow.


Speaking of writing, it may come as a surprise to the thousands of readers I have that I have done some deep research into Norse runes, as well as Norse heathenry. Now the heathen crowd is a proud group, as a matter of fact their lifestyle demands it, and there are many that claim to be legitimate runesters. There are dozens of websites extolling the magical properties of this or that rune set; the Elder Futhark, the Younger Futhark, Anglo-Saxon Runes, Germanic Runes, blah blah blah.


They all have one thing in common. They claim that the runes carry intrinsic magic; that they are in and of themselves magical things. I find this thinking ridiculous. Runes are representations of vocalized sound, nothing more. They are no more special than any other alphabet, including our own.



Consider the archeological evidence of "rune magic", consisting primarily of brief phrases etched into physical objects, intended to endow these objects with kick-ass power. Most of them say something like "Frank made this sword therefore it will rip you a new one". Now, I do happen to believe that stating something as an absolute truth can help to make it true, as all good propagandists know.



The magic is not in the letters - it's in the claim. Runes have captured the imagination of the world, jump-started primarily by Tolkein. I understand the need of the Norse heathen to feel special, but what they really need to concentrate on is the idea (built directly into the faith via the Havamal) that no religion is more special than any other.



Now get off my lawn.