Posts Tagged ‘fiction’

Listening for Jesus was one of the prompts for this week, and I decided to take it in a rather odd direction. Granted, I decided to do this from 10pm-1am last night (remembering the deadline was midnight. Ah hem.), so the time might’ve had a little something to do with the decision.

Still, I got some good feedback from it, but nobody figured out what the central problem is. Have an idea?

I actually like the premise; I think I’m going to stick with these characters for awhile in the writing group and see where it goes.

As always, any comments welcome.

All but three of the nineteen bedrooms held an untrusting, nervous occupant. It was Mitch?s turn to be out, and Cali sat out in the recently carved out common area, listening to the unhappy rustling behind the closed doors above her as she gathered her thoughts. Only one bedroom was left unaccounted for- the smallest bedroom at the far end of the hallway, now vacant since its occupant vanished two months ago.

Not vanished, Cali corrected herself. Adam wasn?t gone at all. Absorbed. Integrated. These were the terms she was supposed to be using now. Unified. That was the idea she was supposed to be hanging onto when the doubts crept in. All nineteen of them, together as one, that?s what Jesus said had to be; that?s where salvation lay.

But, still. Poor little Adam had been the first to go, the first sacrifice that Jesus said had to be made. Barely a toddler, his diaper was perpetually sodden, and was born a deaf-mute. He rarely ventured out beyond his miniature hobbit-esque door, and when he did, his eyes would be swollen and bloodshot as he silently bawled his endless angry tears.

The baby would occasionally wander through the other rooms, feeling his way along the wall and clutching onto whoever he found, desperate but inconsolable. As much as everyone tried to help, they always ended up feeling guilty, having failed him once again. Poor Adam. Poor baby.

She told herself that of course Jesus was right; it was kindest to release Adam from his pain. But there was that guilt again, because it wasn?t only the tot who?d been freed, was it? Everyone else in their system had benefited from Adam?s?integration. And that felt wrong. Evil, even. You didn?t kill people because it made your life easier, did you?

Cali paced the little room and heard a door in Mama?s room slam. Adam hadn?t really been her son- none of them were biologically hers, but Mama still took his absence hard, and she was none too pleased about today?s meeting with Jesus.

They were going to start deciding who would go next.

Cali had crept up to Adam?s tiny door before coming down to wait. His doorknob and hinges had faded over the last weeks before disappearing, leaving no way back inside. She?s wanted to check, just to be sure. The idea that he was stuck behind that door, silent and unable to call for help haunted Cali?s dreams.

Mitch had to be almost to Jesus? office by now; it seemed like hours had passed, though it could be hard to gage realtime when you were locked inside. Mitch could drive, but Cali?d never learned, so he bringing them to the appointment, though Jesus had wanted to talk specifically to her this time, that she should be ready and with no one else hanging over her, listening.

She chewed a nail, turning the problem over again as she waited for it to be her turn. It was pretty much all she?d done since their last meeting. Did Jesus want her advice? To ask how their system was getting along? Or did he want to tell Cali that he?d chosen her and she was the next to go?

Her heart pounded at the thought. It couldn?t be her. Everybody here needed her. She kept things orderly, made sure the kids didn?t fight, worried about the appointments. She and Mitch kept everybody calm and relatively on track. She was essential. It couldn?t be her, she prayed. Not me.

She sat in the relative stillness and waited, listening for Jesus to call her to come out and face her fate.

So this was what I sent to the group on Sunday.

Each Monday the group moderator releases four text prompts, one photo prompt and one competition and you have until Sunday night to chose at least one to write about. If you don’t submit at least one post in four weeks, you’re out of the group. I’d already missed three weeks and was up against the deadline, so I wrote this pretty quickly to get in under the wire- sent in at 11:15pm. Obviously, I didn’t have a chance to edit it, so it ain’t great, but it’s not awful. Probably.

This was inspired by my new work at the PRC, but isn’t about a specific case. The protagonist isn’t anyone in particular- my friend Michelle’s job is basically to go to these hearings and argue for preservation, but that’s as close as it gets. She does a hell of a job and fights as hard as if she really did have family and friends inside those houses, but you just can’t win ‘em all.

EDIT: forgot to insert the photos of the house I had in mind while writing this.

Della had already lost one of her cases today, a cute cottage on Piety Street, and the sheaf of papers on her lap was showing the strain of her agitation. She clutched and crinkled, shredding their corners a bit at a time until there was nothing left as she fumed and waited for the next demolition hearing to begin so she could bang her head against the wall a while longer.

Almost four years after Katrina and there seemed to be no more answers then there were at the start. All she could do was show up at these meetings and fight, over and over, hearing the same arguments until she thought she?d scream. Over six thousand, five hundred houses had been knocked down, each one ripping out a thread of the city?s fabric, altering the feel of the neighborhood and leaving yet another gaping hole in the streetscape. Now, within 48 hours, there would be another empty lot on Piety.

And at each hearing, the same phrases, the same condescension toward those who wanted to preserve New Orleans? history. Property does not contribute to the neighborhood or cost prohibitive, or her new personal favorite: Of little consequence.

The inspector had included that last gem his report on the house at 1755 Jackson, and that was a house she was determined to save, come hell or? well, the hurricane had already brought the high water. It was only hell she had to face, then. Good. After everything Alavada had done for Della in that house, she figured a little Hell was a small price to pay.

It might be hard to see now, but 1755 Jackson had once been an oasis.

When her parents were fighting, or her dad was drunk, or her mother had blown the grocery money, Miss Alavada was Della?s savior. Every day her huge slobbery mutts had trampled through the palms and vines and roses, happily knocking Della down in welcome, making her forget the shame of coming over for yet another handout. There was always something that smelled wonderful on the stove and open arms to smother you in. Alavada had listened, consoled, advised, cajoled and fed three generations of Jackson Avenue residents out of that house.

She?d long been the soul of an entire neighborhood, and now she was still sitting in a formaldehyde poisoned FEMA trailer outside of town, frail and unable to do for herself.

To Della, the maddening irony was that Alavada?s house sat just three blocks outside of the Garden District, where it would have enjoyed protected Historic District status. Instead, the city was so sure they?d get approval to demolish that the house was already flagged with big, red Fire Department ?do not enter? warnings- ?Let it burn,? they meant. ?Save us the trouble of knocking it down.”

6500 houses demolished, not including the ones completely flattened by the storm. How many Alavedas did that represent, Della wondered? She glared again at the inspector?s phrase, recognizing herself in its mirror. She?d been ?of little consequence? once herself, until Miss A had found her.

Della was determined to return the favor.