On a snowy Saturday morning a week later, Millie watched as a Volvo which had seen better days parked in one of the six spaces in front of the diner. Her twelve customers watched too. They squirmed uncomfortably when they got a good look at him. In dress trousers and shirt, with a crooked tie and horn rims he looked like the Jehovah鈥檚 Witnesses who turned up occasionally in search of lost souls. Abenaki didn鈥檛 have a great deal of souls, period. The ones there were were generally sensible Scotch-Irish Protestants or French Canadian Catholics, and the Rosenbergs, who were Jewish and both Dartmouth professors. Talk of religion tended to make patrons at the Abenaki Diner stare into their coffee and shake open their newspapers. The diner remained an island of polite conversation, meaning your wife and kids, the weather and Those Red Sox.
As it turned out they needn鈥檛 have worried. Once he got close enough they could see that he wore a blue and red Callahan button. The door-to-door missionaries didn鈥檛 care much for Callahan. The young man who probably was not a Jehovah鈥檚 Witness but was definitely a Democrat was Patrick Hart, and it would have amused him if he鈥檇 known what he鈥檇 been mistaken for. Patrick had been born and bred in Berkeley, which said enough to most New Englanders, and was fresh from NYU with a degree in Political Science in his suitcase, and the suspicion that it was probably useless rattling around in his head. Hart liked to think he was somebody with convictions, and though, like most people, he could only name one or two things he was really sure of, one of them was always that you should never Waste Your Abilities.
It was something his grandfather had expounded upon every time they went to Ohio for Christmas. Jack and Suzanne Hart were Wasting Their Abilities raising their children out there among potheads and vegetarians. They ought to come back here, his grandfather said, to Cleveland, get "real jobs"- the Harts were both teachers- buy a proper house, start feeding their kids Wonder Bread, get Patrick signed up for the football team... the list went on. Jack and Suzanne had gone right on Wasting Their Abilities in California, but something about those words about wasting your abilities had lodged deep in Patrick's brain, never to be entirely forgotten.
So, he thought, slamming the door of the car harder than was necessary, instead of wasting my abilities in New York or California, I had to sign on with Callahan and get sent here. I'm not wasting my abilities, but I'm certainly not getting paid much for them either. It was horribly cold, worse than New York ever was. He wished he had a real coat. But mostly he thought about how badly he needed a cigarette. It had been two weeks and four days since he'd quit, but there were three dusty Camels in the glove box. Patrick shoved several pieces of Niccorette in his mouth instead, made a conscious effort to look purposeful, and strode towards the Abenaki Diner.
The twelve patrons of the Abenaki diner swiveled in their chairs and craned their necks over the booths to get a better look at Patrick. Patrick found sixteen pairs of eyes - the twelve customers, Millie, Janet, Beth the weekend waitress and Ryan- gazing at him in semi-polite curiosity, as though waiting for him to explain himself. He Janet finally took pity on the poor kid badly in need of a shave and a decent coat, and said, "Looking for someone, honey?" Patrick came from the America were waitresses don't call people "honey" anymore, and it took him several seconds to realize that she was talking to him.
"I'm looking for the Callahan headquarters, please," he said.
"That's it," Janet said, nodding towards the farthest booth.
By now, a fortyish man with a profusion of graying red hair and a look about the eyes which suggested that he hadn't slept properly in several days had spotted Patrick and had begun to walk towards him
"Lou Ahern, I鈥檓 managing this branch of the campaign. Welcome aboard,鈥?he said, shaking Patrick's hand and dragging him toward the booth.
鈥楾his is Anna Goss,鈥? He pointed to a smartly dressed woman of about fifty. 鈥淪he runs the New Hampshire campaign, and these three,鈥?he gestured, 鈥渁re our local volunteers. This is Hank Atkinson,鈥?Hank wore a flannel hunting jacket and a knit cap pulled down over his ears, though it was easily eighty degrees in the diner, 鈥淗elen Duchamp,鈥?somebody鈥檚 grandmother, with a cup of Lipton鈥檚 pressed between her beringed hands, 鈥渁nd Danny McAllister,鈥?Danny was easily a head taller than anyone else in the diner, and wore a T-shirt emblazoned with 鈥淢otorcycle Weekend, 1992鈥? under a Day-glo orange vest.
鈥淧ay attention,鈥?Lou was saying, as Patrick absorbed all of this. 鈥淭hese people have been doing this since before you were born. Maybe before your parents were born. How old are you anyway, twelve?鈥?br> Patrick tried to give him a 鈥渄on鈥檛-mess-with-me, pal鈥?look, but only succeeded in looking like he was trying to see something very far away.
Lou frowned at him bemusedly. 鈥淚 think maybe you need some breakfast. I鈥檒l be back.鈥?br> Millie and Janet watched from behind the counter, coffee pots resting on their aproned hips, thoroughly amused. Ryan sat nearby, zooming his Hotwheels across the countertop, leaving sticky tire tracks of syrup. He liked Saturdays. He and Janet were both early risers, unlike the rest of the family, and on Saturday mornings his grandmother would pick him up and he would go with her to open the diner. Ryan鈥檚 job was to fill the napkin dispensers and to flip the 鈥淐losed鈥?sign over to the 鈥淥pen鈥?side. He always had the silver dollar pancakes, with which Janet always made him drink milk, but Millie sometimes gave him a root beer too. It was a nice feeling to sit in the diner drinking root beer at seven in the morning, washing down a platter of pancakes, and watching as the town woke up.
This Saturday was an especially fine one, because it was a Saturday in Primary season. There was a rally at the grange hall tonight, which usually meant free stuff. He still had two Frisbees, a coffee mug, a water bottle and an assortment of T-shirts and bumper stickers left from the last election. He had only been four years old, but remembered clearly a great deal of free lollipops and chocolate chip cookies. Ryan was an independent. He helped himself to all the paraphernalia he wanted, and in return stood beside the candidates, Democrat and Republican alike, and smiled for the cameras. He felt it was the least he could do.
Lou Ahern had Beth bring another round of coffee and a large stack of toast to the Callahan volunteers. He himself waved Janet over to the counter.
鈥淗ow long to you give him?鈥?he said, nodding towards the booth.
Janet regarded Patrick thoughtfully.
鈥淭hree weeks.鈥?br> 鈥淚 give him two.鈥?br> 鈥淭wenty buck says he lasts three,鈥?Janet said, competition edging into her voice.
鈥淵ou鈥檙e on- Millie, d鈥檡ou want in on this?鈥?br> Millie thought a minute, studied Patrick for a good thirty seconds and then took a twenty from the till and slapped it on the counter with reckless finality that was unlike her.
鈥淎nd when do you give him 鈥榯il?鈥?Lou wanted to know, noting down the bets down on a napkin.
鈥淢arch 11th.鈥?br> 鈥淭hat鈥檚 the primary. Millie, are you out of your mind? You can tell to look at him he won鈥檛 last that long.鈥?br> 鈥淲ell, I say he will.鈥?Millie said firmly.
鈥淚t鈥檚 your money. Young Mr. McAllister,鈥?He turned to Ryan, 鈥淲e鈥檒l make you our bookie. We need you to hold the money for us, and this too,鈥?he handed him the napkin. Janet found a coffee can, and the four of them shook hands solemnly. Ryan placed the sixty dollars and the napkin reverentially in the can and went off to hide it in the back of the diner.
Earlier on this same morning Ana Murillo woke to find the town of Durham, and her car, buried in eight inches of snow. She groaned miserably. If she had her way she would have slept in until eleven and dealt with the snow once the sun had had time to deal with the worst of it. There was no time for that this morning. She was supposed to be in Abenaki at nine-thirty, and the alarm clock said seven-ten. She tugged on jeans over her flannel pajama bottoms, and rag wool socks, a Wildcats sweatshirt, boots, a ski parka, hat and gloves. She clomped down the stairs, grabbed a shovel and set to work.
It was eight-fifteen before the driveway was cleared and her car dug out. One of Ana鈥檚 two roommates, Jessie, arrived back from cross country skiing, annoyingly perky and impossibly athletic as usual.
鈥淚鈥檝e got my cardio up for the day,鈥?she chirped, 鈥淚 did nine miles. The snow is fantastic.鈥?br> 鈥淵eah, fantastic.鈥?Ana muttered as Jessie, gratingly blonde and pink-cheeked, bounced off.
It was almost too cold for snow: channel nine declared highs of three degrees. Ana showered, dressed and swallowed a cup of coffee by way of breakfast. Her damp hair was frozen into crunchy strands by the time she reached the car, and she sat in the driveway for several minutes waiting for the engine to warm up. Ana suspected that this was the last winter the little Civic would survive. When at last she pulled out she fell into procession right behind the snowplow, plodding stoically along at five miles an hour.
She grasped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white.
鈥淒amn you!鈥?Ana yelled at the snowplow, as it filled her fender with sand. She flipped on the radio and tried to do the Zen breathing exercises Jessie had made everyone do during finals last year. It wasn鈥檛 working.
Read the first bit of a short story, please? I know it's not edgy, but it's near and dear to me. It's cute Jehovah's Witnesses are not "looking for lost souls". They are obeying Jesus explicit commands. Really, everyone who respects and obeys Jesus Christ goes from door to door to teach his neighbors about the Bible's good news. It is interesting that only Jehovah's Witnesses are so clearly identified with the preaching work; globally more than 6 million preach publicly each month.
(Matthew 28:19,20) Go therefore and make disciples of people of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the holy spirit, teaching them to observe all the things I have commanded you.
(Acts 5:42) Every day in the temple and from house to house they continued without letup teaching and declaring the good news about the Christ, Jesus.
(Acts 20:20) I did not hold back ...from teaching you publicly and from house to house
It's sad when someone who claims to respect the bible actually insults or even advocates attacking a peaceful preacher. Sad but completely expected.
(2 Timothy 4:3-5) For there will be a period of time when they will not put up with the healthful teaching... You, though, keep your senses in all things, suffer evil, do the work of an evangelizer, fully accomplish your ministry.
Really, if someone goes out of their way to disregard Christian preachers and preaching, what is he saying about himself?
(Luke 10:1-17) After these things the Lord designated seventy others and sent them forth by twos... 鈥淗e that listens to you listens to me too. And he that disregards you disregards me too. Moreover, he that disregards me disregards also him that sent me forth.鈥?br>
Learn more:
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Read the first bit of a short story, please? I know it's not edgy, but it's near and dear to me. It's cute Good read... thanks!
Read the first bit of a short story, please? I know it's not edgy, but it's near and dear to me. It's cute I'm sorry, but I just wasn't interested. It seems like your writing style is a bit too straightforward and almost blunt. Try being a little more descriptive, leaving a little more to the imagination. Honestly, your first sentence is awful. It doesn't draw the reader in. Start with something that will really make your reader think, then jump into the story.
I feel like it's missing something. Rewrite and try again?
Your plot is decent. A little hard to follow, but I'm sure it will connect with certain readers. Your characters, I must say, are very good and quite vivid. That was definitely the best thing about this piece. I felt like I was starting to get to know them.
It felt like you jumped from subject to subject a little. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe if you slowed down the pace a little it would be easier to see where all this is going.
All in all, I would give it a B-. That is, if I were grading it. There are definitely good parts, but overall it needs a lot of work. Try a brutal rewrite and go from there.
Good luck!
Read the first bit of a short story, please? I know it's not edgy, but it's near and dear to me. It's cute Hi, just some technical help.
We Jehovah's Witnesses are not looking for lost souls.
We would never wish to disrupt a person's lively hood.
We are politically neutral. I "voted" for Jehovah as my leader when I dedicated my life as one of Jehovah's Witnesses. My point is we are neither democrats nor republican.
As far is the story it stretched on somewhat. You are good at creating mental images. I think you just need to speed things along a bit, turn it from a story creating mental images, to a story that creates mental movies.
PS I find it interesting when people use my religion in their stories. It is a reminder that we are everywhere. I just ask that if you put us or references to us in your stories you do a little background research.
