{Sorry for all the technical difficulties, guys! I think I got everything back up and working. Here is a new link to the same short (100 word) piece, and I’m following it, below, with the longer (200 word) post I had posted separately. The internet ate the last six days of posts–only those two, thankfully–and also, all the attached comments, so hopefully this will be a more permanent installation. The gist of the comments was that the first version was a bit confusing and hard to follow. So, I posted what I, more or less, started with, before the chopping block. It has, at least for me, served as a lesson in brevity and comprehensibility, and the subtle balance between the two, that we flash fictioneers attempt to strike. (Although clearly not achieved in the preceding sentence!) Thanks again, to What Pegman Saw , for the prompt, and the lovely tour around this interesting part of Canada. And to all of you, for putting up with such shenanigans!}
A hot gust hit Alma, as she opened the Red Barn’s door. The quietest place on base. Besides the tundra.
Nothing holy here: just a podium and a mike stand.
Brushing aside a gray lock, she covertly retrieved her phone. Unwitnessed.
Her finger scrolled and swiped. Indecisive. Directionless.
Flowers. Goats. Flouncy girls’ dresses. Doubtful bridesmaids, modeling stiff brocades.
Oh, to be at that red barn, instead! Basking in sunshine; embracing her daughter, in agenda-less white; laughing—together!—as cow-pies soiled their dyed-to-match shoes.
Six months. Iron-clad. The oil must flow.
Of course, by then, the baby will have been born.
****************************************************Unabridged Version*******************************************************************************************************************
The (Other) Other Red Barn
Hot air gusted into Alma’s face, as she tugged the heavy door of the “Red Barn.” The brick-red Ecumenical Building was the only place “on base,” where one could be alone with God. Other than on the frozen tundra, that is.
She peeled off her layers, stopping to dip her hand in the holy water and then again, to genuflect, as she reached her chosen pew.
Not that there was anything up there, to kneel to, a crucifix or a cross, even. The raised platform, or “altar,” held nothing but a rickety podium and a mic stand.
Anyone could worship here. Even atheists.
She brushed a gray hair from hey eye, and surreptitiously pulled out her phone. Not that anyone was here, to judge her. She pulled up Instagram, and waving her finger sideways, flipped through picture after picture.
Flowers. Goats. Girls in flouncy dresses. Twenty-somethings, taking selfies in stiff brocades, among the farm animals. She sniffed.
Oh, to be at that red barn, instead of this! Basking in sunshine and love; embracing her daughter, in her white silk and tiara; laughing, together, as bridesmaids inevitably slipped on cowpies, soiling their dyed-to-match heels.
But her contract demanded six more months.
The oil must flow.
And, by then, the baby might be born.
as cow-pies soiled their dyed-to-match shoes LOVE this!
Inevitably, as the longer version makes clear. A bit of Mid-Western humor. If you prefer, there are also buffalo chips!
Oh yes, the longer word count definitely let you include some key details missing from the first one — much clearer! And so moving!
It does let you stretch a little and put your elbows on the armrests, so to speak. But if I had paid attention to the 150-word word count, I probably would have been fine.
Dear Andrea,
So glad you got the issue fixed. I tried to click on your icon and it took my right back to the link up. Although there’s more to the longer version, I pretty much got the gist of the first one without any trouble. I felt her longing. Both are poignant well told stories.
Shalom,
Rochelle
Thank you Rochelle. I’m still playing catch-up with the Pegman stories. It is proving to be tougher to finish reading and commenting now that school is back in session (even for us homeschoolers!)I’m glad to be back and not fighting my blog anymore, too!