as written by Krysis
The faded older woman was telling her story again. The grand kids that met a fatal end in traffic right before her eyes, when her aching hands could not hold them back. It was tragic and morbid, and just plain sad, but a story repeated lost impact. Of course putting it into words and pouring those words out for other ears was helpful for the bearer of the two sets of small shoes, but sooner or later the ears became indifferent. The eyes glazed. The conversation was faint and polite as coffee was sipped, but the faded older woman was only being listened to enough to know when she was done.
Her story was not the worst that they would hear that night. The meeting was anonymous, but the faces were familiar and some details of their lives would come out under the colored glow of sunset through stained glass. Some of the circle were gifted with good story telling. Others merely relayed the facts. Some, like the faded woman, regurgitated emotion every meeting, despite most attendees having looked up the true facts of the matter out of curiosity.
For example, the doctor in his blue sports jacket and glittering glasses would have fresh gore. His attention to detail would be sharp and immediate, but his grief dull and distant.
The young woman with the ironic smile would tell something shocking and scandalous, but not at all relevant. She didn't mind talking, as long as it wasn't about the person she had lost. She would allude to her long gone love at least once to satisfy the requirements of the group, but elude the spirit of the meeting at the same time.
The young couple would talk about the baby that had miscarried, but since the woman was pregnant again, it was assumed that they would leave the group soon. The burgeoning new life consumed them like a pyre, and it seemed like they thought they were sharing their joy instead of smothering the others with their delight. Go on, rub it in some more, couple. Invitations to the baby shower were salt in the refreshed wounds of those that had lost children, but some people had no consideration for others.
Speaking of lost children, there was the lady doctor. She was a hard one to figure out. She could talk to the male doctor on the same level, using the jargon only they understood, but, at the same time, she painted her life as a simple one. Toys and candy, and waiting for Harper to come home. Poor soul. Quite mad, though it seemed like the sort of attitude that would serve well in Wonderland or Oz. Too bad the real world was not so whimsical.
Then the slimy sleaze bag. He claimed to have lost his wife, but couldn't remember the name he had given the fictional female from month to month. This time, it was Rebbecca. Last month it had been Debra. He was hunting, and had the ironic woman in his sights, though he didn't seem to realize that all of the single women that attended were well out of his league. At least he wouldn't be procreating if he insisted on being so dumb.
That just leaves two to talk about. The therapist was combination den mother and new age hippie guru. She told her stories simply, without embellishment, but with real emotion. She was trying to set an example for the rest of us that gathered in the dusty pews of the seldom used church. The weeping face of the plaster Christ seemed to make sardonic grimaces above her head in the shallow flicker of candles.
As for myself--
The building shuddered. Something was going on.
Allison rose from her end row seat with the haste born of familiarity with combat. The hard faced woman was the sort that ran towards danger instead of away, which was why she jogged to the main doors of the church to look out. It was well worth looking at. The bank just across the street seemed to be flooded, and the shudder of the church had come from one of the windows finally breaking under the weight of water and a floating desk tapping against the glass.
The faded older woman was telling her story again. The grand kids that met a fatal end in traffic right before her eyes, when her aching hands could not hold them back. It was tragic and morbid, and just plain sad, but a story repeated lost impact. Of course putting it into words and pouring those words out for other ears was helpful for the bearer of the two sets of small shoes, but sooner or later the ears became indifferent. The eyes glazed. The conversation was faint and polite as coffee was sipped, but the faded older woman was only being listened to enough to know when she was done.
Her story was not the worst that they would hear that night. The meeting was anonymous, but the faces were familiar and some details of their lives would come out under the colored glow of sunset through stained glass. Some of the circle were gifted with good story telling. Others merely relayed the facts. Some, like the faded woman, regurgitated emotion every meeting, despite most attendees having looked up the true facts of the matter out of curiosity.
For example, the doctor in his blue sports jacket and glittering glasses would have fresh gore. His attention to detail would be sharp and immediate, but his grief dull and distant.
The young woman with the ironic smile would tell something shocking and scandalous, but not at all relevant. She didn't mind talking, as long as it wasn't about the person she had lost. She would allude to her long gone love at least once to satisfy the requirements of the group, but elude the spirit of the meeting at the same time.
The young couple would talk about the baby that had miscarried, but since the woman was pregnant again, it was assumed that they would leave the group soon. The burgeoning new life consumed them like a pyre, and it seemed like they thought they were sharing their joy instead of smothering the others with their delight. Go on, rub it in some more, couple. Invitations to the baby shower were salt in the refreshed wounds of those that had lost children, but some people had no consideration for others.
Speaking of lost children, there was the lady doctor. She was a hard one to figure out. She could talk to the male doctor on the same level, using the jargon only they understood, but, at the same time, she painted her life as a simple one. Toys and candy, and waiting for Harper to come home. Poor soul. Quite mad, though it seemed like the sort of attitude that would serve well in Wonderland or Oz. Too bad the real world was not so whimsical.
Then the slimy sleaze bag. He claimed to have lost his wife, but couldn't remember the name he had given the fictional female from month to month. This time, it was Rebbecca. Last month it had been Debra. He was hunting, and had the ironic woman in his sights, though he didn't seem to realize that all of the single women that attended were well out of his league. At least he wouldn't be procreating if he insisted on being so dumb.
That just leaves two to talk about. The therapist was combination den mother and new age hippie guru. She told her stories simply, without embellishment, but with real emotion. She was trying to set an example for the rest of us that gathered in the dusty pews of the seldom used church. The weeping face of the plaster Christ seemed to make sardonic grimaces above her head in the shallow flicker of candles.
As for myself--
The building shuddered. Something was going on.
Allison rose from her end row seat with the haste born of familiarity with combat. The hard faced woman was the sort that ran towards danger instead of away, which was why she jogged to the main doors of the church to look out. It was well worth looking at. The bank just across the street seemed to be flooded, and the shudder of the church had come from one of the windows finally breaking under the weight of water and a floating desk tapping against the glass.
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