Fiction from Kenneth Weene
A Note from Adele: This story was submitted to my blog by Kenneth Weene, an educator, psychologist, minister and author of several books. I became associated with Kenneth through his work as a co-host on It Matters Radio http://www.blogtalkradio.com/itmattersradio
Kenneth will be soon be releasing another book called "Times to Try the Soul." In the meantime, enjoy this piece of "flash fiction."
The Terrier and the
Bull
By Kenneth Weene
As he had every
Sunday afternoon for fifteen years, Travers Dunworthy searched the
Internet for any references to the Blessed Sacredbody Church or the
town of Sacredbody, Utah. As leader of the community and bishop of
the flock, it was his self-appointed responsibility to make sure no
slur would go unanswered, no slight unmet. Fifteen years and not once
had there been cause for concern—indeed not even a mention of
church or town. Travers had seen to it; the church and the town his
grandfather had founded remained an unremarked speck on the map of
life.
Thundering from the
pulpit, his face flushed red and his spittle flying, the bishop had
made God’s expectations clear. The wages of sin were death, and if
the exorcism of depravity from his flock left him often on the brink
of apoplexy, why then the wages of purity may well be a stroke.
“Blood pressure be hanged,” Travers told his physician, he would
keep his community pure.
For fifteen years he
had bellowed, cajoled, threatened. For fifteen years, his efforts had
borne the fruit of communal piety. And now…
“How
extraordinary,” Travers bellowed—his face crimson, his lips
frothing; “you must see this.”
Becka scurried into
her husband’s study. A small terrier of a woman, she always came at
her husband’s call, always scurrying, always worried that Travers
would be annoyed. How often had he condemned her to hell everlasting?
Fortunately, Travers was a forgiving soul who would lift those oaths
of condemnation and anathema after a few days of tears and pleading.
Still, it was a fearful thing to know that during those days, should
something happen, some accident or foul play, eternity would be spent
in pain and sulfur.
“What, Dear?”
she asked—her voice tremulous.
“This!” He
glowered at her as he pointed at the computer’s monitor. “This!
How do you explain it?”
Becka moved closer,
lifting the reading glasses which hung from her neck, perching them
on her nose, and peering at the offending screen. “The Essence of
the Body in Sacredbody” was the title; Francine Bushwick the
author. “Bad enough,” she knew instantly, but the accompanying
photograph was far worse. There they were, the town’s womenfolk, at
least those under thirty, in—gasp and geez almighty—two-piece
bathing suits.
“Blasphemy,”
Travers shouted. “Where were their fathers, their husbands, their
fiancés?”
At first it had not
registered. It could not be conceived. But there she was, their own
daughter, Rosalie, in the second row, third from the right.
“And where were
you?” Travers demanded; switching—as he so often and easily did
when it came to their daughter—the onus to his wife.
“Who is this
Francine Bushwick?” Becka asked. Better to deflect her husband’s
wrath than to face it.
“Some stranger,” he bellowed. “Some harlot corrupting our
children. But where and how?” A last word rising to a howl of
outrage. “How?!” His eyes bulged.
“You must preach
about this. This very Sunday,” Becka said. “Travers, I’m sure
you will make the town see the error of its ways before these, these
costumes find their way from the computer to the new pool.”
The new pool, just
installed in the middle of the community park, would be opening in
two weeks. How scandalous such attire would be. They would be the
laughingstock of Utah. Unthinkable.
“You are right,
Wife,” Travers said. “A sermon about modesty. And Rosalie will be
there; must be there.”
“Of course,
Travers. I’ll leave you to it.”
Becka tiptoed from
the room quietly closing the door behind her. In the kitchen she
slipped her new computer, a gift from their daughter, from its hiding
place under the cleaning supplies.
“Sunday’s sermon
should be a barnburner. Undoubtedly, we are all going to hell.”
Becka emailed to her women’s group; signing the missive: Francine
B.
Kenneth
Weene is a novelist, essayist, and poet whose
work is permeated by his weird sense of humor and awareness of the
foibles of humankind. Find
his books here.
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