seasalt
08-20-2008, 03:02 PM
I rewrote a story from a chapter of my book for a challenge and had to keep the word count down. Evangelistic spirit prevailing, this disjointed, charading pair are ripe for redemption, and New Deal's the perfect place for such an event. I'd like to have you all share some routes of redemption, if you feel so led, please feel free to bring them to Jesus. Note charade-Edarach.
Edarach’s Tent Revival
Tent fabric rippled as the wind outside howled.
The New Deal Tent Revival was not an event for the faint of heart.
Under the canvas covering religious fervor was at a high pitch. “Preacher” Edarach casting guilt-laden calls from the leather bound book, accentuated with the steady beat of his fist upon the handmade pulpit.
One thing of note however was the presence of one, Mrs. Estelle Prong. All things considered, probably the last person you would expect to see at the New Deal Tent Revival. Her past would have precluded her inclusion in such an event, but who knows God works in mysterious ways.
The tent door flapped open; the wind’s blast encouraging her entrance.
Wandering to a seat, off in the back corner, she sat unnoticed until….
Trancelike she began to move forward toward the fire and brimstone issue words emanating from the revival “preacher’s” mouth, seeming to draw her like a magnet.
Past rows of wooden fold-up chairs filled with pious community members, her cane dragging, marking each step as she walked. Heads and minds began to turn away from the thundering message to gaze and ponder upon the state of Mrs. Prong. A surrealistic cloud of dust particles stirred from the dirt floor, created an aura about her.
Down to the very front she wandered. Her feet slowed and she claimed title to the empty floor space within quick hearing distance of “Preacher” Edarach’s voice.
Mesmerizoricly, the words “preached” from his mouth seemed to grip her.
Her statue released by buckling knees; soon she lay, appearing as an empty carcass; still as death on the dirt floor.
In one lighting flash she could have been redeemed, refined by the fire, washed white as snow and her sins became history; covered by the blood of the lamb.
The community sat dumbfounded as Mrs. Prong rose from the dirt floor, high- fived the preacher, grabbed the evening’s take and pomped out the shuttering canvas door.
“Preacher” Edarach ran pathetically, exposing his charade.
Descending, deflating canvas issued a hot breeze into the cool, damp night air; adding insult to injury for those who struggled with the heavy material, which deterred their hot pursuit of the offering.
The rest of the story……..
Edarach’s Tent Revival
Tent fabric rippled as the wind outside howled.
The New Deal Tent Revival was not an event for the faint of heart.
Under the canvas covering religious fervor was at a high pitch. “Preacher” Edarach casting guilt-laden calls from the leather bound book, accentuated with the steady beat of his fist upon the handmade pulpit.
One thing of note however was the presence of one, Mrs. Estelle Prong. All things considered, probably the last person you would expect to see at the New Deal Tent Revival. Her past would have precluded her inclusion in such an event, but who knows God works in mysterious ways.
The tent door flapped open; the wind’s blast encouraging her entrance.
Wandering to a seat, off in the back corner, she sat unnoticed until….
Trancelike she began to move forward toward the fire and brimstone issue words emanating from the revival “preacher’s” mouth, seeming to draw her like a magnet.
Past rows of wooden fold-up chairs filled with pious community members, her cane dragging, marking each step as she walked. Heads and minds began to turn away from the thundering message to gaze and ponder upon the state of Mrs. Prong. A surrealistic cloud of dust particles stirred from the dirt floor, created an aura about her.
Down to the very front she wandered. Her feet slowed and she claimed title to the empty floor space within quick hearing distance of “Preacher” Edarach’s voice.
Mesmerizoricly, the words “preached” from his mouth seemed to grip her.
Her statue released by buckling knees; soon she lay, appearing as an empty carcass; still as death on the dirt floor.
In one lighting flash she could have been redeemed, refined by the fire, washed white as snow and her sins became history; covered by the blood of the lamb.
The community sat dumbfounded as Mrs. Prong rose from the dirt floor, high- fived the preacher, grabbed the evening’s take and pomped out the shuttering canvas door.
“Preacher” Edarach ran pathetically, exposing his charade.
Descending, deflating canvas issued a hot breeze into the cool, damp night air; adding insult to injury for those who struggled with the heavy material, which deterred their hot pursuit of the offering.
The rest of the story……..