Roll out the Cannon

One afternoon, Father Tom was tidying things up around the church, when he noticed a tall stately looking lady, moving things around on the parish notice board. She wore an expensive tweed jacket and her hat sported a number of pheasant feathers. Father Tom had seen her at mass a few times but didn’t know the woman by name.  No time like the present, he thought, and went over to say hello.

“Can I help with anything?” he asked, approaching the lady.

“I’m quite capable, thank you,” she said, in a clipped accent, which bore all the hallmarks of a private education. Father Tom noticed she was moving notices out toward the edge of the board to make room for a poster she had pinched between her fingers.

“That looks interesting,” he said, pointing at the poster. “What’s it about?”

“I’m inviting people to participate in a burgeoning club, one which I have been instrumental in installing in our community; called Toastmasters,” said the woman, with a half-smile, pinning her notice in the exact center of the board and partially covering several other notes.

“Oh? What’s Toastmasters when it’s at home?” asked Tom, feeling slightly bewildered. The woman turned to face him and gave him a stern look.

“Really, Father. I thought a man of the cloth would be more eloquent in this phrasing than that. It’s a speaking club which gives people the skills and knowledge to present themselves impeccably and fluently during moments of public address. Having heard several of your sermons, you could benefit greatly from the club,” she said, rolling her words deeply before letting them fall from her mouth.

Father Tom was a bit taken aback. He often wondered if anyone actually listened to his sermons, but he never imagined they were bad. “You didn’t like my sermons?” he asked.

“It’s not a matter of liking them, Father. It’s the manner in which you presented them. All I’m saying, is our club could go a long way towards polishing up your performance, and in the process, bring greater enlightenment to your flock,” she said, waving her hands about theatrically.

“So you didn’t think they were bad?”

“Not in the slightest, but none of us are perfect, are we Father?”

“I guess not Mrs?”

“Philpot-Cassidy-Brown,” said the woman, holding out her bony hand for Father Tom to shake.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Tom,” he said, giving her his warmest smile.

“Charmed,” she said, smiling back at him, her cheeks going the slightest hew of pink.

“You really should come along, Father. Its jolly good fun if nothing else,” she said, when Father Tom released her tiny hand from his massive paw.

Tom rubbed his shaggy beard as he mulled over the idea, “Do you think it would help?”

“It certainly can’t do any harm. Oh, do say yes, Father. It would be wonderful to have one of the pillars of the community, such as you are, involved in the club,” Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown said, clasping her hands to her bosom, as if the lord himself had just appeared before her. Father Tom had to hand it to the woman, she put everything into her conversations.

“Ah, go on so,” said Father Tom, with a smile.

“Marvellous!” she said, clapping her hands rapidly like an overexcited sea lion.  Father Tom couldn’t help but be won over by the woman’s enthusiasm.

“I have to dash, Father, but I will see you on Thursday evening in the Grand Hotel. Seven thirty sharp please, tardiness is a pet peeve of mine.”

With a wave, she was gone. Father Tom wondered what he had just let himself be steamrollered into as he looked at the serous looking poster on the board which proclaimed, “Anyone can speak eloquently in public, even you.”

***

In the weeks that followed, Father Tom attended several of the meetings and actually found them very good indeed. Topics such as: repetition of words to hammer home a point, the flow and timing of a speech, vocabulary practice, articulation, diction, projection, as well as the actual speaking practice itself.   Tom felt he was making great progress and Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown had begun giving him individual lessons, outside of the meetings themselves.

Soon the whole parish were aware of the change in Father Tom’s weekly sermon, mostly because they were getting longer and longer. Jane was doing some shopping when she came across Christine Maher and Patricia Williams, chatting by the vegetable sections.

“What the blazes has gotten into Father Tom lately?” asked Christine, as Jane approached.

“How do you mean?” said Jane, rummaging through the displayed heads of cabbage looking for the freshest one.

“With his sermons,” explained Patricia. “The one last week was so long, my legs fell asleep from sitting.”

“He has been going on a bit lately,” agreed Jane, finally selecting a cabbage.

“That’s an understatement. So, what's gotten into him?” asked Christine.

“He started going to the speaking club Mrs Philpot runs.”

“Who?” asked Patricia, wrinkling up her nose in bemusement.

“You know the wan; a tall skinny yoke, walks like she's a pole up arse,” said Christine.

“The wan with feathers in her hat?” said Patricia, slapping Christine’s shoulder in amazement.

“That’s her. Mrs Philpot – something or other,” she said with a sour look on her face, like the name left a bad taste in her mouth. That was when they saw Jane. 

In unison they cred, "Can you not have a word with him?”

“Ladies, who do you think I am? I’m his housekeeper, not his mother. Father Tom is his own man, you know that.” Jane said. She liked Christine and Patricia; they'd been friends all their lives, and still behaved like bold school girls from time to time, despite both being married with kids of their own. It hurt that she agreed with them; Father Tom was going way over the top with his sermons lately but it wasn’t something she wanted to get involved with.

“Go on will yea, Jane. He listens to you, just have a word,” said Patricia, giving her puppy dog eyes.

“I’ll not promise. But...if the subject comes up, I’ll do what I can,” she said, trying to keep her smile on the inside.

“You’re the best,” laughed Christine. “We all know you have that big galoot wrapped around your little finger.”

“I've no such thing,” stammered Jane, going a little red.

“Would you look at her, Patricia. She’s blushing,” giggled Christine.

“Stop it, would yea,” laughed Patricia, pretending to scold Christine, all the time making Jane go even more puce. “Don’t mind her, Jane,” said Patricia. “She is only jealous of the fine lump of a man you managed to get for yourself, look at the skinny wee runt she ended up marrying.”

“Father Tom is not my man. I’m his housekeeper and that is it,” said Jane, sternly.

“If you say so,” said Christine turning to Patricia, “and what are you saying about my Johnny?”

“Nothing but the truth,” giggled Patricia. Jane was glad the conversation had veered away from her.

“He may be small, but he’s enthusiastic,” said Christine, rising to the defence of her man.

Christine roared with laughter, “He sure is! Why else are you driving a people carrier these days?”

Now both women were doubled over laughing. Jane picked up her bag of potatoes and added them to her shopping basket. “You're terrible,” Jane said, walking away up the aisle, but as soon as she was out of sight, she had to let out a stifled snigger.

***

As it happened the subject of Father Toms sermons never did come up, and Jane couldn't bring herself to say anything about them. As the weeks passed, the masses grew longer, and Father Tom’s winding rhetoric got winder. It all came to a head one Sunday when Christine and Patricia joined forces and cornered Father Tom as he was talking to Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown after the service.

“Good Morning to you ladies,” said Father Tom as they approached. Father Tom noticed the cold glances the women were giving Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown.

“Morning Father, that was some sermon you gave today,” said Patricia.

“I’m delighted you liked it,” said Father Tom, sharing a secret smile with the po-faced Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown, who clearly didn’t care for Christine or Patricia much.

“Well, I wouldn't say liked...exactly,” said Patricia, trying to be as tactful as possible, while still addressing the elephant in the room.

“Oh dear, I hope I didn’t upset you,” said Father Tom, going red from his beard to is scalp.

“Nothing like that, Father. It was just a bit long, don’t you think?” said Patricia, feeling terrible for embarrassing such a nice man.

“I guess I did go on a bit,” said Father Tom, looking down at his shoes like a little boy, caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Just under her breath, Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown mumbled, “Nonsense.” Christine heard what the old bat said, but bit her tongue. Patricia had Father Tom on the ropes.

“I don’t know if you're aware, Father, but you've a habit of saying the same things several different ways, over and over again. If you said it just the once, it'd speed things up, it would help. It’s just a bit too much, Father. We miss the way your sermons used to be,” said Christine.

“Humm, I see what you're getting at,” said Father Tom, not knowing where to put himself.

Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown had heard enough. “And what may I ask, makes you an authority on public speaking?”

Patricia looked at the woman, her smile slipping just enough to reveal a sliver of the hatred she had for the woman. “I’m the one listening to him, which makes me authority enough.”

“Enough of an authority- cretin” corrected Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown with a sneer, causing Patricia’s jaw to drop.

“Mrs Philpot-Cassidy Brown!” said Father Tom, shocked.

“Don’t you call my friend names,” said Christine, who swooped into the argument like a seagull swooping on a dropped chip.

“It was a statement of fact, not a calling of names. I will have you know that Father Tom has come on leaps and bounds with his oratory skills, since he begun taking my tuition.”

“Father Tom was just fine before you started sticking you oar in, you miserable cow!” snarled Christine.

“Mrs Maher, really!” cried Father Tom, but he was out of his depth. He was faced with two hot tempered women and one who didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut. Thankfully, Patricia interceded and began ushering Christine away before lumps of hair started to fly.

“Leave it, Christine,” said Patricia. “We intended no offence, Father Tom, but this woman is going to turn the whole parish against you if she keeps filling your head with the rubbish she goes on with. We just want our Father Tom back.” 

Tom’s brow furrowed but he said nothing. He had an inkling that Patricia had a point. Even he had to admit his recent sermons hadn’t sounded like his at all.

“Philistines,” mumbled Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown.

Patricia stopped in her tracks and looked at the tall woman square in the eye and said, “Someone famous once said you shouldn’t use a cannon to kill a fly.”

“That’s Confucius,” said Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown, hotly.

“You might be confused now, but you won’t be for long,” said Patricia, taking Christine by the elbow and storming away.

***

News of the argument didn’t take long to spread across the parish. Father Tom didn’t know what to do with himself. On one side he had to admit Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown had made him much more comfortable speaking in public and had some wonderful tips, on the other hand, it all seemed less him.

When Sunday mass rolled around he had no idea what to do. He came out of the sacristy, made his way to the altar and looked at the gathered congregation. In the front pew he saw Christine and Patricia giving evil eyes to Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown who'd foolishly sat on the same bench. Thankfully, the women were separated by a sheepish looking Mr Maher and his brood of children. He began the mass. 

The intended gospel consisted the breaking of marriage vows, a very serious subject. He'd been working on the sermon for weeks and hadn't rewritten it since the show-down last week. He was about to begin when he silently raised his eyes and beseeched God for his guidance. Then he launched into it. It wasn't long before he became aware of repeating words and re-stressed points. Some of the words he'd incorporated were so long, he tripped over them while trying to pronounce them. Father Tom had to admit, the voice he heard echoing from the vaulted speaker system, wasn’t his.

At that particular moment, he glance down and saw a beaming Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown, but his eyes cast right and saw a fluttering movement. He was amazed to see Patricia and Christine both waving white hankies, knotted around the end of pencils. Gales of laughter ran the length of the church. When Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown saw what was happening, she sprang to her feet with a face like thunder.

Father Tom leaned into the microphone and said, “I think I've rambled on enough, let us stand.”

Mrs Philpot-Cassidy-Brown stalked down the center of the church and out the door without waiting for another word.

After mass, Christine and Patricia were waiting nervously for Father Tom.

“We're so sorry if we upset you, Father, but that woman was going to ruin everything. You know we love you, just the way you are,” said Christine.

“I should be mad, but how can I. You’re two right trouble makers, by the way,” said Father Tom with a grin.

Patricia waved her little white flag for him and said, “We’ll be bringing these wee things every week, just in case you bring out the big guns during the sermon. In the face of cannon fire, us women would have to surrender.”

“Bloody Confucius,” said Father Tom, scratching his head and smiling.

My First Haiku

My friend, Amy, asked for a Haiku, including the words Lie and Truth. I am a complete novice at all forms of poetry, but I decided to give this a go. I have no idea whether I achieved the ends required of this particular form, but I can say that I tried. Any hints or comments would be greatly accepted. 

True lie.

lie deep virgin snow 
without death can there be life
spring brings truth and light.

Deluge

Deluge

The storm arrived from nowhere, stifling the killing summer night. The huge pregnant drops beat a tattoo on the slates above my head, rising me from a restless sleep. The sweat, which clung to my body, was soothed by the cooling touch of the deluge. I woke her with a touch and suggested an adventure. 

We walked the midnight road in only our underwear, until the scent of pine trees hung heavy in our nostrils. Unseen, unknown, we made love under the trees, while rain cloaked our naked flesh. Droplets of heaven, warmed by the summer air, baptized our union, and made us one.

888

She seemed to have no issue forgetting the majesty of that night. Yes, I had done wrong, yes, I had been foolish, but had I ever turned my back on her. No, not ever, well not really. One tiny slip and she threw me to the side and moved on without a second thought. Oh, she had cried, she made all the right noises, but she still left me.

Night is not my friend, sleep eludes me, dreams plague me and worry encases me. On the worst of them, I imagine all the things she is doing with men that are not me. The carefree cackles of mirth in moments of abandon. I remember every crease of her skin and imagine those folds being massaged by strange fingers, fingers belonging to another.

Tonight I was woken by thunderous rain, cascading on the roof of my flat. I rub the sleep from my eyes and the first thing I think of is her, and the night we shared. Tonight is cold and the storm is full of ice and bile. I dress quickly, inviting the sting of the storm, I deserve its wrath. I walk the streets, the rain soaking me to the skin, my destination clear. I move in and out of the halos of street lamps, until I'm standing in the alley at the back of her apartment complex.

Hours I stand there, in the driving rain, in the shadows of a wall, watching her darkened window. I imagine her smell, the smell I delighted in, as I held close to her naked back. I imagine the tickle of the water running down my face is the tickle of her hair, waking me in the middle of the night. I'd nearly exhausted the depths of my memory, when the window springs alive with light. I checked my watch and it was nearly four. FOUR!

I watch as the shadows dance a tango across the closed curtains. Entwining and separating, again and again, until at last the window goes dark. I muffle a scream by biting my arm and gazing into the falling rain. I allow the drops to pound my open eyes, washing away the tears flooding from my pain. Rage invades my veins, and every ounce of my being quakes with the need, the need for vengeance. I glare at the darkened window and imagine what they are doing, I imagine what I might do, to both of them. I wash in the evil of those thoughts until I remember, I made this happen.

Tears of sorrow and tears of pity, mix with the rain on my face as I turn for home. I look into a street light and a black and white rainbow appears. That’s my life, now and forever, colorless. 

Five Little Fingers

Five little fingers, tiny and pink, slowly open then close. They search blindly for something to grasp in this world, so strange and so new. Five tiny fingers, circle my thumb, holding tight to the one thing they will always count on, me.

Five little fingers, never happy until they are ripping pots from cupboards or struggling to fit into electrical outlets. Fingers that can change any man-made substance into a gooey mess, at the blink of an eye. Five tiny digits, searching for anything valuable or dangerous, always stopping my heart for a second.

Five little fingers, that stroke my face while whispering ‘I love you’ in my ear. Five tiny fingers, balled into a fist, beating a tantrum on a supermarket floor, as an alien voice screams, ‘I HATE YOU!’ Both of which made me cry.

Five tiny fingers, addicted to making snowmen, who howl in protest when I encase them in knitted wool gloves.

Now, those pink gloves are stained dull by a thousand adventures. The cocooning strands of warming fleece, fending off the evils of the world. A glove that lies innocent and alone. I bend to pick it up. I stroke a grass stain, remembering the laughter that ensued at its creation. I pinched the delicate materiel and feel the stitching give under the pressure of my touch. A glove should never be alone, it’s made for a partner. Alone, a pink glove, can be an abomination.

Five little fingers, never to play the piano, or swim in a pool, or hold hands with a boy, or to be gripped in the midst of a tango. Five little fingers, destroyed by the hate that stains the hearts of men.

I sniff the glove hoping to smell her still, but all I can smell is smoke, explosive residue, and death. I look around at a wasteland of shattered buildings, and twisted metal. All color is bleached from the world, from my life, save for this tiny speck of rose. How could a single pink glove survive perfectly, while the five little fingers, which had fitted so snugly inside, died?