Creating: The Villain Next Door

This “guest post” is by one of the authors of Writing Fiction for Dummies, Randy Ingermanson, one of my heroes for creating publish-quality stories. He personally invited me to steal this article from his E-zine that I subscribe to. There are some good pointers. If you’re resistant to these particular points, at least hopefully I’ve made you think a little.

Extracted from “Advanced Fiction Writing E-zine,” received Dec 20, 2010

By Randy Ingermanson

Creating: The Villain Next Door

One of the most common types of characters in a novel is the villain--a person directly opposing the protagonist.

Writing villains is hard. The reason is that you, the author, are likely to dislike your villain. You probably find it hard to relate to your villain. You don't understand what makes him tick. Therefore, it's all too tempting to make him a two-dimensional character whose sole purpose is to be bad.

The problem with that is that villains don't believe they're bad. Villains generally believe they're the good guys. Villains believe that the story is their story.

I've been reading a book lately titled THE SOCIOPATH NEXT DOOR, by Martha Stout, Ph.D., and I think it's valuable to any novelist who wants to write a real, live, breathing, three-dimensional villain.

We'll define a sociopath, as Dr. Stout does, this way:

A sociopath is a person who lacks a conscience. A sociopath feels free to do anything without any sense of shame, guilt, or remorse.

You might imagine that people like that are pretty rare. One in a million, maybe. Or one in ten thousand.

According to Dr. Stout, those estimates are way low.

According to her, about 4 in every 100 people is a sociopath.

That's pretty shocking. Scary even. It doesn't mean that 4% of all people are psychopathic murderers. Those are pretty rare. It means that 4% of all people match the standard psychiatric definition of "antisocial personality disorder."

The sociopath category is pretty broad. A rare few sociopaths become serial killers. Most of them do their best to fit in with a world of people they can't relate to at all -- people hobbled with consciences.

There are plenty of places to fit in.

An extremely intelligent sociopath can do well in business or politics or the military, where ruthless domination of others might actually be rewarded.

(Obviously not every businessman or politician or military professional is a sociopath.)

Less gifted sociopaths may find a niche in some job where they exercise authority over a few others and enjoy making life miserable for them.

Sociopaths with average talents are often full-time moochers, living off somebody else by arousing pity.

Plenty of sociopaths gravitate to crime. Surprisingly, the majority of criminals are NOT sociopaths. Studies show that only about 20% of prison inmates are sociopaths. But that 20% account for more than half of the most serious crimes.

If you decide that the villain in your novel should be a sociopath, what features should your character have?

To get the fully detailed answer, I recommend that you read THE SOCIOPATH NEXT DOOR or some similar book.

Please note that reading one book on sociopaths will not make either you or me an expert, but these are the high points that I picked up from the book:

* Sociopaths know the difference between right and wrong. There is nothing flawed in their understanding of basic morality. However, when they do wrong, they don't FEEL any sense of shame or guilt. Therefore, they can justify anything they do by blaming the victim or the economy or society or circumstances or Satan or the weather or whatever.

* Sociopaths often are extremely charming. They study normal humans and learn which buttons to push in order to get the responses they want. So the stereotype of the charming villain is based on reality. This skill is critical for sociopaths climbing the corporate ladder or making a career in politics or wangling into a romantic relationship.

* Sociopaths are extremely good at detecting potential victims. Whether they're looking for somebody to marry, somebody to mug, or somebody to mooch, they quickly home in on the one who'll give the biggest payoff.

* Sociopaths don't love anybody. They may say all the right words, but they never really mean them.

* Sociopaths crave pity. This may seem astonishing, but one of the most reliable indicators that somebody is a sociopath is their relentless attempts to arouse pity in the people they're victimizing. A typical sociopath can turn on the "crocodile tears" on command.

* Sociopaths are easily bored. So are children and young teens, of course,  but normal people grow out of their boredom as they mature. Sociopaths don't. Because of that, they crave excitement, which causes them to take crazy risks which endanger themselves and other people. Those risks can lead to spectacular successes in business, politics, and war. They can also lead to spectacular failures.

* Sociopaths don't want to get better. They rarely try to get treatment unless forced to, because they think they're just fine the way they are -- it's the rest of the human race that's screwed up.

* Sociopaths sometimes "do the right thing" -- if it gains them something. That may be public approval or it may be a heightened self-image. But their reason for doing the right thing is always based on what they THINK, not on what they FEEL. Doing wrong doesn't make a sociopath feel bad and doing right doesn't make him feel good.

* For a sociopath, life is about winning. Other people are there to be controlled or to provide points in the game. Relationships with those pesky people have no value, unless the relationship contributes to winning.

In writing a character––any character––you must find a way to get inside that character's skin. You must think as they think and feel as they feel.

That doesn't mean that you have to become a sociopath in order to write a convincing villain. It means you need to be able to IMAGINE being a sociopath.

And that's not so hard. Novelists typically have extremely high empathic skills. A novelist is required to imagine that he or she is a person of a different gender, age, ethnic group, social stratum. Many novelists need to imagine that they live in a different time or a different place.

If you can imagine all that, then you can imagine that you have no conscience and don't want one. When you do that, you'll understand your villain in a whole new way.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Award-winning novelist Randy Ingermanson, "the

Snowflake Guy," publishes the Advanced Fiction Writing

E-zine, with more than 23,000 readers, every month. If

you want to learn the craft and marketing of fiction,

AND make your writing more valuable to editors, AND

have FUN doing it, visit

http://www.AdvancedFictionWriting.com.

Download your free Special Report on Tiger Marketing

and get a free 5-Day Course in How To Publish a Novel.

Reading At Pruneyard Bookstore

Barnes & Noble is community-minded enough to allow our club, South Bay Writers, to have a reading there every month. Five us read and listened when the others read. I read four short poems from my new collection, Fine Lines of Mine (see previous post) plus about eight minutes worth out of a short story I wrote three years ago. (I need to sit down and really polish that one to a fine sheen; cutting out 50% of the words might be a good place to start.)

I thought my story, Teen Trials #17, was pretty sensitive and realistic "first-date" dialog--that was my story's situation, so that's a good thing. But it did get a little too explicit with sex, at least it felt that way with this small audience (four people). The audience felt like it started to squirm and that made me feel squeemish about reading on more.

With the recent honest, sometimes harsh-feeling feedback I've received from editors working with me on my novel, I'm likely getting a better feeling for my ideal audience and what kind of explicitness is going too far. (I want to go further. However, the reality today is different. A lot of great short story publishers will put up with the implicit quick sexual innuendo, but not long dwellings on love-making, in detail, or explicit naming of body parts, etc.) If my story is not mainly a sex instruction book, it works against the meat of my story to get too detailed and dwell too long there. I felt that tonight, and there probably is no other way to get that kind of extremely useful information. I call it "listening through the ears of the others."

I need to rewrite Teen Trials #17--tonight, even!--to keep the good stuff and trim off the less than good. I'm not saying never to have sex in your short stories, but make sure it is appropriate to your ideal reader and the probable publisher and award committees that you wish to impress. In the 60s, it was different. We have a more conservative audience these days, so, a word to the wise...

At tonight's reading, the main trouble (ignoring that the microphone had a low frequency hum that would crescendo out of control if you breathed on it) was there were not enough listeners sitting in the chairs out there. Thus, there was less chemistry, less buzz, less feedback and less heart and warm bodies out there. At our readings, listeners are often the readers--that was the case tonight--so we also didn't have enough authors or prospective authors reading. Too bad.

Did you ever throw a party and no one came?  It was a little bit like that.

If you'd like to bolster our crowd or you write and need to get used to reading in front of people (in a interested, supportive atmosphere) you should come. It's usually 3rd Friday of each month, Pruneyard Barnes & Noble open microphone, 7:30PM, sponsor: California Writers Club, South Bay Branch.

See you there... I hope. Bring something newly written to test out on us.

My New Poetry Booklet

I'm a novelist who also writes non-fiction as well as some poetry. Well, some of my poems have won awards, for example third prize at East of Eden (2006) Writers Conference. Friends have requested that I publish some of them since they like my work so well they wanted to have a collection at their home.

It seem like a good idea, so I spent five days away from novel writing, putting together a little booklet of 18 of my favorite poems, including all my award winners: "I Wished," "TV Is Somethin'," etc. I wouldn't have gone through the trouble if I didn't think they were good, and I'm proud of this collection. The title of the collection is Fine Lines of Mine. It'll be something I can have available to sell wherever I read my poetry. ;^)

(If you think I'm happy you're right! -from a Dave Dudley song written by Carl Montgomery and Earl Green.)

In getting them together, I've found a word here and a line there to improve, and there are some never before seen in Writers Talk or anywhere else. When my novel writing begins to get to me, I can turn to poetry to pick up my spirits. Every day, I'm making progress, little by little, in my writing. I hope you have a good writing day, today, too.

Memoir Class Was Memorable

Linda Joy Myers, PhD., taught a very good six hour memoir class, sponsored by South Bay Writers, given on November 6 at  Lookout Restaurant banquet room in Sunnyvale.

First, I have to admit, the memoir I was writing was not a memoir at all—it was too long and detailed—it was a journal.  It seemed to attempt to chronicle about every minute of my life—wrong!

A memoir should be more focus than that, be focused around a definite theme that can be gleaned from my life, and generally cover a shorter time period than one's entire life.

To get a handle on what my theme might be, she gave us a blank timeline handout and told us to think up 5 to 10 major turning points that existed in our lives—major telling decisions that affected the future, perhaps disasters, unusual family situations. But, in order to cut down on superfluous detail, she said to try to limit them to six or seven (or less) key turning points. I should then boil these down to perhaps three or four—they must have to do with the selected theme, and that theme probably would be reflected in the title.

Other than that, treat the memoir as a novel, a story: draw the reader in with an especially interesting, exciting midpoint occurrence, and, like any good story, the story should have drama, narrative summary, scenes with action and dialog eliciting emotions in the reader, sensory detail (to make it real). Your story should have a beginning, middle, and ending.

Linda Joy Myer prefers upbeat endings, illustrating some victory or some learning that occurred that would appeal to your prospective readers.

Oh, yes, we are talking about a memoir you want to sell commercially, to have published, and go through bookstores (or to self-published and market it yourself).

I have more detailed notes, of course, and I hope to get back and read them and apply them if I ever really get focusing on my memoir. I am still writing my novel on Shoshoni Indians and my characters distinctions aren't good enough so I'm working on them.

Making out a written, physical timeline is a very powerful step in keeping your memoir focused and telling a relevant story. Think of turning points as transformations, opportunities for growth, whether successfully exploited or not.

Then she went into the fact that, even though your memory may be imperfect, it's all right—in fact, expected—to invent scenes from your recollections and put quoted dialog, even though 20 years later you surely do not remember every word and every gesture. The reader needs this feeling of tangibility, and, if the essentials of the truth, as you see them (may be made more dramatic), are there, who could complain?  Caveat: I'm not a lawyer and neither is Linda. At the present time, I see more info here.

She went into detail and answered questions on whether or not to change names to protect your loved ones from embarrassment and that sort of thing. The answer seems to be situational, depending on the sensitivity that you know these individuals have, and your ability to smooth stated remembrances over with them. No two people will remember the same event the same, so the writer needs to recognize this to, and learn when he is treading into sensitive territory. If someone is alive, you should go over the sensitive part with that person and see if that is acceptable with them. Caveat: I'm not a lawyer and neither is Linda. I see more info here.

Pack your memoir with thoughts (at the time of the story and/or at the time of narration) to elicit emotion--show trouble and how it was overcome.

Linda Joy Meyers, Ph.D., MFT, President and Founder of National Association of Memoir Writers, is a skilled workshop presenter.

New Poem Published in Club Newsletter

Big deal. It's in the September 2010, Writers Talk right there on page 8, my newly published poem. (Somebody told me twenty years ago I don't toot my own horn enough.)

I'd sent it in, like, a year ago, so I wasn't expecting to see it.

I'd just won the 1st Prize Challenge Award for poetry in the newsletter for "My Wife's Ghost," best poem that made the newsletter for the previous six months. The Award Certificate is hung proudly on my wall next to two other poetry awards. I had a nice dinner out for two on the $40 cash that came along with it!

This month's published entry is entitled "What Do I Want?" It begins like so:

   What do I want?
   Really, what do I want?

   Give me a minute; a day; a year.
   Now I’ve thought on it;
   It’s getting clearer.
   I’ve made it through the silence.

   So here goes:
   Why not start with stuff that really counts?

That's all I'm giving here. Now here's a problem for you budding poets out there. If the above were the beginning to your poem, what would the rest of it be? Don't peek at mine until you've given a couple day's honest effort and at least a session polishing it. (I recommend not doing the polishing until at least a week after you've put your first inspiration down. Often, I'm still polishing 8 months later--not that whole time, of course.)
 
Then, and only then, you are allowed to find my version on our club's website (we are South Bay Writers, a branch of California Writers Club), and look for our newsletter page, September 2010, page 8, remember? 
 
The main reason for this article, I haven't really gotten to yet. I read it a year later (tonight, when I picked up my mail), and I like it. Still! Maybe, even better than when I wrote it. Usually, I cringe a little when I see my stuff in print. It's got pace, some worthy goals; it's got a certain energy a lot of my best work has. Not comletely devoid of melodramatic sentimentality, but it's honest, straight forward writing, easily understood.

Enjoy. Or give me helpful feedback. It's nice to know when someone reads something I've created that wasn't anywhere on earth a year ago. --rb

Receiving Feedback

Receiving feedback on your novel writing--my novel writing, to more accurate--can be a trifle traumatic. Which may be the understatement of the century.

My critique group meetings, in all honesty, were sometimes stressful for me, especially when giving feedback that I knew the person didn't want to hear (but he needed to hear). Fist fights; thrown dishes; tears; blood. I'm kidding. C'mon. Thrown dishes? I don't think so.

Even helpful, right-on-the-money corrective analysis, from experts, and factoring in that all writing judgments are subjective. A little questioning by the receiver of the feedback is a valid activity. Still, this sought-after feedback can cut a writer to the quick.

I'm having my present novel in-progress, Sagebrush at Stony Creek, content-edited by a skilled editor. It seems there are five or so consistent, systematic show stoppers throughout the first half of the novel. The first half is all I could afford to have reviewed, but I get that there are issues that need improving, from her viewpoint.

Stepping back from the defensive emotions I had, I can see there is plenty that is substance in her commentary and so I'm setting out to correct them. But to show the point that it is emotional, I'll give you a peek at my first response letter back to her.

"Hi Xxxx,

"After picking up the pieces of my heart and gluing them back together, I will wait a few days, so as to let my high emotions die down. I was so glad to finish this thing, finally. I’d hope it wouldn’t be perceived as awful…but I did wonder. Thanks for an honest & expert appraisal...."

My reply goes on from there to each point that "needs work" and defends the mistakes, explaining my silly thinking at the time, going into what I plan to do about them, but the real action will start after we talk on the phone and work out an efficient stategy for putting out a most-publishable version of my story. Is it that hard? Well, for some, they have their strengths and their publishers down, those like John Grisham and Steven King, maybe it comes a lot easier. They have written a lot more fiction than I've ever dreamed of writing, and they do it daily.

Perhaps, that's the most important thing about our differences in skill and publishability. I take heart in the fact I heard somewhere that Samuel Clemens took more than seven years to write his Adventures of Tom Sawyer!

And, in those days, they didn't put such an emphasis on brevity. Seems Clemens contained some 230,000 words in his "little" book about Tom, Becky, and Injun Joe. My much-too-long piece weighs in at 110,000 words.

I Recommend This Course

I took a writing course given by Random House Struik, a department of Random House, being taught out of South Africa. It's mostly teaching how to make a story (novel or short story) and up its quality to make it publishable. Much of it is applicable to documentary or historical fiction, and non-fiction, as well. When I took the ten week course, through Internet (Feb - Apr this year, 2010), the facilitator was an expert content editor and college teacher, employed especially by Random House, Ron Irwin. He's personable and non-threatening, but also detailed and very student-oriented, ready to deal with all levels of authors and future authors.

It's taught via Internet,  a highly effective medium for this course with great support on the South Africa side. It's in English.

I highly recommend this course for all levels, as there are hands-on exercises that will test your skill, whatever your present writing level. There were about 80 in my class. You will get a chance to critique the work of three of them, per applicable assignment, and get critiqued by them. You will also be able to compare student critiques with Ron Irwin's always thorough critique. It works best if you have a novel, finished, but not ready for prime time, or at least a third of the way into your novel/non-fiction work. This will play a part in some of your assignments. So the class is geared for people who are now actually writing something, not just dreamers.

I found the course well worth the $825 I paid; about 5 hours per week for 10 weeks. You will also make friends (network, network, network) with other aspiring writers, mostly residing in South Africa.

The price might be different now, so do check it out and see if the timing is right for you at http://www.getsmarter.co.za/creative-writing?utm_source=sugar&utm_medium=email&utm_content=creative_writing_2010_09_sugar_email_set_3_cw_writing_group_info&utm_campaign=creative_writing_2010_09 .

If you already have an MFA degree in writing or have already published novels with traditional publishers, I'd guess you've been through a lot of this before, but others ought to take a look.

Progress on Making Corrections

Do you remember, I received back the edits on my novel, 513 double-spaced pages of manuscript? Now I'm inserting the commas I should have known belong and changing my "Em-dashes"--there are quite a few of these critters for some God awful reason.

Maybe, you're thinking, "Well, good, he's about done."

T'ain't that easy. I have to find the place on the computer screen (my working [master] copy of my novel), then re-find the redmark (in the manuscript stack), then make sure I decide which I prefer--usually the editor's way, except sometimes I'm removing whole paragraphs and making minor repairs on either side of that. I find a few begin quotes and stuff that neither of us caught (I don't mind, because it means my editor got caught up in my story). After putting in the correction, I have to recheck that I took out the old incorrect thing. Say, there's about three markups per double spaced page (yes, I'm pretty error-prone; don't think it's that unusual), a couple chapters of that, and I'm bushed. I'm now on page 172 of M/S. That makes 172 x 3 = 516 corrections made (approximately, of course), not a small amount of work. And only about a third of the way on this--ha, ha--"final edit."

At chapter completions, I re-read the chapter aloud and fix things that still aren't fixed or that make my tongue stumble.

Every couple hours, even very dedicated writers need to get up and take a walk around the block, lift some weights, do some chores, get their feet up, watching TV. Well, I do anyway, to keep my blood circulating and bones right. I know a few others like Rita St. Claire, a romance writer, who completely agree with me, and some who agree, but don't do the exercise breaks nearly enough. Anyway, do watch your ergonomics. Your writing will be and stay better if your healthy.

Back to editing: I found a number of words I may use too often as I once again see my work both through my eyes and through my editor's eyes. (There's a lot of brain work going on in this process, though not much typing per se.) I'm making a list of these overused words and will do a Search-Find in MSWord to count them and see if I can think of better replacement or if I can delete the whole sentence without screwing up the story. Here's my list so far (I'm sure it will get longer as I go):

damn
darn
dang (want to make sure these are attached to different characters as their unique dialog pattern)
f*** (yes, I have some of those. Sorry, Aunt Tilly.)
f***er
sh**
you know
tears
also
I guess [this is how I speak; well, all my characters shouldn't talk like I do)
nodded
eyebrows
raised eyebrows
Jeez
smirk; smirked
smile; smiled; smiling

Every authors "word-abuse" list is different, I'd guess.

It's not so much that they really are overused. I just want to check them. Seems like they come up a lot, especially in dialog, and I use a lot of dialog.

I've already learned to try to not use weak verbs like forms of "to be" and "have". Some of my sentences are much too involved for todays dumbed-down public, and they need to get broken-up into shorter sentences.

I miss putting in a lot of "?".

I'm still spelling the last name, "Charlie" as "Charley" once in a while. I can't believe it.

Time to get up and stretch. Take care, all.

PS: Some of the writing in my story is pretty darn thrilling.

A Poem (That Grew Out of Another Poem)

A Fine Hike
Richard A. Burns
August 2010

The Santa Cruz Mountains,
A fine hike up.
A superior view at the top.
A good look at the smallness of life in the bustling valley.
I feel young, beyond the reach of problems.

Then, we are coasting down the other side,
Where red-barked Madrone limbs hang low over the trail,
Smooth and cold to the touch,
Like touching cold water pipes,
So unexpected a sensation out here in the warming wild.

If I come up here in May, the sticky monkey flowers
On the sunny side of the trail
Are thick and in golden bloom.
Near the bottom, deer are hidden in the shadows.
Look carefully through thick woods along the stream.

Agent Pet Peeves

Here's a "good advice" for fiction writers I just discovered, or I may have rediscovered it:
http://www.guidetoliteraryagents.com/blog/Agent+Advice+Cherry+Weiner+Of+The+Cherry+Weiner+Literary+Agency.aspx

Try it, especially if you are as yet unpublished, would like to know something more about what your receiver thinks of your work.  -rb 

I went to Niagara Falls recently,

which was an exciting day for my cousins, my friend, and I. Someone mentioned that I probably came back with a few good new poems (or a short story). "Well, no," was my answer. Now I wonder why not. :^\

Another Short Story

I have written a short story (four years ago, now) about a Christian and a Muslim meeting by accident to do good, in the conservative Bible-belt region of the U.S.A.

It is entitled, "Mark and the Storm" and can be found and read for free at :

http://www.sandhillreview.org/2006/index.htm .

Or, if you can find a hoarder of them, buy a copy of Sand Hill Review 2006.

Good Conference in Salinas

The East of Eden writers conference is a two day plus Sunday writers conference put on by South Bay Writers. It will cost a little money and you may need a motel to stay at if you don't commute there, but I've always found it well worth the price of admission. You can pitch your novel to an actual agent besides a meriade of classes and such. A gala dinner with key-note speakers comes with it. Last time, I ate dinner with another agent (other than the official one I met earlier). Both were very interested in my novel. Do preactice your pitch on your project before you get there. You have maybe 45 seconds to make your first good impression.

I especially recommend it if you're a serious writer and early-to-intermediate on your learning curve, though there will be plenty of veterans there, too. Not to be missed. This link gives more info and a place to register using PayPal or by check.

Join the short story contest (or poetry or novel contests). Get your name and face out there. Maybe I'll see you there.

Early Edits Received for My Novel

I received back from my new editor, we'll just call her Leslie, her red marks on the first 72 pages (double spaced, 12 pt Times New Roman, of course) of my novel-in-progress, Sagebrush at Stony Creek, and I devoured her comments and had a good glance at my own writing style as well. Now I wonder if my beginning hooks the reader enough. It isn't particularly clever, but it does immediately bring into play an ominous knife (and knife thrower), later to play some role in my novel. Might that hook someone. It's an Indian vs. Rancher tale. I can see this knife being a main element on the cover of the published novel, but that would be the call of the publisher. What's up with that knife? That's what I'm hoping the browsing shopper would think. Even the final title will be determined by the publisher; that's what I've heard.

Well, anyway, I use these things " ... " too much and commas not enough. Most the marks were just not getting hyphenated words right and make some homonym goofs. I saw a few word clusters she caught. I'm thrilled and will get busy implementing the corrections I think will help the story, probably 90% of the editor's suggestions. Somehow, it's easier to feel motivated when someone else is active in the project with me.

Write on. ;^)

A Note on My "Cat" Short Story

I noticed that Part 7 of my short story sample "Write Richly: Preacher and the Cat - Part 7", a few posts back, stands alone pretty well as an even shorter short story of its own.

I'm joining the "sound bite" generation. ("Can't beat 'em; join 'em!")

Yes, it's a comedy, but it has the more serious undertones associated with humans wondering what the Christian's heaven will be like, and just how to get there. Try part 7 on its own. It's a hoot. I read it a week ago at Pruneyard and it got laughs in the right places.

Where'd You Go? Out.

Last night, I went to the regular blog workshop in Campbell (or San Jose) put on by Bill Belew. Learned by looking and listening to other bloggers. Things I need to do is make my entries much shorter; much more often.

But problem is I think deeply, not in short sound bites, and in fact, I believe that gives better food for thought and action.

"What good is that if no one reads your blog?" Bill said.

Now that's food for thought. But is it junk food? Fast, convenient, available, non-nourishing??
________________________________________________________

Go to my sample short story (a comedy) finale: Write Richly: Preacher and the Cat - Part 7

Preacher and the Cat - Part 7

To start at the beginning, click Write Richly: The Cat and the Preacher - Part 1. To see previous chapter, use navigation links at bottom, i.e., "Older Post".

Part 7

The lady next to her had tapped her husband on the shoulder and pointed at the "trained" cat, set like a piece of ceramic on the pew cushion.

A little boy in the pew in front of her with head turned around noticed the cat. "Here, kitty, kitty," he said. His mother tugged him back to sitting, facing the front, cramming crayons and a paper into his lap.

Now the cat had stretched up her neck, looking wide eyed, alert. Oh, she's listening, Matilda thought, but she very soon lost confidence. With a minimum of fuss, she took the cat in both her hand, folding the cat warmly into her lap, stroking her.

She bent down to Cinnamon's ear and whispered, "Now listen to what the preacher says. Don't pay the people any mind. Remember, our goal is to get baptized."

Apparently she had whispered loudly enough that the people in front of her, to her left, and to her right heard, reactions ranging from stifled smiles to surprise to outraged disapproval.

The old lady smiled. The cat purred. The preacher’s sermon, well on its way, began to crescendo and soar.

Matilda took down notes, and needed a place on her lap to write. For by her note-taking diligence, she let Cinnamon sit next to her again. The cat looked to be listening in wrapt attention. But suddenly, the cat leaped down. The utter quietness of the movement caught Matilda off guard. The leash jerked out of her relaxed grasp and Cinnamon disappeared under the next pew. Matilda lunged down to grab but missed the red diamond studded leash. "Oh, my," she said.

Neighboring worshipers turned to look at the bent-down old lady.

Two rows up and off to the center there was a commotion. People looked down. A lady yipped like a small dog. Another stood and seemed to be eyeing something moving along on the floor. Children had slid off cushions, disappeated, apparently crawling to look under the pews. The pastor must have thought this was really in reaction to his words about how faith had let Jesus do his miracles. He was on a roll.

"You can walk on water, I can walk on water, we just need that elusive quality of the human heart: faith. Sometimes we all question that faith. But grasp it, it's for everyone who hears of the good news of the Bible. Faith and hope. God's on the side of the repenting and the saved. But do you act saved? Ah, the question of the hour.”

The preacher's head lifted up, eyes puzzled, his gaze shifting over to the center aisle. That was where the people chuckled and buzzed, a low murmur disturbed the usual sounds and coughs of the congregation. Some turned quickly in their seats, others pointed.

Aghast, Matilda decided she had to do something. Standing, she carefully sidled in front of a family, careful not to step on shoes, and she moved into the center aisle. She ran forward, a run like no one had ever seen before from Matilda at her age.

Seeming only slightly puzzled by the apparent uncommon excitement of his flock, the preacher exhorted his congregation. The cat, in its zigzag path toward the front, however, garnered much attention.

At the third row, Matilda stopped to gather her thoughts, finding a handy empty place to sit.

A little girl, second row, on the other side of the aisle, upped, dashed a short distance and clutched for the leash. But, heavens, the cat scooted forward. Others in that row bent down and reached.

Cinnamon, quick and still dragging the leash, was now in the open space in front of the broad, carpeted stairs leading up to the pulpit and choir loft. The cat seemed to recognize Pastor Todd and jumped up on top of the lectern. Tail high, it wasted no time walking to sit on top of the preacher's Bible, rubbing her feline face against the preacher's Bible on the lectern. The preachers hands went back and up, quickly, possibly wondering where this out-of-place animal came from.

"Excuse me," he said leaning toward the microphone. "I gotta--."

The loud popping sound cam from the microphone when the cat rubbed her whiskers against it."

A smattering of guffaws came from around the a uditorium.

The preacher blurted out, "What the hell ..."

Quickly, he grasped the cat gently about the ribs. "Don't I know you?" he said.

And elder of the church rose half way back on the aisle, shouting, "Do we have two deacons who can round up this animal."

The cat, now alarmed, squirmed away, bounded down, racing across to the foot of the choir benches near the music director and on over to the baptistery.

A chunky deacon streaked toward the steps up to the baptistery. Cinnamon by now had raised herself on hind paws, looking over the edge of the front wall of the baptismal pool, filled to about three feet of water, as always.

A tall deacon from the other side moved in to block the animal's path. The shorter deacon got their first, but the preacher was close behind. Both grasped for the leash, spooking the cat further. The tall deacon moved rqpidly, reaching to grab the scuttling creature. By now, two other volunteers moved into place to surround the cat.

Escape was now a real challenge for Cinnamon. But not really. It was an unfair match up. The cat ran darted under the preachers legs.

The congregation now stood, completely mesmerized. This was action; this was what church was meant to be; there was more excitement now than when James Parker had fainted at his wedding, topping a row of potted flower. There was a rumble. The congregation by now issued forth a burst of applause. Sharply worded comments, belated questions, whoops, and yells filled the hall.

Poor frightened Cinnamon jumped up on top of the counter at the edge of the water surface.

Running figures came at her from all directions, hands grasping for her leash. She bounded along the counter toward the tall Deacon.

“Get him, “ shouted the pastor. Applause every time the cat got away.

Cinnamon was about to leap away when the tall deacon dived at the red leash. He missed. He stood up. The cat jumped up onto the deacons shoulder, quickly went around his shoulders, a half-circle behind the deacon's head. CThen the cat turned quickly and leaping off the shoulder into the water with a splash.

The shorter deacon fell back, water all over his suit, sputtering. The preacher wiped water from his face.

“Oh, save him!" shouted Matilda, having moved up even with the front pew and about to climb the steps.

A couple more brave souls from the front rows had joined in the round up, laughing. "Fun game!" one of them said.

The cat, in a flurry of splashes, swam desperately toward the rear of the baptistry.

"Oh, heavens, don't hurt my kitten!" Matilda yelled, not managing the stairs very well.

The flustered preacher leaned over within inches of grabbing the struggling cat's leash. The pPastor Todd stretched out further. in a fraction of a second, his feet slipped from the floor and he dove ingloriously head first into the water.

A unison oh-my-god ghasp emminated from the onlookers, then raucous laughter. The place sounding more like a football game than a church.

The preacher stood up, spat out a long stream of water, and held up something red and dripping in his hand. Matilda could see it was the diamond studded leash, twinkling brightly in the lights. This was just before she lost her balance and fell on the carpeted dais. Some people in the front row came to help her to her feet.

Pastor Todd turned to pull the cat toward him, the poor, drenched beast seeming only too happy to be picked up out of the cold water.

The pastor was now ghasping from the cold water, too, as there were no baptisms schedule for this day. The tall deacon was helping Matilda brush off and assessing the damage.

By the pool, the chubby deacon, could not keep from smiling at this whole scene, held out his hand, pulling the preacher up over the edge. Pastor Todd shook away the offered hand, wading toward the side of the pool with the stairs.

Red-faced Matilda reach for the cat as soon as she was close enough, and the preacher, now able to laugh along with a congregation, shook what must have been quarts of cold water off his coat sleeves.

Matilda pciked her cat out of Pastor Todd's hands in a big hurry to get out of there.

The preacher whispered out of the side of his mouth, "I should've baptized your wildcat on Thursday.”

"I told you."

He rolled his eyes. "I had no idea how badly the little critter wanted it."

Matilda managed to say before she ran up the aisle, "Thank you, pastor, for handling the baptism. Not so awfully organized as usual, but I think it met the intent, don't you?"

The preacher hesitated, then nodded.

Now the crowded, so curious, so entertained offered help down the stairs and up the aisle. onlookers' hands reaching out, scattered applause around, whistles echoing off the walls.

Out the door the old lady carrying the stow-away cat scooted. She held her precious cargo tight, the sopping wet Abyssinian shivering, now destined for heaven to be at Matilda's side in Heaven when their times came.

The Cat and the Preacher - Part 6

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Part 6

The purse was big enough, the one she found dusty and forgotten, hanging there, out in the garage, filled with heavy evidence of much of the lady's past in it. She brought it in to the dining room. Tested it out for suitability. Dumping the rattling content of her current purse into the capacious new one, laying a face towel doubled over on the content, she lovingly set her alert-looking cat inside. The poor alarmed cat clawed with both front paws at the long-zippered opening, as Matilda struggled to unhook those claws. Then she proceded to explore the new, dark surroundings.

"Now, Cinnamon, isn't that comfortable.” Matilda stroked her cat, its sleek furry back rising to meet the pressure of her bony hand. "This could be a terrific adventure, you know, kitten."

Matilda sat down on the couch to see if the cat would jump out. But, no; it stayed. “Once we're both inside the chapel, maybe I'll even let you out and sit next to me."

The cat had settled down, lying proudly like some viking ship floating on calm seas.

"You do need to hear and see what’s going on.”

A loud noise from out on the street startled Matilda. A motorcycle sped noisily past the house. The cat must have heard it too and sprang out of the purse. Matilda had a good hold of the leash, though. The cat hung in mid-air for a moment, leash taut, springing high several times in quick succesion, its front paws flailing.

“Goodness me, let’s not be that way, kitten.” She settled her back down on the towel in the dark insides of the purse. “You have to promise to be good. How else will you be allowed into heaven? Saint Peter can be quite a stickler on behavior, you know."

The cat circled twice on the folded towel, at last lowering herself, her legs folded neatly under her.

Matilda stroked Cinammon and felt her purring to beat the band. "That's better."

"Meow," said her cat, laying its furry, thin face forward on the towel and closing its eyes.

Matilda tucked the rest of the leash into the purse and zipped it. She tested it slowly up and down and swung it back and forth gently. She heard not one peep out of the Abyssinian passenger, not a murmur, not any feeling of movement inside.

"Cinn, Cinn, Cinn,” the old lady clucked. “I do want you with me when I hunt for you in heaven. Do you suppose they have a lost and found. I don't think anything like that is mentioned in Revelations."

The cat must have been purring. No sound.

She shook her head and laughed as she recalled things from earlier years. "My four ex-husbands, God knows, would never make it to heaven. Good Lord, what if I'm wrong. Well, Jack would be busy with his mistress, that's sure. Collin, now he was not one of God's better works. He'd be hugging a damn six pack.”

She rose, hanging on to the big purse, going out to the front sidewalk, so careful, watching her balance as she turned at the sidewalk and on to the corner. She returned back toward her house. “Oh, gee, maybe we can pull this off,” she said, her heart almost singing.

"Hello, Mrs. Graham." It was that loud little boy next door. Kind of startled the old woman, and she jerked to a stop.

"Hello, Jimmy, how are you?" That's what she said, but the skinny old lady thought, the little brat almost scared the puddin' out of me. No movement from inside the purse. She thought that was a good sign. Calm kitten, that's what we want.

Once inside, Matilda opened her purse, the brown-red, sleek creature lighting immediately to the ground, tugging impatiently at the leash.

"Hang on, girl." Matilda chased and forgot herself, turning too fast. Suddenly lost her balance. She had learned in a previous life, decades ago, to roll when one fell. It reduced any chance of breaking bones.

Once again there she laid, sprawled, one knee up, the other extended a little to the side. The faux Tiffany floor lamp rocked dangerously back and forth before coming to a standstill. Cinnamon sniffed and pranced around her, and occasionally bouncing lightly on her shoulder, now her knee, now up on her stomach.

"Oh, darn it, Cinnamon. It happened again." Sheay here ad tought a moment, took inventry. Nothing hurt. Nothing broken. But this falling down thing is bad. She thought it was almost as bad as when she had cancer and lost her left breast. No, not that bad. Not yet. "My, I must remember to always brace myself."

With considerable difficulty, she ot up, dusting off the lower part of her dress. She unclasped the leash, releasing Cinnamon from the cat-halter. The cat scampered away with mouse-catching speed, bounded up onto the couch, settling atop the padded back of it, looking out the window.


Sunday morning presented a sky of dark grey, wind that whistled under the eaves. Elsa from two doors down knocked at the door--shave and a hair cut ... two bits--like she always did whenever the weather was bad. Offered Matilda a ride.

"No, honey, I think I'll stay home and straighten out my spice cupboard. The TV says it's clearing up for a sunny afternoon. I'll go to the five o'clock. Tea, dear?"

Elsa stepped into the entry way. "No time. I'm running late. Got to go, really." She looked Matilda up and down. "Plenty of room in the car."

Matilda made a pushing away motion with her hands. "Walking is healthy you know."

"Healthy is staying out of the rain, old lady," Elsa said. "You take care of your tender self, you hear?" She turned about; opened the door.

"Hey, you take care of yourself, Elsa, and you'll have your hands full, I'm sure."

"You been having those dizzy spells?”

“Oh, heavens, no. That was just a one time thing."

"Humph, a one time thing. I'm sure." Elsa looked at her, frowning, a knowing look of doubt lingered on her face. "I know how these things go." She gave her a shake of the head, as she shut the door to leave.

Elsa's no dummy, Matilda thought. "Well, a two time thing, then. If my hair wasn’t all white, I’d feel thirty years old."

ooOoo

Matilda and her cat did walk to the block and a half to church that evening. The last of the clouds had broken up and all but a few cotton-balls of it had moved out of sight over the two story apartments to the south. “Be sure to listen to the preacher when he talks about the Bible. You must be carefully taught.”

The cat looked up then ran forward on the side-walk, make the diamonds on the this red leash dance and sparkle.

Before crossing 4th Street, Matilda crouched down, unzipping her purse, and try to get Cinnamon to leap in. Perhaps the traffic was too loud. Cars were streaming into the parking lot and noisy children across the street were jumping and chasing and shouting.

"No, kitten, don't pull." Matilda was gently coaxing the cat back. "It's a nice purse. Remember? You like it, you like it." She grabbed the cat, stroked a couple times, and it made it down in the purse, stuffing the leash in after it.

Waiting for the signal at 4th Street, Matilda lifted her purse near her face, murmuring, "Now, remember. When we're inside, you sit still and listen.” The light turned green; she started across. “And don't sing when the rest of us sing."

Cinnamon must have been running laps inside the out-sized purse, all bouncing around like two hamsters were fighting in there. "Calm down now or we’re going to have to just turn around and go home."

The cat meowed, but then settled down, much to Matilda's relief.

For the evening service, parked cars letting out passengers lined curb and the parking lot half full, people milling about, various ones heading in. Now Matilda felt just a little bit daunted. Yes, there was the church and there was those cement stairs, seeming this evening like those fronting the Capitol in Washington, D.C.. Luckily, she remembered about her falling incidents so turned very carefully, worked her way up the stairs with her heavy purse, moving around, now, as if by magic, like a Mexican jumping bean.

“Calm down in there,” she warned.

“What?” said Mrs. Crane, just passing her on the right.

“Oh, my. I didn’t say anything.”

Mrs. Crane looked her up and down briefly, a frowned flickered for an instant, replaced quickly by a smile. “Oh, that’s good.”

Matilda thought she detected an it’s-best-to-be-tolerant-of-nutty-people look she and her friends must have used a bit when she was young. She needed her short pause before heading up to the top, and was glad her cat had quit all that movement.

It was after a hymn by the choir, the congregation standing to sing, “What a Friend We have in Jesus,” and the invocation that Matilda decided it was time. One of the church elders was loudly making announcements when she unzipped her purse. She had chosen a seat off to the side in the next-to-last row of pew, and her nearest neighbor was a good six feet away on her right side. Evening service was never as crowded as the two morning services.

Acting calmly, as if nothing unusual was happening, she lifted her out, grasping the loop at the end of the leash securely and set the feline on the pew, a comfortable, well-kept pew with cushions.

The woman to over near the aisle turned her head slowly once and then back quickly and raised her eyebrows. Her lips shaped by her silent chuckle, but commenced to looking forward, ready for the sermon.

Trying to look completely normal and her old studious self, Matilda looked down at her Bible opened to the right page, notepad in her hand. She was ready to jot down any pearls of wisdom coming from Fred's pulpit.

All her life, she had said her nightly prayer with religious regularity, often using the week's notes as a basis. Maybe Cinnamon would join her in prayer, this week, after she was baptized. Nothing wrong with hoping.

The cat's eyes roamed around, first the people near her, then taking in the stained-glass windows and stretching her skinny neck high to see the choir to the left and the preacher, speaking the power of faith, faith that would allow anyone to be more than they would be without it and the resultant help from God.

A Robert Burns Poem

Poor Molly
By Robert Burns
(Translation by Richard A. Burns[1])

As Molly and her lambs, together,
Were one day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her hoof she cast a hitch
And over she struggled in the ditch.
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughie came a-blundering by.

With glowering eyes and lifted hands,
Poor Hughie like a statue stands;
He saw her days were almost ended,
But–woe, my heart–he could not mend it!
His mouth gaped wide, but nothing spoke,
At length, poor Molly the silence broke.

“Oh, Hugh, with shocked, lamenting face
Come close to mourn my woeful case!
My dying words attentive hear,
And bear them to my Master dear.

“Tell him, if e’er again he keep
A shilling aside to buy a sheep,
Oh, bid him never tie them there
With wicked strings of hemp or hair!
But lead them out to park or hill,
And let them wander at their will.
So, may his flock increase and grow
To scores of lambs and packs of wool!

"Tell him he was a Master, kind,
And mostly good to me and mine,
And now my dying charge I give him,
My helpless lambs, I trust them with him.

"Oh, bid him save their harmless lives.
From dogs and foxes and butchers’ knives!
But give them cow milk, their good fill,
Till they be fit to fend themselves.
And tend them duly, eve and morn,
With tufts of hay and heaps of corn.

"Oh, may they never learn the ways
Of other vile, restless strays,
To slink through slats t’plunder an’ steal
His stacks of peas and stocks of kale.
So may they, like their great forebears,
For many a year come through the sheers.
Good wives will give them bits of bread,
And bairns weep for them when they're dead.

"My poor ram-lamb, my son and heir,
Oh, bid him breed him up with care!
And if he lives to be a beast,
Please put some sense into his breast.
And warn him, when mating-fevers come,
To stay content with ewes at home
And not to run, wear out his hooves,
Like other ill-bred, graceless brutes.

"Lambs, may you ne’er take up with trash
As ones accursed an’ low of class.
But always mind to eat and meld
With sheep of credit like yourselves.
And next, young ewes, the mainest thing,
God keep you from a tether string!

"Oh, young ones, with my last short breath,
I leave my blessing with you both.
Be kind, be fair, remember mother,
Get angry not at one another.

"Now, honest Hughie, do not fail,
To tell my Master of my tale,
And bid him burn this cursed tether,
And for your pains, you'll get my leather."

This said, poor Molly turned her head,
And closed her eyes among the dead.


[1] Source used: Robert Burns Poems in Scots and English; Edited by Donald Low; 1985, 1993; Charles E. Tuttle Co., Inc., Vermont; page 32-33; “The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie, The Author's Only Pet Ewe, An Uncle’s Mournful Tale.”

A Writing Instructor Extraordinaire

I think I've mentioned him before, Randy Ingermanson. He cranks out a good newsletter, has good websites (see http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/). My days are busy, but I must look more at his techniques and suggestions. He also speaks/instructs/mentors at conferences ... for a price, of course. See the same link.

A just finished reading The Shipping News by Annie Proulx. What an inspiration that is for her assured, daring style, and fascinating content, goings-on in and around a small fishing town in Newfoundland. Her characters even tell great stories. Now I got to chase out and see the movie on DVD.

Sheesh, and more! I took an 8-week internet novel writing course (March-April) from Random House Struik (in South Africa), a class of the highest quality they term GetSmarter, with plenty of expert support from teacher/editor/agent, Ron Irwin, a strong leader and critiquer. We endured and tried our hands at student critiquing and other challenges. I shared excerpts from of my novel, Sagebrush at Stony Creek, for critiquing. A few poems; Thanks Kim and Kris and other new South African fans for their encouragement. 80 students with quite a spread of ages and subjects; genres. Some of my critiques were seen as overly harsh and condescending, but I defend it, as I am focusing on improving the work, and of course, the receiver has the option to consider my thoughts and immediately dismiss them. Thick skin does come with this profession, novel writing, unless you're a Grisham or Brown or Stephen King. Hey, they probably have thick skin, too.

In the middle of the Random House Struik course, I took three day writer's "Retreat" at the PEMA OSEL LING Retreat Center outside of Watsonville, CA sponsored by the Norcal Group of branches of California Writers Club. Learned a great deal about sliding down hills in Santa Cruz Hills mud. Nora Profit ( http://www.thewritingloft.com/ ) taught two of the classes on writing with emotion. A couple other classes were given by Luisah Teish on shifting the paradigm, spreading the mythos of conservation and caring for the fragile Earth in all one's writings ( http://www.luisahteish.com/ ).

I must get back to my short story and publish the ending here for all you fans who are waiting. If you're holding your breath, you must have keeled over by now. I want to send it in to GlimmerTrain by May 25. -rb

The Cat and the Preacher - Part 5

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Part 5

Much of the rest of the week Matilda spent with her circular cloth-stretching frame and red and orange thread sewing her latest needlework project while the soap operas and "One Life to Live," played loudly. Each evening–the news was so bloody and contentious these days–she brought out her Holy Bible, highlighting in yellow the key parts about the miracles Jesus did, written into Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

Every once in a while as she read it aloud to Cinnamon, she’d look up and say, “Now, girl, you mustn’t be sleeping through my spiritual reading,” or “What do you think of that, kitten?” and the cat, likely as not, would stretch out, front low, rear high, tail high and loose, a snake waving this way and that, claws piercing the fabric of the cushion, and she would open her mouth wide with a terrifically flexed, pink tongue, yawning. At times, Cinnamon, too, would, like any seven year-old, try to steal away, often ending up sitting at her perch on the window sill, but the old lady would pick her up and bring her right back. “Concentrate, now, honey! It's important. You need to be saved.”

Cinnamon rarely articulated an actual complaint nor did she meow for Matilda to repeat anything. Matilda concluded that the cat had no argument with the logic. Obviously such a loving kitten would want to live eternity wherever Matilda was after both had passed on to The Better World that Pastor Todd, and a slew of other fine men before him, had spent lifetimes preaching about.

"Why can’t Cousin Carolina be as smart as you? She’s pushing, what, 73 now, but still, after all these years, belongs to Atheists of America and has the nerve to admit it out loud. I love her still, silly creature. She says she never saw an angel, whoa, and says a sensible person couldn't possibly base the only life they were going to live on 2000 year old fables from bearded religious fanatics, stories like Jesus doing magic and Moses parting the Red Sea.”

The cat scratched vigorously a spot behind her hear.

“My, some people have peculiar ideas. Isn't that right, Cinn?" The old lady had an itch and scratched a spot in her thinning hair on top. The cat took this as an opportunity to leap off her sofa and run down the hall.

“Now don’t you track that litter all over, Cinn, and for God’s sake, don’t miss the box like you did yesterday.”

While doing the dishes and throwing out the dirty tray that came with TV dinners, Matilda noticed Cinnamon rubbing her warm whiskers against her fallen socks and ghostly white calves, bulging blueish veins crisscrossing where they never used to be. She was getting used to being disappointed at aging.

"Cinn, girl, you learned all about Jesus the last couple months. Now we need to go to church together and hear Mr. Todd speak. He's such a wonderful speaker, better than me. Our congregation sings their hearts out, too. It'll be a lot like listening to Lawrence Welk."

She let the water drain from the sink, stacking the dishes on the thick towel spread out on the immaculate, tiny Formica counter top.

"I'm going to get that man to baptize you come hell or high water,” she said to no one who was visible. The cat trotted over to the sewing basket and hid behind it. “Oh, God help us, I scared you.” She laughed and carefully holding on to the counter, turned for the cat. Cinnamon, seeming disconcerted at what she heard, sprang away from her reach, out of the kitchen and down the hall. She wound up on top of the couch looking out the front window, Matilda assumed, counting the slender, young girls and laboring guys jogging by under threatening gray clouds.

But firm determination made Matilda feel strong enough to pull it off. How very important the whole thing was.

ooOoo

The Cat and the Preacher - Part 4

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Part 4

After the preacher pushed the intercom button, asking Jennifer to bring in two glasses of water, the preacher had begun to recover his composure.

“What we need is water for my kitten,” Matilda said.

Pastor Todd said, “Oh, should I have Jennifer––"

He was about to punch the intercom button again when she said, “Oh, Lordy, no, Pastor! You know I’m talking about the water that cleanses away our sins, that saves anyone who wants it, you know. I’m talking about our upcoming little baptism ceremony for Cinnamon.”

“Um... yes, that’s where we were. But Mrs. Graham, don't you see how what you're asking me really doesn't work. The cat can’t understand what Baptism is about, can't possibly understand the Bible.”

"Nonsense," Matilda bent down and picked Cinnamon up onto her lap, petting, telling the cat gently it should calm down. “Everything’s all right,” she whispered into her ear. “Please, act like it's Sunday. Your best behavior, now, huh?" She lowered her face in close to the cat’s and whispered something loving.

To the preacher she said, "You know I'm not getting any younger and when I pass on, when I go to heaven, I want Cinnamon to be up there whenever her time comes so we can find each other. Cats can always find home, I’ve heard."

"It doesn't work like that, ma'am," the preacher said. His voice was strident, impatience in his tone. "Even for my family, I could never be certain my wife or my children are going to heaven, even though I would dearly like that. We will be in the company of other believers. We don't know a great deal about heaven. The Bible, to tell the truth, hardly mentions it. Moses tells about Elijah riding his chariot when it was whisked off in a whirlwind up toward heaven.”

“Yes, sir, that’s where I’m going.”

“Some of the Old Testament prophets allude to it. Finally, in Revelations, John, when about 90 year old, writing to Christians from the island of Patmos, describes heaven and earth followed by a new heaven and earth. Unfortunately, if we want a picture of heaven, that book has a lot of apocalyptic symbolism and has many different interpretations.”

“Oh, but my mother and father told me all about heaven.”

“I’m glad of that, Mrs. Graham.” The preacher was now chewing on his pen. Noticing what he was doing, he chuckled wryly, wiped it off with his hands, laying it on his pad of paper. “Heaven is up there somewhere, but our physical and emotional needs will be totally different than they are on earth." The preacher conjoured up a bright smile. "It will be glorious.”

"Freddy, how can it possibly be glorious without Cinnamon?"

“God and his plan ….” He gave a slow shrug of his shoulders, arms extending outward, and sighed. “I’m sorry. We don’t know everything about God’s plan.”

The alert Abysinnian, still in the chair, was turning her head to look at whoever was speaking.

"You'll see,” the preacher said. “It will be a wonderful eternity. I suspect it will be cooler than the fires of that other place where some of our,” and here he hesitated, whispering the rest, “that place where some of our friends who are not saved may wind up." His voice got strong and proud again. "That’s my job: To find them and save them."

“So baptize and save my kitten.”


The preacher tilted his head back, eyes squinting, looking at the animal. “He’s a cat!”

“Oh, Freddy,” she said, picking up the cat and stroking her. Tears welled up in Matilda’s eyes. “You mean you don’t care if Cinnamon burns in hell.”

“No, no. I didn’t say that.”

The old lady lifted her cat up close, high under her sharply jutting jaw, rocking her back and forth like a baby, the fur tickling the lady's chin.

"That's why I need to get Cinnamon baptized."

“But cats don't like water."

“Posh. I can't swim and I did it. You baptized me. Remember?"

The preacher laughed. "I believe you swallowed some water.”

"So, then," she said, "you won't mind if my cat acts just a little put out after you dunk him under the river. I’ll cut back her claws before she comes forward on her big day."

“Oh, for Christ sakes, Mrs. Graham, you can’t. I don't think you have the idea yet. We don’t run a circus here."

"Oh, yes, I do have the goddam idea. It's you, sir, who don't have the idea." She stroked her cat and talked lovingly to her as she rose from the chair, spry like a twenty-year-old and every bit as petulant. "You want to get baptized, don't you, Kitten?"

Pastor Alfred Todd must have counted to ten because there was an ungodly long pause until finally he tapped his finger-tips on the desk, saying, “Like I said, we will carry out God’s plan. We just may not always understand it."

“Land o’ Goshen!” she said. “The God I pray to is a loving god. He understands his people, the people that follow Jesus, and He could only be cruel to them when they turn away from Him and the Savior––oh, dear, the Savior is God, I mean they are the same person, uh … or, god, or something.”

The pastor’s impatience had shifted now to a barely noticeable forrow above his handsome dark brown eyebrows, the mild look of hopeless puzzlement replacing the earlier almost angry looks, a bit of empathy mixed with it. Without a speck of warning, his chair shot back and he stood up with his right arm out to shake her hand and he moved around his desk, gently guiding the slender, elderly woman to the door.

“This has been such a very nice chat, Mrs. Graham. Right now, I really have another appointment I have to prepare for. Maybe we can do this again sometime. I’ll be ready with some relevant passages from Paul’s epistles. You can bet on it”

She exhaled loudly through her nose and held her head up at an angle. “I’m no gambler, Freddy,” she said, geninely offended by the accusation, and she made her way through Jennifer’s office and out the door, the perked-up cat leading the way.

The Cat and the Preacher - Part 3

To start at the beginning, click Write Richly: The Cat and the Preacher - Part 1. To see previous chapter, use navigation links at bottom, i.e., "Older Post".

Part 3 (Read Parts 1 & 2 first)
Matilda didn't see anything to laugh at. "I'd love for you to baptize my kitten, Cinnamon." Her voice was choked up. She put a tissue to her mouth and cleared her thoat.

At first, Pastor Todd looked surprised. "It's a beautiful animal. What kind?"

She couldn't help laughing at the pastor's ignorance? "She's a cat, Freddy?"

"I mean, what brand of cat, Persian, or what?"

"Oh, Obolesquian or Cynsimian. Something like that."

"I think you mean Abysinnian."

"Yes, dear, that's it.""Very unusual around here. I saw a cat show at The Cow Palace once."

"Not a cow, Freddy, a cat. An abysinnian cat."

The pastor tried to hide a grin. Taking a few seconds to think this novel situation over, the young pastor leaned forward toward the cat, saying, "Little missy, do you know the Bible well enough, and do you understand what you're proclaiming when I lower you beneath the surface of the water in the baptistery? For us, you know, symbolically it's the River Jordan."The cat meowed once loudly and immediately bent down to lick at the base of her tail."See? She knows what she's preparing to do," Matilda said.Lickety-split and ever-so lightly, the animal leaped onto Matilda’s lap, and then sprung up onto the preacher's desk, stepping good-naturedly and unafraid to the preachers closest hand and rubbed herself on the back of his wrist.

But Pastor Todd swiftly put a stop to that. He picked the cat up, cradling it by her ribs, holding it far from his body, hastily setting the thing on the floor. Unfortunately, in the process, the animal's leash got caught on the preacher’s stately-looking pen-and-pencil set attached to a placard with his name on it, and the whole caboodle went crashing to the floor. The cat immediately shot out as far as the leash would let her race.Mathilda, hanging on firmly to the leash, beat the preacher to the fallen plaque and pen-set, all of which was still together there except for the pen that had squirted off toward the book shelf. Pastor Todd picked that up."I usually like to handle Cinnamon myself, Freddy,” Matilda said. Briskly, but with the usual tremor in her hands, she set everything back into place, making certain to square it neatly.

The preacher rubbed his hand across his name plate, giving it some careful scrutiny. "It's all fine. No harm done."

“I didn't mean for you to knock your nice sign off your desk. That might scare the dickens out of a house pet like Cinnamon, you know.”The pastor twirled the pen he’d just picked off the floor, rapidly flicking it forth and back, making it look rather like a model airplane propeller. He chuckled.When she turned to sit down, it suddenly came on again, that dratted ear disease thing, a sudden dizzy feeling, the feeling of being almost thrown to the floor. "Oh, hang on, girl," she said on the way down. There was nothing subtle about it. Fortunately, she had learned in a previous life to roll when one fell, minimizing the chance of breaking bones. Learning that skill took place some forty years ago during her rock-climbing days.Once again the woman sprawled grotequely on the floor, Cinnamon prancing around, dancing lightly onto her hip and back down, bounding up on to her shoulder, then sniffing tentatively at her face.“Oh, hell’s bells, Cinnamon, it happened again,” she cried. “I have to remember to always brace myself when I make a sudden turn. I just have to." She was acutely embarrassed and began scrambling to right herself.Instantly, Pastor Todd crouched at her side, asking her if any bones were broken while he carefully helped her to her feet. “That was a nasty fall, Mrs. Graham.”“Don’t be silly, Freddy. These days, it feel like I’m only doing my exercises.” The old lady was becoming quite used to this affliction. “See, I told you I’m no spring chicken. I got other more troublesome aches and pains, like everyone my age,” she huffed while trying to catch her breath during the exertion of getting to her feet.The pastor helped her over to the chair. “Are you sure you’re alright,” he said, his calming voice with a sympathetic soft rapidity. “It’s no trouble at all to call an ambulance and get the hospital to do some tests on you. Maybe the right medicine ….”“Oh, shphaw. That was nothing compared to the swan dive I took off the porch a couple of weeks ago. Lordy, it was dark but my balance was fine." She bent down and straightened the hem of her dress, followed by a check of her hair with her hands. While doing this, her talking did not cease: “I’m already taking medicine that helps a lot.” It was a little white lie, but she continued. “It’s just that it doesn’t always completely work. I need to remember to brace myself, that’s all.”The preacher chuckled at the woman’s pluck.“Deary me, I must look a fright. What must you think of me?”“Well, frankly, Mrs. Graham, your sudden fall was most definitely a fright for me. But you look fine now; we'll pretend it didn't happen.” He glanced at his watch, then quickly searched the floor of his office for the roaming, leashed cat. “I sure don’t think much of your doctor."

Preacher and the Cat - Part 2

Part 1 of this short story was posted in post just before this one. Read it first, of course! The "Parts" to the story will continue to turn up in reverse order since this is a blog version. --Rich

"Where are you?" She rubbed the pain beginning to set in on her hip.

The cat meowed again, but softer now, a meow mixed with a whining growl–maybe some sort of post-traumatic purr–but the strange sound of the cat came from a high place behind the bathroom door.

The delicate woman, bracing herself, peered around the door. There she was, the reddish-brown pet shivering, looking afraid, lying low on top of the shower door frame. The old lady hadn’t seen Cinnamon at first because of the positively impossible spot she had jumped to.

"Heavens, girl! How in God's creation did you ever get up there?” For the moment, Matilda forgot all about the pain in her hip. The old lady scooted into the kitchen, only twice grabbing something to hold her steady.

She laughed. "What I cat! The things you do to me." She grabbed the plastic stepstool and rushed back into the bathroom. Weak sighted and a trifle clumsy, she hefted and pulled her cat off the top of the shower-door frame. She stroked it softly as it snuggled into the crook of her elbow, which seemed to be custom made to hold this particular cat. Apparently, brimming with appreciation for having been saved, Cinnamon purred warmly.

“Guess that dizzy spell is all over with,” she told Cinnamon, sitting there on her bed. “I feel fine, now.” The thin-limbed Abyssinian cat purred her answer back, periodically extending its claws through her dress and on through the skin and flesh of the old lady's thighs.

In the back of Matilda’s mind, though, she wondered if she didn't need a walker, after all, this balance thing was getting a bit too common, kind of dangerous, and she was no spring chicken anymore.


When she called Perl, and later on when Trudy phoned her, she talked about her silly cat getting stuck on top of the shower door, but she didn't mention the dratted dizzy spells. Perl always sends cards and stuff like that to friends with little aches and pains. That would never do, she thought. Trudy was more serious minded and much too often a hair on the huffy side, but she would secretly worry about Matilda, too. But heavens, Matilda only lost her balance on turns. The doctor had a name for it, but she forgot it. The doctor only told her after checking deep inside her ears for infections to take it easy around corners and to call her if it gets worse. Okay, he prescribed some antibiotics, but the drugstore wasn't on the way home, and she let it go.

Oh, you do love your cat, Trudy had said. She's such a joy for you, and Matilda's kitten certainly was that to her, a little joy. Cinnamon had trotted in from its window perch and bounded onto the old lady's lap, turned twice, and settled in, purring loudly. Matilda stroked her and scratched her under the chin. "What would I ever do without you?"

While she was watching "The Rickie Lake Show," Matilda had the unsettling thought pass through her head. "What would Cinnamon ever do without me? I'm not going to last forever, well, at least not on earth." She by now had fed the cat, and the darling little thing was curled up on the sofa cushion next to Matilda. The old lady worried. She had imagined her balance problem was getting better until this last incident. And, heavens above, now the loud bang of her falling down is genuinely scaring her pet into jumping up to strange, strange places, places that "kitten" didn't know how to get down from.



On Thursday of that week–thankfully there had been no more dratted spells with bad balance–Matilda put the flashy red harness and leash on her playful Abyssinian, walking the two blocks to her church, up the stairs, the sprightly cat leading the way, silent and stealthy, its eyes and ears like radar sensors, swiveling back and forth, taking in everything that was new to her or moving.

The little lady had always walked most every day–that was healthy she was told–and at 74 years old, she had no problem climbing up the eight steps, as long as she paused halfway to take a breather. It was a sunny spring day, the blue sky so lovely, blue as the eyes Matilda saw in the the mirror each morning. She was happy that her preacher, Pastor Alfred Todd, had an open door policy on Thursday, a promise to his congregation to talk to anyone about anything related to the Bible or family, anything religious.

"Yes, may I help you?" Jennifer said. She was Pastor Todd's rectionist-secretary and she looked up at Matilda entering the office, her voice reflecting poorly hidden irritation, perhaps at the interruption, that didn't quite go with the cheery charade of a smile, a smile that only her lips participated in.

“I forgot your name, Miss?" the voice still distant and unfriendly. The preacher’s secretary got up, managing to disentangle her ample hips from the arms of the undersized chair, and she plodded heavily toward a bunch of folders spread on a worktable.

"Oh, I'm Matilda Graham. Been coming here for 25 years."

Suddenly, Jennifer looked down at the brownish cat, her expression registering a look as if she'd just seen green fuzzy stuff all over her cottage cheese. "You know we don't allow cats in here,” the secretary blurted.

"Cinnamon, here, and I wish to speak to Pastor Todd if you please, honey. It's open-door-policy day, you know."

"Well, kindly pick up that cat and drive it home, first. Then I'm sure pastor Todd would love to speak to you, Mrs. Graham."

“Oh, nonsense, honey. I’m quite certain Cinnamon can handle acting right in church."

Jennifer lowered herself into her chair, miraculously clearing the arms of it without bump or crushing them. She blinked her eyes a couple times at Matilda, shifting her gaze down to the sleek Abyssinian, the active cat now pulling on its thin red leather, diamond-studded leash, sniffing and stabbing its paw at a lone Three Musketeer wrapper under the table.

“Which door is it, honey?”

Finally, Jennifer sighed, rolled her eyes, and nodded her head toward the far door. She pushed the button on the intercom.

"Yes, Jennifer." It was the familiar voice of the pastor.

"There’s a Matilda Graham to see––” The double-wide secretary halted talking. The gray-haired lady was already going through the door, giving a light tug on the leash, the cat gliding around her ankles and into the preacher's office.

Pastor Alfred Todd smiled, got up from whatever preachers write about, moved around his desk, cordially holding out his hand, shaking hers warmly, cupping his other hand cozy-like over Matilda’s hand. Then, he notice the cat. Immediately, the pastor whipped his body around, reached over, and jabbed at his intercom.

"Jennifer," he said, his voice laboring to find a note of pastorly kindness, “you need to tell these people that their pets can't be brought in to the church."

"But she did tell me," the thin old lady said, defending the secretary.

Simulateously, over the intercom, the sharp voice of the secretary came: "I did, Mr. Todd!"

At this, Pastor Todd frowned mildly and shook his head, as though what he heard could be erased by shaking it out of his brain. “Oh.... Oh .... There seems to be a slight misunderstanding here.” And the preacher lifted his finger off the button.

The cat by now had stretched the red diamond studded leash to its full length and was sniffing around the base of the trash can. Then she shifted her attention quickly to a nearby vase. Matilda jerked lightly at the leash and pulled her pet away from the vase, a colorfully painted vase full of tall stemmed, beautifully lush Lilies.

"Freddy, I came to talk to you, in fact, about my kitten, here."

Pastor Todd’s eyebrows arched high, his full, youngish lips forming a crooked smile. He sighed and sat back down. This might take a while.

The message he had spoke into the interom sounded to Matilda as if the pastor was trying, perhaps straining to be civil. "Are you allergic to cats?" she said.

He shook his head. His smile got wider, more sincere.

At least they hadn't been kicked out yet. It was hard for Matilda to imagine this was what an open-door policy was like.

Sticking his pen into its slot, Pastor Todd spoke firmly, his Sunday voice. "I see it's your day to give your cat a nice walk. What can I help you with today?” And the man rocked back and forth in his high-backed, comfortable-looking leather chair.

“It's rather simple, Pastor.”

“Oh, do have a seat.” The minister motioned at one of the leather-cushioned visitor chairs.

The lady slid both visitor chairs over in front of the desk, she settling herself in one and the cat hopping up, satting in the other, her tail curled around behind her.

The pastor looked at the cat and laughed, in spite of himself. The lithe, tidy little beast seemed to want to be part of the discussion.