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*~The Origins of The Doormat~*

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Leela Feliz

Leela Feliz

Posts: 1,902 Mithril Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
Indeed Elly ;) I told you I would post it...Thank you, for all your brainstorming to help me get the name!

PS I have noticed some corrections that need to be made. That's what I get for rushing to get it done in the wee hours of AM or late when I am tired. I will get to them after the contest :P Please just look over them for now, or point them out! In one story I have facial hair lol I missed a word there can you find it?

Feliz :P

28-Sep-2009 05:53:07 - Last edited on 28-Sep-2009 05:57:29 by Leela Feliz

Dreamweaver
Aug Member 2003

Dreamweaver

Posts: 3,790 Adamant Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
Hey Leela,

I promise I've not been peeking at your current contest material, but I have read through your stories in this compilation.

Wonderful! It was great reading through all the familiar ones again, bringing back memories of all those past contests, but I got to read several unfamiliar pieces also. I think one of my favorites is your little story about Romeo struggling to recall Juliet's name. It's classic Leelaism and was very well done!

Dreamweaver

01-Oct-2009 06:41:12

Wet Rainbow

Wet Rainbow

Posts: 786 Gold Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
Here's a story for the contest, however crazy it turned out to be. I tried to work within your content. We might still be able to change it if you don't like it.


I sat in a pew, pinioned beneath waves of droning, drowning sermon that emanated from the new Priest. Many preferred him to Father Lawrence because his sermons left the parishioners in a state of hebetude that verged on meditation, but I would always miss Father Lawrence.

Father Lawrence could be counted on for an ecumenical array of sermons. I believed that was why he remained so popular with the church elders. He always managed to inculcate the need to pay alms each week, giving the money to charity to drag the poor up from the gutters. His verisimilitude was also very convincing. He really brought his sermons home to the people. Most gave more than they really should have.

During a sermon, Father Lawrence’s nares would flare out with his words, as though he were on the verge of turning into some prophetic daemon. His passion would course through his arms, the unrepentant masses that he saw spread before him directing his motions into asperous, marionette gestures; but those who spent time with him in confession also knew how kind and comforting he could be.

As Father Lawrence would read from the incunabulum, he made you feel like a spectator to a much larger tale. When he spoke with his larger-than-life approach, you could sense the delicate linguistic bridges, the crystalline gaps in and between the words that had been bound into that hallowed text so long ago.

He was such a dynamic person that I could not believe it when I overheard his confession.

08-Oct-2009 06:43:05 - Last edited on 08-Oct-2009 06:46:00 by Wet Rainbow

Wet Rainbow

Wet Rainbow

Posts: 786 Gold Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
“How can I explain it?” These words came hurriedly and hushed through the partition in the confession box. I had entered quietly and thought perhaps Father Lawrence had not heard me, but before I could say anything, he was continuing: “There, my hands held tightly around her neck, and she was pleading to be let go. No one could see the nearly invisible, but binding, fishing string around her neck, and it was only getting tighter.” He paused to draw a ragged breath. “Damned,” he muttered.

Caught in this imbroglio, I froze. What should I do? Announce myself? Leave? I opted for the latter. I do not know if he heard my exit, but his side of the box remained closed as I walked out through the vestibule.

I felt like I was in a dream. The sky outside stretched around me like a stained glass window: solferino clouds fracturing a fiery sunset. The earth seemed to shimmer as though from heat.

The next day at church, Father Lawrence was not himself. Sunlight trickled down through the depiction of the holy mother in her ornate aigrette, dappling both Father Lawrence and the podium in sickly speckles. He looked sallow and solemn, as though leading an obsequy rather than a sermon. As he scanned the crowd, his eyes briefly met mine and suddenly I was sure that he knew. He had heard me leave. The truth was out.

The church elders stood behind him in a dark line, and amongst them I could see the new priest. The man had a custom of slowly rubbing the backs of his hands while he stood, as though he were constantly washing them. He was doing so now, his gaze focused intently on Father Lawrence.

“No -” I almost spoke it aloud, as Father Lawrence prepared himself. He wore the mask of a martyr as he began, “I want to tell you a story. A confession. It’s something that happened several days ago - a large thing.” The rigidity in his speech – in his posture – held the audience’s attention. They had never seen Father Lawrence unanimated before.

08-Oct-2009 06:43:47 - Last edited on 08-Oct-2009 06:44:15 by Wet Rainbow

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