Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
Early start. It’s Tuesday evening. The prompt word is ‘SMOKE’. The rules say, story of any style as long as it only requires Six (6) Sentences to tell. zoe is our host and this is the Six Sentence Story!
(from a WIP, ‘Home and Heart’ a Sister Margaret Ryan novel)
SMOKE
Alone in the front pew stood four women; three wore the habits of their Order, individual identity concentrated in a white-framed oval of flesh; the fourth bore the mark of age and loss, unassailable credentials for her place among the devout.
Sister Bernadine, Mother Superior of St. Dominique’s, stood at the aisle, her massive frame, softened by her black habit robes seemed a quiet protection, until one reached her eyes which, never-resting, removed all temptation to dismiss her as an overweight, middle-aged black woman; her right hand rested, immovable, on the pew rail, a stanchion should it be needed by the young woman to her right.
Standing between Sister Bernadine and her mother, Sister Margaret Ryan, novitiate at St. Dominique’s, stood as straight as any young willow tree, the shapelessness of her veil and habit hiding the swaying of her body as winds of rage and grief tore at her, only her eyes, blazing above tear-softened cheeks gave hint to the battle within. To Margaret Ryan’s right, her mother stood like the statue in some medieval religious festival, allowing others to move her from place to place, trusting that she was of use and value to the ceremony, standing as still as eighty-year-old bones permitted.
At the other end of the front pew was Sister Cletus who, if time is the measure of all, was now a ruler worn smooth of markers and measures, the form itself, still straight and true offering aid un-adorned of complication or apology.
Margaret Ryan watched as the Archbishop of Philadelphia stood between the casket holding Father Mathew Ryan, (brother and priest) and the altar, held the silver thurible over his head and let it swing; the pungent smoke rose, rivulets into tendrils, ever upwards, like a fairy tale creature, its wings and it’s magic torn by the morning sun fighting to escape the grip of the cold and rational earth.
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I quite like the description of the smoke rising from the thurible. Pretty darn accurate.
Thanks, Lisa
There was never any smoke in my church growing UP. There was some hell fire and brimstone however.
…can I get an Amen! lol
Beautifully written – makes one want to join their order.
Thank you.
please don’t
Otherwise, who would iron your shirts…? :)
Very well done. The first funeral I ever attended ended like your SSS did. I was 16 at the time. No one had prepared me for what I would see, so it was a bit of a shock.
Nicely written.
I love your description of Sister Bernadine, she is the lioness protecting her cub :) She is the protectoress.
Excellent Sister Cletus clip (sentence). Wonderful.
Pretty spot on with the painting of a typical Catholic funeral mass. I always hated the smoke. Bad smell, weird smell.
Smells and bells! Is it just me that finds nuns a little bit scary?
I can smell that pungent smoke, so cloying and pervasive. Unctuous. Um. Is it sacrilegious for me to ask if that was Sister Margaret Ryan’s father (biological) in the casket? Why else would her mother be there?
no, I;m glad you asked! (I enjoy writing about the characters, takes the pressure off when I’m trying to write the story… I tend to over-write)
In the casket is Matthew Stephen Ryan, Margaret’s brother. Her mother, Alice Ryan is there because she is now totally alone in the house on Tulip Street in Philadelphia. Her husband died only a few forever years ago, taken by the Irish curse (“It’s a strong man’s weakness” Alice used to say to a young Margaret when the girl would venture from her room (or, when a little older) return from friend’s homes. Only the desperate belief in this cultural enabling belief kept Alice from total despair.)
One could say, from the bad always rises good. Not for nothin but Matthew found his calling in his early high school years.
Margaret, inadvertent 4.0 high school student took longer. In the middle of her fourth year at Radcliffe (on full scholarship) she found herself on the doorsteps of St Dominique’s with a single suitcase).
…no! I don’t mind if you ask! lol
Absolutely love your last sentence. It’s as magical as the smoke.
Growing up in Catholic schools, i knew every one of those nuns. Wow, you hit it.
thanks Mimi
Where was Sister Mary Elephant?
you must of googled that… you are not old enough to have listened to Cheech and Chong.
lol
lololol wrong