Lost in the Myth of the Sleepy Eye Lights

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The Sleepy Eye Lights scare the bejabbers out of all those in town who know of them. Will Reverend Almanso Badcher solve the mystery? - - A Halloween story of intrigue, written with help from Mr. Irving and Mr. Knickerbocker.

Lost in the Myth of the Sleepy Eye Lights
By Angela Rasch

 


 
 

The not-quite-as-young-as-he-might-want-you-to-think-he-is driver glanced over at the passenger seat of his 1966 sea blue VW bug. An unfolded map of Minnesota affirmed that he was less than four miles from Sleepy Eye. He’d left Highway 169 at Mankato, going west in the Minnesota River Valley, before turning slightly to the south onto the western Minnesota plain. The putrid smell of his last drive-thru McMeal permeated what was left of the threadbare fabric on his seats — reminding him of his inability to buy a decent meal.

If I never eat another hunk of sub-prime beef out of a paper sack, I’ll die a happy man.

He smiled to himself with the knowledge that he would probably make it to his new job, before his tired old VW gave up the ghost.

He cared very little for worldly possessions or earthbound ideas. On the back seat was a brown and black, cardboard suitcase containing his entire wardrobe and a box of paperbacks by Isacc Asimov, Robert Heinlein, Arthur Clarke, Ray Bradbury, and Kurt Vonnegut. Also in the box, were dog-eared books and downloaded essays, on the subject of extraterrestrials, who came to Earth years ago, to walk amongst the Mayans, Incas, and Egyptians.

Mercy! He thought, taking another quick glance at the map. The Minnesota River is like a belt around the waist of the State of Minnesota. But just like a wanton slut, Minnesota has hung her river loosely on her hips so that it sags to the bottom of an immoral vee at Mankato, drawing Satanic attention to her sexual parts.

He closed his eyes briefly in devout prayer. Because his museum-ready car could barely make a sustained forty-five mph, his nano-second conversation with God created only a minor traffic hazard.

“Sleepy Eye,” he said while licking his lips. The town’s quaint name had popped into his search for a new job, off the list of small Minnesota towns looking for pastoral guidance.

He had been a fan of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books as a child and had watched the Michael Landon-directed TV series in syndication, so he knew without looking at the map that Sleepy Eye was located between Walnut Grove -- where Laura grew up -- and Mankato -- where she later lived with Almanso.

In fact, my mother named me after the character in the series, who was added to the show the year I was born. Almanso Wilder ended up marrying Laura Ingalls.

“And now I’m going to live here. Praise the Lord! He works in strange and wondrous ways.”

He grinned with contentment and thought of the U.S. Census data that had prompted him to finalize his decision about where to live.

Sleepy Eye has a population of 3,356. Big enough so I won’t be bored, yet small enough so I can keep a firm hand on my flock’s activities. The mean income for a household is $41,416. The $35,000 annual stipend the congregation will pay me won’t be too far below the average. And, I do have the pastor’s residence to live in . . . rent-free. I’ll make a few extra dollars from weddings and funerals.

He ran a hand through his full head of hair and wondered about his chances for premature baldness. I can’t ask Dad because he disappeared shortly after I was born. His mother had also skipped out when he was five -- leaving him to be raised in foster homes.

Two other sets of numbers had done much more to seal the deal on moving to Sleepy Eye. For every 100 females, age 18 and over, there were only 87.4 males. He looked in the mirror and saw an unwed man who had recently seen his thirtieth birthday -- but who looked and dressed like he was twenty.

For once, I’m going to have the odds going for me. All I’ve needed in the past has been a fair break, to find a wife to fill the role of submissive homemaker mandated by the Bible. The women of Sleepy Eye are going to love me.

The other positive number was the racial make-up of the town. 94.03% White, 0.23% African American, 0.06% Native American, 0.34% Asian, 3.90% from other races, and 1.45% from two or more races.

Hispanic or Latino of any race account for 7.80% of the population, but I can live with that. I’m not a huge fan of illegal aliens of any nationality, but the brownskins’ ability to spot and properly handle the Sodomites amongst them is beyond reproach. Also, it’s obvious that some Latinos refer to themselves as white and probably will be well-behaved.

He couldn’t abide black men. Even though they were probably homophobic, as right-minded people should be, they often would use the threat of homo-sex rape as a method of intimidation. For Almanso, there was no greater threat, nor bigger social transgression. He lived not only in deathly fear of AIDS - - but even the idea of such a heinous act made him physically ill.

Almanso had taken a job in the inner city right out of Divinity School and found in very short order that his beliefs were incompatible, with most of the uppity Muslims, Hmongs, and other trash who pushed his buttons. He’d bounced around the suburbs of the Twin Cities as an assistant clergy and was finally getting a shot at his own congregation.

The road signs proclaiming the upcoming junctions of Highways 4, 68, and 14 reminded him to keep his eyes open for his new church. That several roads led into the town, indicated that Sleepy Eye was indeed a shopping center for all of Brown County.

This place has real possibilities. At last, a chance to put down roots and build a mega-church. With modern technology, all I need is a satellite feed and an invigorated following, to help me create a high-profile reputation. He chuckled. I don’t even have enough money for a cell phone, and I’m dreaming of being a television star.

He remembered with fondness a newspaper clipping he’d read about how Sleepy Eye gained national fame in the 90s when they tried to ban MTV in their town. It was a place waiting to be led toward righteous redemption. In the right hands, with the help of the Lord -- and a friend he knew, who knew someone, at the top at FOX News -- big things could happen.

Almanso did a quick tour of the city noting a variety of small sales and service organizations, some with fanciful names like Beyond the Rainbow Massage. He made a note to be sure all was right in how they approached their business.

His first impression of St. Olaf’s, with its brick parsonage, church, and two-story school was that he’d passed on to his eternal reward much earlier than expected.

Everything appeared, at least from the exterior, to be trim and up-to-snuff. The school looked more than adequate for the seventy-three students the original letter from the church board had said were enrolled in grades 1 — 8. He would be putting his elementary degree, which he’d earned before and in conjunction with his divinity degree, to good use instructing the seventh and eighth-grade classes.

The church had the gravitas to house serious worship, with its tastefully small leaded stained-glass windows and inspirational steeple.

Only the parsonage left him perplexed. It was obvious the previous cleric had been married -- and that the woman usurped his God-given role as master. Not only were the grounds festooned with too many bushes and flowers -- but worse yet -- festive curtains, in silly and provocative colors, ringed the windows.

I have to get rid of all that frou-frou, or people will get the wrong idea about me.

The Lord has blessed me with hateful temptations to surmount – and simple masculinity helps drive away sinful ideas.

Hmmm, it’s 11:00 and the meeting with the lay clergy is set for 11:30 in the church basement. I don’t want to arrive early and seem too eager. I’ll time it, to walk in five minutes late.

He decided to stop at Petersen’s Café for a cup of coffee -- black, no cream or sugar.

***

“How are you today,” a charming waitress asked. Her nametag announced “Lawrie Petersen: Waitress - Cook — Owner — Bouncer.” The word “Bouncer” had been underlined in red.

Almanso searched her fingers for telltale rings and was relieved to find no evidence of matrimonial encumbrance. “I’m . . . fine.”

She laughed. “Not quite sure, are you? Have a cup of this elixir of life and you’ll feel many times better.” She poured from a pot that seemed to live, on the end of her right hand.

His heart skipped a beat. Everything about her seemed to suggest that she was a perfect candidate for the title of Mrs. Reverend Almanso Badcher.

She handed him a one-page menu, her perfectly manicured nails glistening in the sun that streamed through a carefully cleaned front window. “You’re the strong silent type, huh? I’m Lawrie Petersen. That’s with a “w.” Are you here on business, or just passing through?”

He looked around the restaurant before answering. The place was empty except for four other gentlemen, who occupied a booth no more than ten feet away playing a dice game called “Horse.” He had selected a table rather than sitting on a stool, at the counter. Given the sparse crowd, he didn’t think he was wasting the establishment’s resources.

“I’m moving here. The name’s Almanso Badcher.”

Her smile doubled. “Almanso. That’s a significant name -- in this area. You should feel right at home.”

He was taken with her physical beauty and hugely attracted by the preposterous rock she wore on the pinkie of her left hand — obviously not an engagement or wedding ring.

That ring is worth more money than I’ve seen, in one place, during my entire life.

One of the men in the booth spoke up. Of the four of them, he seemed to be the cleanest and possibly the youngest, although he had to be at least thirty. “Did you say your name is ‘Badger’ like that animal that eats snakes and skunks?”

Almanso could feel the back of his neck turn red. As a child, he had lived with a constant barrage of teasing over his name. The fact that he had an albino streak of white hair about a half-inch wide that started at his forehead and went straight back to the rear of his scalp, didn’t help. Neither did his small, beady eyes and shorter than usual arms, nor his long, protruding nose with its upturned end which contrasted with his tiny ears. It was as if certain parts of his body were competing to have the closest resemblance to a badger.

“It’s Badcher. B — A — D — C — H — E — R.”

“Mister,” the man asked, “are you unhappy about something? I saw the car you pulled up in. If’n things haven’t been going so good for ya, we can understand and are here to help. Tell ya what. Why doesn’t the boys and I buy you a sandwich for lunch?”

Almanso was dumbstruck. Not only was he in the company of a woman as pretty as he had imagined Sarah to be, in Genesis. But he had also met men of uncommon generosity.

“Leave him be, Abe,” Lawrie ordered. She turned toward Almanso. “Mr. ‘Badcher’ — welcome to Sleepy Eye. In case you’re wondering, the name of the town comes from the Indian chief Sleepy Eye — Chief Ishtakhabe, who was supposedly known for his compassion. He also supposedly had at least one droopy eye. Seems like -- to celebrate our heritage, half the people in town think it’s okay to run around almost comatose, while the others,” she nodded her head toward Abe and his friends, “stick their eagle eyes into other people’s business -- where they shouldn’t.”

“That’s okay,” the minister offered. “The quicker I meet the members of my congregation, the better.”

“A minister. . .that explains the car,” Abe said, and then the other three young men displayed their approval by laughing loudly.

“Don’t mind them, Reverend,” Lawrie said, with affection, as if they were misguided cousins, “they’re all Catholics. If you had worn a collar today, they would have gotten all ‘genuflecty’ and shown proper respect. Those four are the biggest tricksters in Brown County. They’ve pulled practical jokes on everyone . . . some of their stunts are not so ‘practical’ and certainly not the acts of intelligent human beings.”

Papists! I’ll have to ask the Lord to help me with tolerance.

Abe came over and stuck out his hand. “Glad to meet you Reverend Badcher. The names Abraham Boones, but everyone knows me by ‘Abe’ exceptin’ them that shorten it the other way to “Brom.” The offer still stands to buy you lunch. And, if your car needs service, the first time it’s up on the rack -- is on me. My brother and I operate Abe's Towing and Repair. He and Lawrie here have been spinning wrenches together, for as long as they could walk.”

Lawrie laughed. “We might have been taking things apart even before we could walk, but we started putting those parts back together and racing them when we were about eight. Say — I started the grill and deep-fat fryer about ten minutes ago. I can have a cheeseburger and fries ready, in a jiffy.”

“No, thanks,” Almanso said pulling himself up to his full height . . . at the same time trying not to let his contempt for hamburgers show. “I’ve got to meet with my board at St. Olaf’s.”

“That would be my mother,” Lawrie said. “Your board is made up of five people: Mom and Mrs. Hamilton, Alton Sloan and Wilma Spaeth and Mr. Torgeson, of course, from Daddy’s bank.”

Almanso had just been taught his first lesson about small-town living -- where people have to split their time every Fourth of July between playing the tuba in the parade and being a spectator for the other participants. Everyone knows everyone and everything about everyone.

“You're lucky to be moving into town today,” Abe said. He reached behind the counter and hooked a doughnut from the display case. “Friday is the first day of Corn Days. This town will be so busy this weekend -- you’ll get lost in the crowd.”

His three friends broke up again in fits of laughter. Either Abe was pulling his leg or Corn Days were inherently humorous.

Almanso decided to quickly down his coffee and show up for his meeting at the church, on time. He left a fifty-cent tip, hoping that such a display of generosity would be noticed by the lovely waitress -- whose father owned a bank.

***

The next several weeks, went by in a flash with Almanso meeting and greeting the entire town. It seemed like every person he met either had to tell him how “Almanso” was the same name as the character in Little House on the Prairie, or had something tactless to say about how the Reverend’s last name seemed to fit him. The townsfolk of Sleepy Eye were outspoken to a fault, but at the same time horribly passive-aggressive.

The young minister allowed them to continue to assume that their church was his second assignment, and as such had adjusted his age to be closer to twenty-five than thirty. Five less years, made him feel more eligible, for the younger ladies.

Unfortunately for Almanso it seemed like those Sleepy Eye females who possessed beauty had made it in the big leagues -- quickly opting for the bright lights of Hennepin Avenue, in Minneapolis.

Abe told him over coffee that the road to Minneapolis was paved with good intentions, which drew the customary guffaws, from his Norwegian chorus of three.

As it turned out, Lawrie was by far the best-looking girl in Sleepy Eye and also as far as Almanso was able to ascertain. . .truly unclaimed.

It’s as if the Lord reserved her, for me.

To make her all the more appealing, it seemed her father knew no boundaries when it came to owning things. He had a majority interest in Southpoint Funeral Home, Auto Parts Distributing, Inc., Sleepy Eye Self-Storage, Town and Country Banks -- of Sleepy Eye, Springfield, and Comfrey -- and the auto salvage yard.

Although Almanso hadn’t directly approached Lawrie about a relationship - - not knowing what to say - - he had taken at least three meals a week in the restaurant. He never stooped to eating a burger and fries but he always tipped about 22%. That gratuity was far above the 10% he thought reasonable in all other such establishments.

Not that Almanso ever had to eat in a restaurant at all, if he didn’t want to. The good people of Sleepy Eye opened their homes to him. It seemed like everyone, including the Catholics, wanted to make his acquaintance.

He was called upon to eat luscious meals and hold court, on a variety of secular topics, since it seemed people weren’t entirely comfortable mixing their Sunday morning liturgy with their Wednesday evening pot roast. He was so popular it seemed he was never asked to the same place twice, which he figured was a rural Minnesota way of sharing.

Often, at those meals, the topic came around to the supernatural and paranormal, because his intense interest in science fiction had become common knowledge.

Local legend had it that aliens came to the Sleepy Eye area each Halloween and traveled the countryside using powerful lanterns to mesmerize their prey. The stories were rightfully told in hush tones, so that the children wouldn’t hear. It was said that once you were caught in their Lights, the only way out was to allow yourself to be taken up into their space vehicle where they would have their way with your body.

Nearly everyone knew someone, who knew someone, who had direct knowledge about such an abduction.

Almanso laughed, at first, about the myth. But with each subsequent telling his disbelief seemed to become less and less staunch.

He couldn’t help but engage in discussion of the extraterrestrials he believed had come to Earth years ago. Some of the historians, who had proved beyond a doubt that space travelers helped with the building of the pyramids had gone too far by suggesting Christ was one of the ETs. Although, Almanso did allow that Christ’s ascension, into heaven, may have been assisted by a spacecraft.

Despite not totally buying into every story, especially the homosexual aspects, Almanso was enthralled by the idea of spacemen, who watched over mankind and loved to spread his vast knowledge about them.

Almanso learned quickly that not every topic was okay. He was taught to keep his aspirations of becoming a TV evangelist, to himself. After only telling three or four households of his dreams of fame, Abe and the boys at the restaurant teased him unmercifully about it.

It was as if they specialized in crushing dreams and limiting horizons.

The Reverend Badcher also kept his powder dry on spiritual guidance, offering an opinion on the sanctity of marriage only when asked and keeping his dogma under wraps, until such future time when he’d fully assessed the lay of the land.

Although he didn’t intend to be a populist, who flopped in the wind, he knew better than to throw his newfound affluence to the wolves. “Circumspect” would best describe how he approached disclosing his intense feelings, toward sinful lifestyles.

He had slipped and opened up to Wilma Spaeth over supper when he said, “Same-sex marriage, by any other name, is the ultimate smash-mouth in-your-face insult to God.”

But she had evidently been too busy making sure his plate was heaped with hot dish and lime Jello, to take much notice of what he was rambling on about.

If only, he had been as circumspect, in matters of the heart. Even though he hadn’t come right out and actively pitched woo in the direction of one Lawrie Petersen, he wasn’t shy about expressing an unrestricted interest, if asked.

He found that Lawrie was universally loved, by the townspeople. Everyone filled him full of talk, of her good deeds. She served on almost every non-profit board in the county and gave freely of her time and resources. According to them, she was a modern-day Mary Tyler Moore — high praise from a group of Minnesotans, who had immortalized Moore in bronze, on the streets of downtown Minneapolis.

“Nothing good happens in Sleepy Eye,” Mrs. Hamilton said -- while she ladled overly aromatic lutefisk, onto his plate, “unless Lawrie has her thumb in it.”

Much to his amazement and pleasure, many townspeople seemed pleased by his selection of Lawrie as a person, of romantic interest.

“Maybe the time has come,” Mrs. Hillstrom said over coffeecake, after Tuesday night’s choir practice. “There was a time I didn’t think Lawrie would ever have a life with a family, but. . ..”

“You are the open-minded one,” Carl Goetch had said when Almanso took a moment out from visiting the less fortunate, at Brown County Hospital. “Good for you — I think she’s one fine person. I really do.”

Contrarily, Miss Anne Colson had squinted at him as if he were a specimen in a zoo, and then slowly shook her head. “What you do is your business, but I’d think about it some more, if I were you.”

Almanso had chalked up her negativism to sour grapes for the lack of attention he’d paid to her. Pity Miss Anne. Twice damned. Plain and poor.

Several townsfolk had simply cut him off when they saw the conversation headed toward discussion of the Petersen girl, and strangely made it known to him that they weren’t comfortable talking about Lawrie, or anyone else in her family.

He suspected they were afraid to get on the wrong side of such a pillar of the community — an attitude he despised.

His flock seemed to admire his old VW and the fact that he never was texting or sticking a phone in his ear. He embraced that uniqueness and refused to trade-in his car or buy a cell phone.

The Reverend restricted his sermons to simple positive homilies of love and compassion that never ran longer than fifteen minutes. His services were over, in under an hour — from the opening processional to the final “amen.” Word of his efficiency got around Brown County, and soon his church was filled every Sunday morning.

Almanso found that teaching thirteen and fourteen-year-old boys and girls was like herding cats. He did his best to keep them from killing each other, although at times he would have loved to aid and abet that particular crime.

It was a rare day that he didn’t find a cartoon of himself stuck somewhere in the classroom, in which he was portrayed as a cornered badger — fierce, but somewhat pathetic.

His lust for greatness lurked near the surface. He knew, if he could just find the right cause to sink his fervor into, he could make a name for himself and lead the multitudes toward everlasting spirituality.

Feeling prosperous for once in his life, he drove to Mankato, a “chance-y” trip in his VW, since he still hadn’t taken it to Abe for service. Stopping in the mall, on the south side of the sprawling town, he bought a new set of clothes.

That night, looking spiffy in the first shirt and tie he’d bought at a shop other than Target, he stopped by the restaurant, for a hot beef sandwich. His entrance had been strategically set for twenty-five minutes before its eight o’clock closing.

Abe grinned at him and immediately called him, over to their table, for a discussion about space travelers. He and the other three were worried sick about the Sleepy Eye Lights.

“It’s only been a few years since they were last seen,” Abe said and the other three nodded feverishly.

Almanso’s eyes widened. “I wonder if the Lights are on Annunaki landing craft?”

“Annunaki?” Abe asked with unbound curiosity.

Almanso thought he had seen Abe’s elbow dig into the ribs of the man sitting next to him, but decided it must have been an accident. “The Annunaki first came to Earth about 485,000 years ago. They’re like us, only a lot bigger and smarter. They’re from the planet Nibiru, which is between Mars and Jupiter. They live for a half million years, which accounts for them being so much more intelligent than us.”

“I suppose if I’d gone to more than nine years of school, I’d be a lot smarter,” Abe agreed.

“If you didn’t blow your nose so much, you’d be a lot smarter,” one of the men quipped. “I estimates -- you’ve got one more winter, or so, before we have to commit you, to the mental hospital in Willmar.”

They all laughed.

Almanso went on to describe the history of the Annunaki.

Abe and his friends were almost certain that the Sleepy Eye Lights had Annunaki pilots.

“If you see them,” Abe warned, peeking out, from under the beak, of his John Deere cap, “make sure to run. Those critters are all male, according to the last person they abducted. They’re here looking for new breeding stock, and they ain't looking for women…if ya get my drift. When they’re in heat — I hear tell -- they smell like a vanilla malt.”

That was followed by a lot of head nodding and teeth clucking.

Almanso felt a kinship with the four, as they expressed their abhorrence for sodomy.

The four paid their tab and left, leaving Almanso to his supper -- and to stew -- in his worry over ET homosexuals.

He had just finished wiping the brown gravy from his plate, with a remnant of Wonder Bread, when Lawrie came by his table. They were the only two people left in the restaurant.

“You’re in late,” she noted. She looked and smelled wonderful.

If he wasn’t mistaken, she was wearing Eternity by Calvin Klein. Maybe there’s a message in her choice of perfumes, he thought.

“I thought you would be over at the public school, for the board meeting,” she said. “I understand there’s some discussion about changing the curriculum and maybe including some sex education.”

“I was informed of the meeting, but it’s a delicate subject and thought I’d better discuss the matter with my board, before proceeding.”

Although Lawrie never misses services, we’ve never discussed her theological views. I probably should find out, if we have any major differences, before we marry.

“Uhmmm. Lawrie — I think it’s time I. . . . Could I have more coffee?”

“Just a half a cup,” she said. “I have to close up shop. I’m helping with a major overhaul of a dirt bike, and there are three teenagers who don’t know a cam from a spark plug, who are waiting for my guidance.” She laughed merrily.

After she poured his coffee, she became serious. “Reverend Badcher. . ..”

“Call me ‘Almanso.’”

“Of course, ‘Almanso.’ I’ve been hearing from all kinds of people that you have an interest in me, that goes beyond that of minister and a member of his congregation.” Her words were to the point, but not at all unfriendly.

I wonder if it’s too early in our relationship, to tell her to call me ‘Manly?’

She smiled. “I appreciate your interest, but I’m sorry, Almanso. . .I’m not really in the market for a boyfriend.”

His eyes snapped wide open. He’d experienced all manners of feminine rejection, in the past. Determined to attend his senior prom -- he had asked no less than seven girls, only to have each of them laugh in his face. But given his status in the Sleepy Eye community, he could hardly believe that the woes of his teenage years had returned. “But. . .but. . .why?” He stammered.

“You know!” She said. “People aren’t as understanding as you think they might be. There’s already talk about some of your congregation asking the bishop to reassign you -- should you actually start dating me.”

“There is????”

“Of course, there is. You seem to be a bit of a mixed-bag yourself. From what I’ve heard in church and from what’s all over town, you think we should have a state constitutional amendment regarding same-sex marriage.”

“I’m only reflecting the Bible. . ..”

“The Bible has become the province of those who twist it, to make Christianity into a four-letter word.”

“Lawrie! Please! Perhaps I should go and leave you, to give critical thought, to a life with me. Do you find the idea totally repugnant?”

She studied him for a moment. “You don’t know about me — do you?”

Know what? He shook his head. His eyes fell on her perfect breasts and he fought off impious thoughts.

“Reverend, haven’t any of the good God-fearing people of Sleepy Eye told you about their most notorious citizens? I was sure someone would have told you by now. When I was a teenager my name was Larry. . .Lawrence. I was named after my grandfather, to carry on the Petersen family name. I changed my name and my. . ..”

He stood suddenly and knocked over his coffee cup, staining his new trousers. “Abomination. . .!” He stumbled into the street -- shocked and totally dismayed. Emotions flew at him like barn swallows.

Of course, he was irked that she. . .er. . .he had foisted such a horrible fraud, upon him.

Then he felt dismayed that no one had seen the need -- to tell him.

Then he was shocked to realize that most of them must have thought he knew -- and was willingly expressing his lust for a sexual relationship with. . ..

THEN he experienced humiliation, of the worst kind, followed by unbridled ANGER.

His path to redemption became extraordinarily clear. He would call upon the power of the avenging Lord, to purify his soul and return him, to a state of grace.

***

The next day he started a one-man crusade, to rid the world of its most base evil.

His attack that morning wasn’t subtle or remotely kind. He simply showed up on the sidewalk outside Petersen’s Café. He didn’t say a word, walking back and forth with a crudely-lettered picket sign that stated, “God Hates Homosexuals.”

People walking, on the sidewalk, gave him wide berth, or pretended he didn’t exist.

He’d been picketing for fifteen minutes when Lawrie’s mother pulled up, in her white Jeep Cherokee, with a Gustavus Adolphus College sticker, on the back window. “Reverend Badcher, just what do you think you’re doing? Oh my Lord!” She gawked at his sign. “That’s despicable.”

He stared straight ahead and continued his picketing. Twelve steps up and back.

From the corner of Maple and Second, across the entire glass front of the café, to the edge of the brick building that housed the Curve exercise franchise.

“If you don’t stop your foolishness, right now, I’m going to take this matter to the church board.” Her face had gone passed mildly upset, to the color of a Folger’s coffee can.

He sighed softly, as if he might be involved, in a certain amount of personal rapture. If you followed his gaze off into the horizon, you would see what some might call “the Heavens.”

“Okay . . . then.” Mrs. Petersen got in her Jeep and left, in the direction of the bank.

Almanso found no joy in his work, only the relentless call of duty.

Clouds had been threatening all morning and took that moment to open up a torrential downpour. Within seconds, it was no longer “God” who hated homosexuals. The ink had run and it now read “Lut” — followed seemingly, by “Bated Ham Soles.”

His message garbled . . . Almanso stopped for the day.

***

That afternoon, the five members of the church board convened for an emergency meeting. They sat at one of the school’s lunch tables and faced toward where Almanso had righteously perched on a steel folding chair, with his short arms dangling limply, at his side.

“Reverend,” Mrs. Petersen started quietly. “Lawrie told me what happened -- and I feel terrible.”

“It’s a tough one,” Mr. Torgeson said. “Yep.”

He could imagine how “tough” things were with Mr. Torgeson, seeing as how the man worked for the father, of the freak he had been picketing.

Almanso sneered.

There had been a time when he had hated badgers, but then he’d learned that they often ate rattlesnakes. He felt he was destined to be courageous.

“This is a small town,” Anton Sloan said. “You can’t go around -- just saying things. Ministers in small towns have to be a lot like Mr. Rogers. Do you remember Mr. Rogers from TV?”

The young minister stood and then just as quickly sat down. “Mr. Rogers gave aid and comfort, to homosexuals. He was a man who preached tolerance, toward all sorts of people, in ways that directly contradict the Bible. His syrupy teachings led millions astray. He was a wuss and an enabler of wusses.”

“Mr. — who?” Wilma Spaeth asked.

“Mr. Rogers,” Mr. Sloan answered. “Didn’t your kids ever watch Mr. Rogers on TV?”

“We don’t watch much, on our television set even when our kids were young,” Wilma said proudly. “Sunday mornings we might turn on the prayer services, until it’s time to go down to church and set out the flowers, on the altar. That’s about it.” She folded her arms and looked about ready -- to spit out something sour.

“Do you think maybe there might have been another way for you to preach your message?” Mrs. Hamilton asked. “Your sign seemed like something that would cause a lot of pain.”

“I have no tears for queers,” Almanso said quickly -- but without any apparent rancor.

“Ohhhhh!” Mrs. Petersen drew in a sharp breath.

Mr. Torgeson went to the church kitchen to fetch her a glass of water.

“Abe was about ready to come out from the restaurant -- and take that sign from you -- and smack you over the head,” Mrs. Petersen said, after a sip of water. “Wouldn’t have that been a great how-de-do . . . our minister in a common brawl?”

“Abe’s a Catholic. The Catholic church is full of pervert priests, who rape boys,” Almanso said. He looked calmly into the eyes of each of the five board members. “The Pope will rot in hell. There are 1.07 billion members of that monstrous machine called the Roman Catholic Church. Every last one of them, is going to hell.”

Three of the five nodded in agreement.

Acknowledging that scant support, Almanso went on. “‘And Lot...pitched his tent toward Sodom. But the men of Sodom were wicked, and sinners before the Lord exceedingly.’ Genesis 13:12,13. Conceiving the militant homosexual movement to pose the greatest threat to the survival of this nation has been a hallmark of Trump’s administration. The Destroyer of Sodom is not dead. If the same conditions prevail, God's wrath will destroy America -- just as it did Sodom and Gomorrah in 1898 B.C. ‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind; it is abomination,’ Leviticus 18:22, is still God's immutable law.”

“This is ridiculous,” Mrs. Petersen stated. “Almanso — your views aren’t those of the congregation.”

“I’m not sure they have to be a perfect match,” Wilma argued. “Shouldn’t we respect his First Amendment rights?”

“Uh-huh,” Alton added. “We can’t deny that some of what he has quoted is Scripture. Can’t argue with the Bible!”

Mrs. Hamilton asked that they be absolutely fair, so that they couldn’t be accused of playing favorites.

Much to the surprise of Mrs. Petersen, the board voted three to two to take the matter under advisement, without action. The three with the majority opinion did ask that the Reverend Badcher give prayerful thought, to any signs he might carry, in the future.

The next day, he once again arranged for a substitute teacher for his classes -- and was back to his picketing with a sign that stated, “AIDS is God’s Gift.”

He had been marching back and forth for an hour, when the Brown County sheriff came to a stop, a few feet from him with his lights flashing.

“Reverend Badcher?” He asked, taking out a small notepad.

Almanso nodded. He didn’t openly dislike law enforcement people but hated the homosexual climate they allowed, in their jails.

“We’ve had a general complaint about your preaching, on the sidewalk.”

“Well that’s too bad, isn’t it? They think I can’t preach at times like this?” He snorted. “I think I can preach at times like this.”

“I don’t suppose you’d quit, if I asked you to?”

Almanso curled his lip. “You took an oath to protect the laws of our land. Gays pose the greatest threat possible to the survival of our nation.”

“I guess that’s your opinion, then. I just think what you’ve gone and done here isn’t going to end up being a good thing.” He then entered in his log that the minister was engaged in a peaceful demonstration and had violated no one’s rights. “Just don’t let things get too goshdarn rowdy.” He got into his car, turned off his lights, checked with dispatch and then pulled away.

The next day two other people joined in the picketing. One sign said, “Prepare to Meet Thy God.” The other challenged the people of Sleepy Eye to “Thank God for 9/11.”

That stung because several of Sleepy Eye’s finest had fought in the Middle East with Minnesota’s Red Bull Infantry Division. When asked what the 9/11 reference meant, Almanso stated that God had ordered the horrible deaths in the World Trade Center to punish the United States for its tolerance of homosexuality. “The scriptures are crystal clear that when God sets out to punish a nation, he does it with a sword — 9/11 was his sword.”

Once people saw that such vile picketing could be carried out, without fear of legal action, and not much in the way of social backlash -- pent up homophobia and general hatred broke loose.

Soon the sidewalk in front of the cafeteria was no longer large enough to hold everyone who wanted to carry a “Faggots Rot in Hell” sign. The picketing branched out, so that every business in Sleepy Eye that was owned by the Petersen family had at least one picketer, in front of it.

A curious bystander asked Almanso why he used the word “faggots.”

“For nearly 4,000 years, since the ancient inhabitants of Sodom fueled the fires of God's wrath, Sodomites have been called faggots. It is an elegant metaphor. Faggots in nature are sticks of wood that burn quick, hot and long, and are hence used to fuel the fires of nature. Etymology, history, and Scripture -- all endorse and sanctify the usage of ‘faggot’ or ‘fag’ to refer to Sodomites, because the Sodomites ignite the fires of divine wrath, promised by God Himself to destroy any society that elevates homosexuality, to a position of wide acceptance and respect.”

They started at 10:00 each morning, except Sunday, and walked their beat until 2:00, after which they met in Sleepy Eye’s Ingraham Park, drank Kool-Aid, and talked over what should be done, to purify the world. Those meetings became social affairs because you can only sustain your moral hatred of the world so long, before talk gives way to things like preparation for Halloween, which was coming up at the end of that month. Invariably those discussions involved speculation if anyone would be abducted by the Sleepy Eye Lights.

Almanso noticed that many displayed more than a little fear.

The first Sunday, after his first day of marching, the attendance in Badcher’s service fell off drastically. But by the second Sunday, word had gotten out about his steadfast approach to scripture and dozens were turned away at the door -- because the church had exceeded the maximum capacity set by the fire marshal.

A TV crew from KARE 11 in Minneapolis came to Sleepy Eye and did a piece on the protests.

Almanso provided them a sound bite when he warned about how much trouble the United States had placed itself in -- by tolerating homosexuals. “Nobody that’s intelligent and that fears God -- will fly the American flag -- any way but upside down — which is the international symbol for distress.”

The following Monday. Mrs. Petersen walked up to him on the sidewalk, in front of the restaurant.

“Mr. Badcher,” she said. “I just came from another emergency meeting of the church board. You will receive official word from our lawyer. But as of this moment, you’re connection with St. Olaf’s Church and School is hereby terminated. It was a unanimous decision.”

He smirked so hard his tiny ears flinched. “I suppose you and your banker husband put economic pressure on the other board members.”

She sighed. “There was a time I thought you had a decent, Christian heart. No, Mr. Badcher. The board realized that only about a tenth of the congregation who attended services yesterday, are members of our church. Just think about those who are picketing. We’re not about to allow our church to be hijacked by the weak-minded people who have come to Sleepy Eye to be part of your circus.”

“What do you mean?”

She pointed toward the eleven picketers who were helping Almanso demonstrate, in front of the restaurant. “You’re the only one here, who is from Sleepy Eye. These people mostly came out, from the Cities. They’re the hateful, the curious, and those who are hoping to gain a little attention, from the media.”

He laughed scornfully. “There are at least two people from Sleepy Eye walking with signs, in front of your husband’s bank.”

“That bank was in my family, long before I got married to Arnold. And, you can’t run a dozen businesses, in a small town, without ruffling a few feathers. We have a few small people in Sleepy Eye -- people who can easily be scared by those who misuse religion. Thank God we don’t have that many.”

He shrugged. “What does the board hope to gain by firing me?”

“Gain?” Her eyes narrowed. “This town has steadily lost since you started this nonsense. We don’t want to accomplish anything but cut our losses. Lately, Sleepy Eye has been losing population. We’re down a couple of hundred people over the last couple of years and don’t want more to leave.”

“You’re not going to stop the Lord’s work,” he said with resolve. “I’ll rent a tent and hold services, in the park, on Sunday. If you get the sheriff to harass me there, I’ll just find some other ground. My church will be many times bigger than St. Olaf, I’m sure of that.”

She nodded slowly. “Hate is popular. I’m sure you stand a good chance of attracting quite a number of fools. We’ll give you two weeks, to move your things out of the parsonage.”

Lawrie silently watched in the restaurant window, as consistently silent as she had been since hurting Almanso’s feelings. Her face seemingly had been clouded by sympathetic pain -- but not filled with anger.

To Almanso, she was dead and hopefully would soon be kicked to the curb -- as the good people of Sleepy Eye came to their senses.

***

“Yes — this is Reverend Almanso Badcher.”

The man on the other end of the phone conversation said he was a talent agent who was spending the night in Morton, Minnesota with his client, Charlie Pride. Pride, who was singing at Jackpot Junction, the Sioux tribe casino. “I’m nearly sure I can get a nationally syndicated Sunday morning worship TV show for you. I’m leaving in the morning, for Las Vegas and then on to L.A. If you’re interested, I’d like to meet with you tonight, at the casino.”

Almanso looked at the clock. It was 8:00 and he had just given candy, to what he thought might be the last of the kids, in Halloween masks.

Almanso had dreamt of getting around to saving the evil gamblers who frequented the casino, but he’d never actually been to the den of inequity.

They set a meeting for midnight. At just after 11:00, Almanso headed north on Highway 4 cruising at his customary 40 mph. He would turn west on Highway 19 through Franklin, to Morton.

He had been on the road for about twenty minutes and reached the bottom of the Minnesota River valley when his car sputtered to a stop and the lights faded. His battery was stone dead and wouldn’t even run the radio, much less the headlights.

Almanso sat in total darkness. He had seen several cars in the opposing lane, during the first five miles out of Sleepy Eye, but there hadn’t been any traffic since. He figured he would just sit in his car, until someone came by — that he could flag down, to help him.

He was deep in the trees of the river valley. He scanned what he could of the horizon for signs of lights from farmsteads where he could go for help but saw none.

Thirty long, long minutes went by without a car, from either direction. Almanso had given up waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Even so, his head continually pivoted looking for signs of oncoming danger.

It was a cloudy night so there wasn’t even moonlight, to help pierce the foreboding darkness.

His fingers drummed on the dashboard -- as he became increasingly anxious. It would probably dip into the twenties and he hadn’t even brought a jacket. He cursed his dilapidated VW and stubborn reluctance, to purchase a cell phone.

If I had a phone, I probably couldn’t get service way out here.

The first light hit him in the eyes from a spot not more than fifteen feet, to the left of his car. It seemed to be moving slowly toward him. He had to close his eyelids and abruptly turn his head. Reds, oranges, and bright blues danced in the back of his retinas.

A second light seemed to be coming from directly behind him and moving toward him, at a rapid pace.

Run! To where?????

His hands searched under the seat for a weapon and found only old candy wrappers and two torn maps.

An unearthly noise made him cover his ears with both hands. It was impossible to determine its source, and Almanso wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

It sounds like someone’s stomach is rumbling.

A third light came from exactly the opposite direction as the second. It was so bright in his car, it almost seemed like daytime. There was nowhere to turn, to rest his eyes.

The eerie sound stopped for a moment. He rolled down his window and listened intently for the sounds of engines but heard . . . nothing.

Two more lights rushed toward him, from what he thought was an easterly direction, so that he was totally surrounded by them.

He opened the door and jumped out of the VW, looking for an avenue of escape. It had been less than thirty seconds since the start of the attack -- and he was totally covered in sweat.

Suddenly, a very tall creature, who looked a little like a man was standing directly in front of him. “He looks frightened,” the alien said. “I thought you said he knew all about us.”

They speak English. Of course, they probably invented English and every other modern language.

“He does have a rudimentary knowledge of our history, but you know how stupid they can be.”

Stupid!

Their voices were gravelly and jumped in pitch from the start of the sentence, to the end -- rising from bass to tenor.

“He can hear what we say, you know. Our translators are set on automatic.”

They are all men, and they smell like vanilla extract.

“The Leader said he was cute. I don’t think he’s cute. Do you think he’s cute? What’s cute about that nose?”

He was surrounded by four of them. Every one of them had to be at least seven feet tall. They seemed to have metallic skin.

“I don’t care what you say . . . I think he has a nice butt.” One of them reached out and cupped Almanso’s posterior. “I’ll bet he would be good -- for sex.”

The Reverend cringed and his rear end involuntarily puckered.

“His arms are too short. We aren’t allowed to mate with any of them, unless they meet normal size requirements. Turn his car back on.”

“No — don’t,” the one who had touched Almanso argued. “I want him. I’ll talk to the Leader. He’ll let me keep him. Just for fun.”

“We haven’t got all night,” another said. “I say we go find one, with nice long arms. We can always come back to Sleepy Eye, for your little-armed sex toy, some other day. I’m letting this striped one go.”

The VW’s lights came back on. Almanso jumped in and quickly headed toward the Twin Cities, stopping only in Jordan, for needed gas.

***

“Things were hoppin’ at the White Castle tonight,” Almanso complained. He sat at a Formica-topped table, under a bare light bulb hanging from a single cord. A half-empty bottle of Sam’s Club’s cheapest sat in front of him. They drank from glasses he had salvaged from a dumpster. The rims were chipped, so you had to be careful. But other than that -- they worked just fine.

The man across from him had tacitly agreed to listen to Almanso’s story -- if his glass would be kept full. Most of the other residents, in the monthly rental motel, had long ago tired of the defrocked minister’s nonsense.

Mostly he drank alone. But since it was Halloween, he felt the need to tell someone his story of how he had been “tricked and treated.”

“That was two years ago,” he said. “Two years ago, when I came within a gnat’s butt of being gang-raped.”

The wino scoffed, even though he was putting his source of libation in jeopardy.

“No. . .really,” Almanso said solemnly.

“By little green men.” He laughed openly.

“They were gray and not at all small. I figure they were all ex-NBA players.”

“You’re full of crap.”

“Nahhhhh. That’s how it was. You don’t understand how rich the Petersen’s are. They can afford almost anything, and I was picking on their. . ..” He took a long drink from his glass. His teeth hurt. They needed attention. But he didn’t have the money.

Being the night supervisor at White Castle, only paid a dime an hour over minimum wage. His diet consisted entirely of food made during his shift -- and not sold before its allotted time. “I almost thought they were extraterrestrials. But they weren’t.”

The wino stood, turned around, opened the window, and then pissed out.

Almanso was pleased that at least one wino had a sense of direction.

His guest grunted, indicating Almanso should continue.

“I eventually figured out what they did. It wasn’t until a month later, when my car gave out, and I paid a mechanic ten bucks to tell me if it was worth fixing. He found a switch connected to the electronics under the hood. Someone had set it up -- so they could cut that car’s power by remote control.”

“So why are you in hiding?”

“Cuz I’m scared shitless.”

“Them bastards. Bad guys, huh.” A smug grin played around his lips.

“Like I was saying, once my mind got right, I started to understand how they tricked me. I figure they got the sheriff to shut down the road a couple miles in each direction, so they’d have time to scare me good.”

“Did they also set it up so lights would appear, out of nowhere?”

Almanso couldn’t tell if the wino believed a word he said. . .or cared. “One of the guys staying here last year, lost his motor home dealership because of the recession. He said those lights were probably halogen headlights, on dirt bikes.”

“Then why didn’t you hear any motors running?”

“That same guy said he’d sunk a bundle into the development of battery-operated dirt bikes -- but lost his butt again because the government wouldn’t let the gas and oil people get hurt. He said his bikes would’ve had lithium-ion batteries. He speculated the Petersens had the money, to buy some of those bikes.”

“What about the N — B — A?”

“The only place I ever saw that many tall guys was the National Basketball Association. The Petersens must have pulled out all the stops and hired ex-NBA players.”

“Makes sense.” He lifted his leg and let out a smelly cloud of gas. “Those Petersens must be wicked diabolical.”

“I’m sure that Abe and his three buddies helped them with the planning. They knew how to get to me.”

“‘Abe’ doesn’t sound like a name for a guy who goes around scheming, about dishonest stunts.”

Almanso scratched his chin. “His real name was Abraham. Some of the folks in town called him ‘Brom’ — Brom Boones.”

The wino raised his hand for silence. “So, you think they rigged the car to stop where they wanted it and had speakers set up to play strange noise, hired NBA guys with weird suits, and used voice distorters.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s just as probable there really were aliens, because I once had an electric shut off on a car as a device, to stop it from being swiped.”

“Wasn’t like that. At least, I don’t think so.”

“Why don’t you go back and take up where you left off? It sounds like they got it coming.”

“Are you crazy? Like I said -- I almost got gang-raped.”

“How do you figure?”

“If the Petersens were willing to put out the money for NBA guys, they could of just as easily hired a bunch of NFL has-beens. Five ex-footballers would have raped me and left me in the ditch. If I ever go back to Sleepy Eye, I’m sure that’s what would happen to me.”

The wino shuddered. “This is the third time you’ve told me this story. What strikes me is . . . you never mention praying for help when you were scared to death.”

“Not then,” he admitted, “and never since then. I’ve totally sworn off fantasy. That night, I was convinced the Lord I had worshipped was one of them aliens, and later when I realized I’d been had, I swore off all fantasy. My mind had been opened to take a critical look, at all the hogwash I’d been fed about Jesus.”

“At least you started something in Sleepy Eye. I’ll bet they’re still walking around, with them signs, about homos.”

Almanso shook his head ruefully. “Somehow, someone from Sleepy Eye, probably the Petersens -- found me, about a month after I got to the Cities. A box arrived with no return address but with a Sleepy Eye postmark. It had a dead milksnake in it with its head cut off. The note with it said. ‘To kill a snake, you cut off its head. The picketing ended the day after you snuck out of Sleepy Eye. We don’t know why you left, but we’re happy you’re gone.’ That maggot covered snake scared the life out of me.”

“Smart of them not to admit, to any part in the conspiracy.”

Almanso nodded silently. He was regretting having told his story.

“There was at least one space cadet out on that country road that night.” The wino then laughed so hard a lot of liquid sloshed out of his glass, at least a penny’s worth.

“What’s so funny?” Almanso demanded.

“I wouldn’t think someone, who looks exactly like a damn badger -- would be scared by a little old dead snake.”

The End

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a kudos and a comment. They mean a lot to me.

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

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Comments

Surprise, surprise...

Andrea Lena's picture

They are all men, and they smell like vanilla extract....

Coincidentally, in reference to Washington Irving, I did take an awfully long nap today! It would seem that the good reverend might have been just a bit more 'manly' than he liked. Excellent! Thank you!



Dio vi benedica tutti
Con grande amore e di affetto
Andrea Lena

  

To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

legend of sleepy hollow

I had not caught the similarity immediately, but eventually I caught on... Excellent story!

DogSig.png

Lost in the Myth of the Sleepy Eye Lights

That's one town NOT to visit.

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine
    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine

I think the Aliens should have taken him.

There were some confusing parts to the story (for me anyway), amd maybe it was just my expectations. I felt that the story led me, at least, to thinking that there was more of a connection between the Aliens and the townspeople than there probably was. I kept waiting for the townspeople to "morph" into the aliens or something.
Still, it is a great story. I wish the good Reverend had been, um, "punished" more, but it's not my story, so that's okay.
This is going to sound derogatory (probably spelled wrong-no spell check!) to some of the BCTS readers, but I wonder if the title might have put them off? I see nothing really wrong with the story. The TG aspect took a while to come in, but it was good and the conflict angle was good, if repulsive, but that's what was intended. The Rev was a slime, and should have been tarred and feathered!
It sounds bad to say this, and I want to apologize to any I offend, but maybe the story was a bit too "advanced" for some people? It may have put people off by being, well, to much like fine literature to a comic book crowd. I really hate to think like that, because I know the people here are not stupid or anything. Geeze, this is gonna get me in so much trouble. I just can't see anything else wrong with the story. Hey, I liked it, anyway. Maybe I would have played up the Aliens more, but I'm kind of a lowbrow thinker myself, as you know!
I'm sorry if I hurt anyone's feelings!

Wren

Snakebite

joannebarbarella's picture

The Reverend Badcher was a really nasty piece of homophobic s**t who deserved far worse than he actually got. The way that he must have hurt Lawrie doesn't bear thinking about.

His ambitions centred around causing fear and hatred even before he "found out" about her and he was plotting to spread his poison and awaiting his opportunity from the moment he hit town.

Whether or not the aliens were really "aliens" they did the town, the country and the world a service in destroying his abominable self-belief. Actually I believe that they were truly aliens. Finding six men over seven feet tall in the back-blocks of Minnesota at midnight on Halloween beggars belief, particularly as they all smelled of vanilla.

Only alcoholics who thrive on vanilla essence smell like that (if they're human that is).

Good one Jill,

Joanne

Unnerving :-)

Zoe Taylor's picture

I honestly found this story to be very unnerving for reasons I've expressed privately with Jill already, but as I stated there, it's meant as high praise to her abilities as a writer.

In short, I loved this story. I should have had every right and reason to feel vindicated by how the "aliens" scared him straight for all his bile, but I couldn't help feeling badly for the guy by the end.

I used to hate, with every fiber of my being, the expression "Hate the sin, not the sinner." I've had that expression turned on me for my hair, my "disobedience to God", etc., but for the first time in my life, I can understand how that expression should be used.

I hated the Reverend's homophobia, but like Lawrie, I couldn't help feeling sad for him, blinded first by his arrogance, then his hatred, and finally his pride.

Great story, Jill!

~* Queen of Sweetness *~

Become a Patron for early access ♥

Had he...

Had he actually repented, I might have been able to feel sorry for him. As is, he manufactured yet another justification for his hatred.

Anne

Great story, Jill! Very well written

Great story, Jill! Very well written, as we always expect from a story under your by-line.

Kris

Kris

{I leave a trail of Kudos as I browse the site. Be careful where you step!}

This is a dark story, no

KristineRead's picture

This is a dark story, no question. And there don't appear to be any redeeming characteristics of the protaginist. Certainly he got off with less then he deserved, but then for those who believe as he does, he may still pay an eternal punishment.. One can only hope.

As always well written, Angela. This one was compelling and had to continue, as much as I wanted to reach thru the screen and strangle him myself.

thanks for a good story!

Kristy

The Reverend

Thank you for your comment.

The minister is a horrible person . . . certainly because of his viewpoint on homosexuality, but more so for a less obvious reason.

He is a man of the cloth who places his personal career above the welfare of his flock. We see this quite often in TV evangelists and politicians.

The Socratic Oath applies to all of us, not just the medical field. "First Do No Harm".

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Well-written Ugliness

terrynaut's picture

This story was hard to read. I think readers like to identify with the main character. I do. But this main character had no redeeming qualities that I could see. Sure, I felt a little sorry for the moron at the end, but only because he's a human being and he was suffering.

I wanted to see more of Lawrie, and Mrs. Petersen, and just about any other character. I'm sorry but I can't get attached to a story unless I can get attached to a character. I couldn't stand the main character and the supporting characters weren't really developed enough to care about.

Kudos for the good writing at least.

Thanks.

- Terry

Good Lesson

Some of the best literature involves nasty characters. One of the reasons you think Lawrie and her mother are so nice is a writing technique called negative space in which the main character is portrayed so bad the others around him look much better. Actually whoever sent the snake-in-the-box qualifies for a Super-Stinker award as well - but in this story comes across as justified.

Thank you for commenting. By expressing your feelings you tell me and other authors your preference -- then it is our choice if we want to adjust to meet your taste. I will adjust. How much? I can't promise.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Quite a different tail...

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow came through nicely, even with the "twists" you put in. (Of course, there's "Little House, in the Big Woods... My older daughter actually enjoyed Laura's books more than the younger one did. Shows their different personalities.)

I never did find any redeeming feature in your protagonist. One could wish that people like him. He didn't even manage to repent, at the end.

A nice tight story. I liked how you "triggered" things with your TG element. I'm glad you depicted her as so accepted - at least by her family. And how you showed the under currents that exist in any group - small towns included. They may appear homogeneous on the surface, but scratch that surface...

Thanks,
Anne

You had asked me

at one point my opinion on this piece and after reading it I'll admit I gave you a bad knee jerk...me being a jerk reaction. You see people I read the posted comments on the main page. I can find things that I'd normally miss from the back and forth there. Rebeccas and Angela are really right on the comments thing.
I reread this and I really, viscerally hate the main character. I hate him so much that it had colored my reactions that badly.
Honestly looking at it in a different way, in a different light that I had seen pointed out by the other comments here by people I respect.
This is one hell of a piece of damned fine writing on a lot of levels. I still can't say I'm fond of the characters at all. But to get that kind of reaction. I had to click the good story button.
I hated the story but it was so good... and so well crafted that Angela deserves that kind of respect for it.

Comment people, comment because what you can honestly say no matter how small effects the other readers out here sometimes even after we think we made our minds up.

Thanks Jill...2nd time around you blew me away with this.

Bailey Summers

Thanks Bailey

Your reaction to my story is a lot like my reaction to the movie Our Town. It's really nice to see that some people look beyond the story line.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Thank you!

Great story, Jill. I sat down this morning, took a quick peek at the storyboard, saw you had posted this, and had to read it before I went to work.

If you are calling for requests, I would love to see your take on Twain's The Man Who Corrupted Hadleyburg.

It seems the "reverend?" Badcher didn't like anybody.

He didn't like gays, he didn't like transpeople, he hated black people, Jews, Catholics, and he hated the US government for the tolerance toward free speech which is exactly what the US Supreme Court calls being gay and trans. This story may offend a lot of mainstream "Christians?" but that is the price you pay for secular gossip. Furthermore, a decent Christian follows the teachings of Jesus, and when Jesus said he didn't come to do away with the old laws, he wasn't talking about Leviticus 18:22. Jesus was talking about the 10 absolute laws of God, the 10 Commandments. Nowhere in those 10 Commandments does it say thou shalt not be who you are in your soul. I suppose if we leave it to the fanatical right wing clergy, they would add that as an 11th commandment. Clergy who spew hatred for those of us that are different, are not Christian and seemingly do not follow the path of Jesus who is the Christ, even though they preach the Gospel of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. The clergy of today would rather spew the secular laws that were built into the Bible thousands of years ago by the clergy of the time that told even Ceasar how to rule.

The reverend Almanso Badcher is a man of the worst kind. He is hateful, he is judgemental, and he is an ordained minister of God. Too bad he isn't Christian.

So, were these tall men in the middle of nowhere, real aliens, or just townspeople, or were they NBA players? I guess we will never know for sure, but the legend of the Sleepy Eye Lights is safe for now.

"With confidence and forbearance, we will have the strength to move forward."

Love & hugs,
Barbara

"If I have to be this girl in me, Then I have the right to be."

"With confidence and forbearance, we will have the strength to move forward."

Love & hugs,
Barbara

"If I have to be this girl in me, Then I have the right to be."

Thank You Barbara Lynn Terry

With all the bad things happening in the world: wars, racial killings, homeless people, AIDs, etc. you'd think the ministers, priests, and their flocks would be too busy to spend time on telling people what person to love.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

I had a talk with my son this morning....

Andrea Lena's picture

...understanding what's taken place in me (sans the TG for the time being, sadly) in the past year. I've learned what's truly important in life and how I've come to see how wrong I was about myself and everything else. His look seemed to say "What took you so long." In spite of myself, I think we raised a pretty good kid, yes.
Faith, Hope and Love!



Dio vi benedica tutti
Con grande amore e di affetto
Andrea Lena

  

To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

Cat's in the Cradle

But there were planes to catch and bills to pay,
He learned to walk when I was away.

Most rueful song ever.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

And a song I use to remind

KristineRead's picture

And a song I use to remind myself not to miss the opportunities to spend time doing things with my son now.

He and I both listen to that song, and are sad for that father and son, and then the next song on our playlist is "The Best Day" by George Strait, which has a very strong relationship instead. I first heard that song, turning on my car at 2am in the middle of a father/son drive to Disneyworld, when my son was in second grade, and had been having a tough time.

I still cry everytime I hear that one.

Hugs,

Kristy

Small town vermin removal

In the dark of a river bottom on a moonless night, blinded by high intensity spotters lights, it would be no trick to construct a costume that would appear to the blinded victim to add 12-24 inches to a normal person's height. Add the possibility of wearing contractor's stilts (the kind sheet rock installers wear) and you could achieve even greater results. As for the suit itself, the silvery material pot holders are made from would be an ideal choice, although I imagine white painters overalls painted with silver spray paint to be an easier solution. If the "aliens" were wearing headlamps it would further prevent the victim from getting a good look. I imagine that voice garblers would be quite inexpensive at most Halloween stores, or worst case, salvaged from cheap Darth Vader helmets sold in toy stores. It would be easy to add a latching relay to a remote car starter to disable the car. The only trick would be to design an inverter to allow the remote starter to run on 12V if the old VW is old enough to have a six volt system. As things go in small towns, half the people would know about it before it happened. After all, when the grocery store was asked to order a whole case of vanilla extract, word would definitely get out. I just wonder how long Abe and the boys smelled like vanilla.

Small town folk have a sense of their community, and while they might not like someone personally, will generally tolerate him or her as long as they don't stir up trouble or too much change. Clearly this new preacher fit the mold of someone to tolerate until his tirade began. When his true colors were exposed, he had to go.

This story reminded me of the original Rod Serling Twilight Zone tales. The morality is clear, but sometimes the protagonist doesn't learn the lesson.

I loved this story. Having lived for fifteen years in a small Texas town of 3500 residents, I can even see it happening. The only thing I had a hard time with, I've never seen anyone in real life who is quite as despiccable as the preacher. I know they are out there, but I've never met one.

Terrific job!

Hugs
Carla Ann

Carla Ann -- Fred Phelps

The main character was fashioned after Fred Phelps, using his actual quotes for dialogue. From what I've heard from a person who lives in his town, he has few redeeming qualities.

Thank you for your remakrs both here and in your PM. I appreciate your thoughtful comments and promise I will NOT give in to temptation in the future by posting more fluff.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

To fluff or not to fluff; that is the question!

Jill, even your fluff stories contain interesting characters. Either you are a very observant student of human nature, or you have the ability to do mind melds!

I am aware of Fred Phelps, and he is a nasty one. And like some others I know of, I never intend to meet him in person. The most effective method to fight people like that is to deprive them of attention, as the good folk of Sleepy Eye did.

Hugs
Carla Ann