A Brief Writing Exercise

For today, I realized that as much as I talk about writing and trying to be published, no one reading this blog has any idea what my fiction looks like – at least, most people reading this blog. For class today, we had to write a description-dialogue piece, responding to the prompt of a pastor, his wife, and the choir director. The wife suspects the pastor of cheating on her with the choir director; one day, on her way into town, she sees the two at a restaurant. She goes to her husband’s office at the church and overturns it. The wife returns home to wait for him; after dinner, the pastor goes to the office and discovers it in shambles. We were required to write a descriptive scene about the office, and the ensuing conversation when the pastor returned home. Since I have no plans of publishing this, you can read it here. Enjoy.

Coffee stained the doorway outside of Pastor Mike Jeffries’ office – that was from the dropped cup upon arriving, late at night. He had finished meeting with his church’s choir director, and had returned to the church to drop off a few things. Those were set outside the door, as well, for there was no room in the office itself.

Pastor Jeffries’ secretary, Janice Jones, stood outside the door way, the width of her eyes surpassed only by the width of her mouth.

“What happened?” she asked.

Mike knelt in the middle of the floor, spreading his arms helplessly at the chaos around him. “Not really sure,” he said with a shrug. “Tornado?”

It was not as bad as it could have been: one set of papers were in a stack, the ones Mike had managed to collect in the past few minutes. The rest, which came presumably from the over-turned filing cabinet, were now wall-to-wall carpeting. He kicked himself for not bolting the bookshelf to the wall; it had been pulled down, and an army of books like tents had bivouacked near his desk. Sprinkled across the white sheets of paper, like early fall when only the weakest trees have defoliated, were yellow legal-pad sheets. The trash can stood on its head beside his desk, though mercifully the contents of the bag had not been strewn. Pens were laid out in a fountain whose base sprung from the corner of the desk, where the mug once sat. It had been shattered, its broken bits like caltrops across the floor.

“I think you need to go home to your wife,” Ms. Jones said.

Pastor Mike glanced at her wearily, as her face showed shamed recognition. “What is it?” he asked.

“I noticed her driving away,” Ms. Jones said quietly, glancing at the door frame. “That’s why I came here.”

“You don’t think she did this?” he asked, grunting as he stood amidst the rubble.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’ll work on this; go home, and we can get everything straightened out in the morning.”

Pastor Mike dropped a sheaf of papers, glanced around his ruined office, and raised an eyebrow. “I hope to get some of this cleared up tonight,” he said drily.

*

Rachel Jeffries stood before the stove, trying desperately to calm her unsteady arm as she heard her husband enter. She waited, quietly stirring pasta as he hung up his coat and put his briefcase near the coffee table.

“Where have you been?” she asked, fearing the tremor in her voice.

“Beirut,” her husband said simply.

Rachel’s hand spasmed on the ladle. She couldn’t help it, but a smile crept on her face; she tried quickly to calm it. “Where?”

“Have you been to my office recently, my love?”

“Have you been to Turello’s?” she returned, gazing into the pot as it struggled to boil.

“Yes, I met with Sharon,” Mike replied.

“Oh? Sharon?” Rachel echoed, ringing the ladle against the pot. “Is that her name? Sharon?” She struck the pot so forcefully that the head broke and clattered to the floor. She ignored it, trying halfheartedly to stir with the handle.

“Rachel, don’t tell me—“ Mike began.

She spun on him before he could finish. “Yes! I saw you,” she said. “I was on my way to get dinner, you should know! Then I see you sitting with her…”

“Yes, wife, I meet with people,” Mike countered. “I am a pastor; I meet with people, and sometimes I try to help them with problems.”

“Oh, you try to help them?” Rachel said with a laugh. “And how dare you call me ‘wife’ after tonight; how dare you ever call me ‘wife’.”

“Honey, you are being very foolish right now,” Mike began tiredly, gripping the back of a chair with both hands as he leaned forward.

“Let’s not get into the myriad times I’ve been made a fool by you, Michael,” Rachel said, stirring the air with the broken handle.

“I was there to help her with a problem,” Mike said.

“What problem? Is she not getting enough sex? Is that her problem that you wanted to ‘help’ her with Michael?” Rachel fists sat resolutely upon her hips, now.

Mike gazed at the table for a few moments. “I can’t discuss with you…” he tried.

“Oh I’m sure you can’t, Michael,” Rachel said, throwing the handle down hard onto the table.

Mike straightened, his cheeks hardening. “I will not discuss Sharon’s problem with you, of all people.”

Rachel’s shoulders sagged. “’Of all people’?” she moaned. “I am supposed to be your wife, Michael. Who can you discuss it with if not me?”

Mike only shook his head slowly.

“Because it’s an affair, Michael!” Rachel spat, once again in her fury. “Can’t you even say it now? You’re exposed! Admit it! Stop the lie, Michael; stop hiding; just let me know you lust after her!”

Mike continued shaking his head, blinking numbly. “Rachel, I can’t…”

“What have I done?” Rachel cried. “I cook every meal for you; I love you; I support you, and attend to you. Have I ever been absent? Have I ever been anything but open and honest with you? I know no one is perfect, Michael, and I might even forgive you. Why can’t you just admit this one thing? I see! I see it! Just admit your lust, Michael!”

“She lusts after you, Rachel!” Mike said suddenly, then wiped his hand down his face.

The air left Rachel’s body. Water splattered out of the pot behind her and hissed on the stove; it had boiled over while her back had been turned.