Forty Days of Flash Fic: Day Twenty-Seven
Jul. 16th, 2012 04:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeriendhalThis is from a screenplay I've had bouncing in my head for a while. Maybe I'll make it into a movie after I win a 1/2 billion dollars in the lottery.
* * *
"Brother Richard, the plants don't need any more water," Brother Gregory said carefully, removing the watering can gently from the elderly monk's hand. In the warm sunlight of the Appalachian summer, the daffodils lined the brick path leading the chapel of St. Michael the Redeemer.
"But I always water them," Brother Richard said, his face creasing in confusion. Past his ninetieth year, the old monk was nearly lost in his dark brown robes. His confused periods had been coming in increasing frequency the past year or so, but the simple routines of the monastery helped him stay on the right path. Usually.
"I know," Gregory said. "But it rained last night, so you don't need to do it today. Why don't you go inside the chapel now? It'll be afternoon prayers soon."
Richard smiled. "All right then." He tottered off towards the chapel. Gregory watched him go, sighing. Borther RIchard was a sweet old man, and had once been the monastery's most learned scholars. It was hard to watch him... fade so slowly.
"Brother Gregory?" a voice asked behind him. Gregory turned to find one of the younger monks, "younger" in this case meaning "below the age of fifty" standing behind him with an anxious expression. "The abbot wants you in his office. You've got a phone call."
"A phone call? From who?" Gregory asked. Living their lives in monastic seclusion, there was exactly one phone on the whole fifty acres of the monastery's grounds, and it was used only for business, usually relating to the small wine business that maintained the monastery's finances.
"I don't know. The abbot said it was a personal matter."
"Personal?" Gregory frowned, then nodded to the brother and started striding towards the administration building. When he arrived at the office, the abbot was seated at his desk, frowning slightly. "Sir, what going on?" Gregory asked him.
"I don't know," the abbot, a man in his seventies, his tonsure barely a halo of whispery grey hair around his head. "It's from a hospital in St. Louis."
"Oh, I thought it was... That is, I don't know anyone in St. Louis."
The abbot nodded, rising. "I'll let you take in private."
"No, no." Gregory waved him back down. "It has to be a mistake." He picked up the receiver and pressed the Hold button. "This Brother Gregory. Yes, Gregory Atkins." He stood there a moment, listening. Then he grew very still, feeling the blood drain from his face. "When? I see. Where is...? He was...? How badly? Ah, thank God for that. Thank God. I'll... I'll be there as soon as I can. Thank you." He set the phone down. Sometime during the conversation he had fallen back onto one of the wooden chairs in front of the abbot's desk, his knees turned weak.
"Brother Gregory, what is the matter?" the abbot asked, his face grave.
"Angela... my... my ex-wife. She was in a car accident in St. Louis. Side-swiped by a drunk driver. She died. My son Tom was with her. He's banged up but he's going to be okay." Gregory looked pleadingly to the abbot. "Sir, Angela didn't have any living relatives. Tom is alone right now."
"I see." The abbot stood up from his desk, and Gregory rose with him. "I am sorry for your loss, Brother Gregory."
The older monk was a kind soul. He didn't need to add, You lost them a long time ago. "Sir, I fear have... I have too beg..."
"You don't have to beg anything, son," the abbot said gently. "You have my leave to go from the monastery and take as much time as you need to resolve the matter. I'll write up a draft from the monastery's accounts to cover your expenses. You can take the Nissan to drive there. It just got its oil changed."
"I... thank you, sir." Gregory rubbed his face. "I don't believe this. It doesn't seem real."
"When was the last time you saw your son?" the abbot asked. He drew a glass of water from the pitcher at his desk, handing it to Gregory. Gregory gulped it down, not realizing until that moment how dry his throat had become.
"Twelve years ago, the day Angela threw me out. He was three. He must be fifteen now."
"Fifteen is a troubled age to be," the Abbot said gravely. "Not yet a man, but hardly a boy anymore. He needs you now. Go to him."
"Yes, sir. Thank you." Gregory stood, wavering on his feet a moment, then headed to the door.
* * *
"Brother Richard, the plants don't need any more water," Brother Gregory said carefully, removing the watering can gently from the elderly monk's hand. In the warm sunlight of the Appalachian summer, the daffodils lined the brick path leading the chapel of St. Michael the Redeemer.
"But I always water them," Brother Richard said, his face creasing in confusion. Past his ninetieth year, the old monk was nearly lost in his dark brown robes. His confused periods had been coming in increasing frequency the past year or so, but the simple routines of the monastery helped him stay on the right path. Usually.
"I know," Gregory said. "But it rained last night, so you don't need to do it today. Why don't you go inside the chapel now? It'll be afternoon prayers soon."
Richard smiled. "All right then." He tottered off towards the chapel. Gregory watched him go, sighing. Borther RIchard was a sweet old man, and had once been the monastery's most learned scholars. It was hard to watch him... fade so slowly.
"Brother Gregory?" a voice asked behind him. Gregory turned to find one of the younger monks, "younger" in this case meaning "below the age of fifty" standing behind him with an anxious expression. "The abbot wants you in his office. You've got a phone call."
"A phone call? From who?" Gregory asked. Living their lives in monastic seclusion, there was exactly one phone on the whole fifty acres of the monastery's grounds, and it was used only for business, usually relating to the small wine business that maintained the monastery's finances.
"I don't know. The abbot said it was a personal matter."
"Personal?" Gregory frowned, then nodded to the brother and started striding towards the administration building. When he arrived at the office, the abbot was seated at his desk, frowning slightly. "Sir, what going on?" Gregory asked him.
"I don't know," the abbot, a man in his seventies, his tonsure barely a halo of whispery grey hair around his head. "It's from a hospital in St. Louis."
"Oh, I thought it was... That is, I don't know anyone in St. Louis."
The abbot nodded, rising. "I'll let you take in private."
"No, no." Gregory waved him back down. "It has to be a mistake." He picked up the receiver and pressed the Hold button. "This Brother Gregory. Yes, Gregory Atkins." He stood there a moment, listening. Then he grew very still, feeling the blood drain from his face. "When? I see. Where is...? He was...? How badly? Ah, thank God for that. Thank God. I'll... I'll be there as soon as I can. Thank you." He set the phone down. Sometime during the conversation he had fallen back onto one of the wooden chairs in front of the abbot's desk, his knees turned weak.
"Brother Gregory, what is the matter?" the abbot asked, his face grave.
"Angela... my... my ex-wife. She was in a car accident in St. Louis. Side-swiped by a drunk driver. She died. My son Tom was with her. He's banged up but he's going to be okay." Gregory looked pleadingly to the abbot. "Sir, Angela didn't have any living relatives. Tom is alone right now."
"I see." The abbot stood up from his desk, and Gregory rose with him. "I am sorry for your loss, Brother Gregory."
The older monk was a kind soul. He didn't need to add, You lost them a long time ago. "Sir, I fear have... I have too beg..."
"You don't have to beg anything, son," the abbot said gently. "You have my leave to go from the monastery and take as much time as you need to resolve the matter. I'll write up a draft from the monastery's accounts to cover your expenses. You can take the Nissan to drive there. It just got its oil changed."
"I... thank you, sir." Gregory rubbed his face. "I don't believe this. It doesn't seem real."
"When was the last time you saw your son?" the abbot asked. He drew a glass of water from the pitcher at his desk, handing it to Gregory. Gregory gulped it down, not realizing until that moment how dry his throat had become.
"Twelve years ago, the day Angela threw me out. He was three. He must be fifteen now."
"Fifteen is a troubled age to be," the Abbot said gravely. "Not yet a man, but hardly a boy anymore. He needs you now. Go to him."
"Yes, sir. Thank you." Gregory stood, wavering on his feet a moment, then headed to the door.
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no subject
Date: 2012-07-16 11:28 am (UTC)Why is he in a monastery if he was married? Why did his wife throw him out? Why hasn't he seen his son in all this time? Is it because he is somehow dangerous? What will happen when he sees his son again?
no subject
Date: 2012-07-16 12:25 pm (UTC)The rest of the story would be a road trip reconciliation story with his son as Gregory takes him back to his paternal grandparents to live.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-18 06:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-18 08:08 am (UTC)