Lost in legal jargon

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

“I’m going to exercise my right not to answer that question based on the stipulations as set forth in the fifth amendment.” Mason daunted, an air of flippancy in his voice, his scowl directing obvious disdain in the direction of the defendant, his twin brother Dixon.

“Your Honor,” Dixon’s defense attorney, visibly flustered rebutted, “if it pleases the court, I’d like to reword the question, yet again, as the answer is paramount, not only in establishing the whereabouts of my client on the eve of December 17th, but in casting the required shadow of doubt necessary to bring into question the accuracy of the identifications made by the two eye witnesses in this case.”

“Mr. Across,” the judge addressed Dixon’s defender, peering over the frames of his reading glasses, forehead wrinkled with the taut arch of his brow, “although I fail to foresee any difference in outcome, the court will permit the rewording of the question once more, provided you are confidant you will elicit an answer in so doing.”

“Your Honor,” the harried prosecutor jumped to his feet, flipping back an errant lock from his line of sight as he glared triangularly at Across, Mason, and Dixon Line respectively. “I fail to see how rewording the question, yet again, even if the defense does elicit a response, will add any relevancy to this exasperating line of questioning and beg the court to reconsider.”

These 234 words that begin and end nowhere are brought to you courtesy of Eugenia’s Brew N Spew Cafe’s prompt word: Flippant, and Girlie on the Edge’s Blog Six Sentence Stories, prompt word: Exercise.


Weekly Rates

We never stop anywhere long. That’s why we knew when Momma laid down enough money to rent a room for a week, something big was about to happen. She’d been looking troubled, but endless months on the road with three hungry mouths to feed can do that to a person.

Oh, we all did our bit. But Momma took the brunt of it. She spotted the touches. Hunting them up in bars, coffee shops, anywhere lonely people go to try and forget how lonely they are. It was easy for her to spot them, because Momma was pretty lonely herself.

She always said. “People get to a point in their loneliness when they are willing to wager anything they’ve got against one last chance at happiness. I just have the gift of being able to tell who is ready to place that bet the moment I walk into a room.”

The moment Momma walked back into the room after having laid down that chunk of room rent was the moment I knew, I had that gift too. There was something different in the way she looked at me. A kind of softness around her eyes that’d never been there before.

I could tell she was ready to lay everything she had on the line. That she had reached the point in her loneliness where no price was too great to pay for one last chance at happiness. I also knew, Momma didn’t have nothing to wager- ‘cept us three kids.

Written for The Haunted Wordsmith’s 50 Word Thursday prompt: “We never stop anywhere long.”

Sister Ezekiel’s Folly

Photo Courtesy of Crimson’s Creative Challenge

Sister Ezekiel took great pride in having the only sleeping chamber at Our Lady of Lost Souls that had a window. She had earned the privilege of sleeping in that cell by having outlived all her predecessors and at the ripe old age of 87 it was the only prideful indulgence she had ever allowed herself since entering the order.

Had she remained silent about the source of her pride, allowed it to be her own private folly, it’s presence would never have become an issue for the other sisters. However, her cup runneth over as the saying goes, and she could not always contain her joy.

Much to the contrary, she used every opportunity to mention her window in conversation with the other sisters, and her doing so had become a great aching bone of contention between them.

One morning Sisters Hezekiah and Ezra, the mischievous members of the otherwise solemn order, were polishing soap spots from the chalices before chapel- as punishment for giggling aloud during Mass- when they stumbled onto something that just might squelch Sister Ezekiel’s infernal boasting- well that is to say, save her from herself.

That evening while Sister Ezekiel was leading the novices in Vespers the two sisters armed with bars of white lye soap and a ladder, stole away into the garden and drew a hazy outline similar in shape to a mans head and shoulders on the leaded glass. Then they covered the rest of the window in an opaque film by using the soap to color in the remaining panes.

The next day, when Sister Ezekiel failed to show up for morning meal, the two sisters were clearly beside themselves with disappointment as they had greatly anticipated Sister Ezekiel’s topic of morning conversation.

Mother Superior on the other hand fearing the worst, given sister advanced age, promptly visited the sisters sleeping chamber. Entering without knocking, as was her privilege, she was both relived and confused when she found the elder sister prone on the cold stone floor fervently praying the rosary, sans her night clothes.

“Sister, I demand to know what is going on!” Mother Superior boomed, “First you failed to partake in the morning meal our Lord so lovingly provided for us, and now this?”

“But Mother,” Sister Ezekiel stammered without taking leave of her assumed position on the floor, “I have committed the gravest of sins.”

“And what, might I ask is the great sin you have committed?”

“Upon returning from Vespers last evening, I sat on my bed to remove my shoes, and when I looked up, perchance to catch sight of the moon in my beloved window- in place of the moonlight- I saw the distinct form of a man, head and shoulders, peering into my chamber.

Instead of leaving my chamber immediately, or calling out in effort to scare him away, I thought just once in this life I should like to know what it feels like to undress in the presence of a man. And that, Mother Superior is exactly what I did.”

Struck mute by the enormity of the aged sisters confession, Mother Superior was unable to immediately respond.

Uncomfortable with her silence, Sister Ezekiel continued in a small voice.

“And I must add Mother, that I am given to believe I was not alone in enjoying such a sinful indulgence, as he, the man, whomever he was- stayed well past the time the last of my underthings were removed. His continuance cause me to become greatly ashamed, and it was only then, that I assumed this position and began begging our Lord for absolution.”

Mother Superior, in effort to disguise her desire to burst out in peels of laughter, which would have greatly detracted from the seriousness of the situation, turned towards the window, where in place of streams of morning rain, she saw torrents of soapy bubbles pouring down the length of the window.

In an instant, she knew exactly what had happened..

“If you will excuse me, Sister.” She said abruptly as she turned to leave. “And Sister, please. Put some clothes on!”

“But, Mother! My absolution!” Sister Ezekiel implored as Mother Superior made haste for the door.

“Absolved!” Mother retorted, as in her hurry she nearly closed her habit in the door.

“Ezra! Hezekiah!” Mother Superior sang out, the timbre of her voice echoing throughout the Abbey.

“To my office at once!”

Written in response to Crispina’s photo prompt, although much too wordy to qualify as an entry in her weekly Crimson’s Creative Challenge. What can I say? Some stories just need to be told.

not my god…

Chava and Feyedka

He turned his back on his daughter,
his ‘Chavala’
to him, she is dead.
he did so, because she married Feyedka,
a Russian, not a Jew.
he did so, because his traditions dictated it.
he did so, because he believed with all of his heart it was the right thing-
the only thing to do.
he did so despite the fact
that it tore him apart
that it was inconceivable
that it made no sense.
he did so, because he honestly believed
it was required by his god to do so.

Who can logically explain to me
what god of love
of compassion
of creation
of order
would put one mans religious affiliation
so highly above another,
that he can forsake his own child?
what god would inflict this wound
upon his most cherished creation?
that which he “created in his own image”?

not my god…

Written for Chelsea Anne Owens Terrible Poetry Contest, subject An Epic Movie. This of course is based on my favorite epic movie, Fiddler on the Roof..