Short Story & Update

Our schedule at the CDN is beginning to have a rhythm with ministry mondays, Aquinas classes on Preaching and the Vows on tuesday, joining with other orders for ICN speakers on wednesday, History of Religious Life and Dominican Life on thursday, with days of reflection bridging the weekends often filled with events. We were especially fortunate this friday to be graced with Don Goergen, OP leading the friday of reflection examining prayer and contemplation.

Despite the packed and exciting schedule, we have also been finding ways to join together as a community for some fun. The following short story relates a harrowing escape of friday evening as narrated in 1930s pulp fiction style. This is what happens when a novelist is asked to post on the blog.

- Sr. Alexa

The Narrow Escape

This would be trouble—I knew it from the first moment we hit the pavement. An unearthly wind blew its solemn melodies down the grey shadowed street sending leaves trundling like helpless fairies into a flooded creek. Our intrepid trio rounded a looming edifice to face black clouds darker than a dungeon in the dead of night after its inhabitant had spilled ink on the ebony stone floor. The dames put on a brave face, but we knew it was only a bus ride and taxi away from real trouble. We pushed through the bristling blasts of wind and dust racing the oncoming monster of a storm. What foolish thought had sent us out? Distant snarling threatened us standing helpless in the deserted street surrounded only by candy wrappers blown by and that guy in a suit with a nefarious air. We were in a heap of trouble as sure as a tree casts shadows on a saturday afternoon. 

Wheels screeched the pavement as I felt the first drop on my hand, blown from miles away by the forceful gale. "Ya need a lift?" A strong New York lullaby rent through the stormy air by now thicker than molasses in January. She'd come through alright, as she always did. Giving her fedora a roguish tilt, she opened the doors. My boot had barely crossed the threshold when the rain came louder than the engine as we floored it for safety. Relentless water flung itself at our metal auto faster than greyhounds run to Fourth of July BBQs. Skidding to a stop, we poised for the sprint to our door. As I stood dripping on the grey-studded mat, I knew we'd had a narrow escape. Those St. Louis skies were not to be trusted. They were trouble alright, and we'd been caught square by them.