Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Possibilities

I think we all enter the world with a sense of wonder, a fascination with the mysterious, and the wild and exciting notion that, in this life, anything is possible. Tragedy and the brokenness of this world can seem distant to a child, leaving the young with a strong sense of invincibility, power, and creativity.

But life has a way of beating these things out of us. Whether it is the death of a parent or a friend, the betrayal of a loved one, the failure of our dreams, or simply a close up look at the horrific and cruel nature of man, eventually something causes the demise of wonder. Invincibility is replaced by fear, power by weakness, and creativity by the trudging, monontonous repetition of the tedium we call "the daily grind."

We discover that, unlike the robins and the sparrows, we cannot fly, no matter how we wish it.

I remember that wide-eyed belief in the infinite possibilities around us, but I left it behind long ago. My failures, and the failures of life to fulfil my dreams, left me drained and wilted as a flower in the desert. Life is nothing more than the tedious plodding of a tortoise from one place to another, without purpose or hope. Anything is possible? No, nothing that really matters in life is even remotely possible.

I once met a man who - for a brief time - changed my view of the world. For a short span of my life I returned to the childlike wonder I left behind long ago. He made me believe once again that anything is possible. The things he said - oh, how they sparked my imagination. Fly? Oh, yes! I can fly! I could even move the greatest mountains with nothing but a thought and a prayer!

I believed him then, but I no longer do. He was a charlatan, a liar, and a deceiver. He told me that he would change the world - that we would change the world! He told me I could reshape reality to suit my desires, and he said that nothing worthwhile is impossible.

But like everything and everyone else, he deserted me. He left me with nothing but the cruel memories of hope and the even crueler memories of his last days.

And now I shall speak of him no more.

Except...the women are here now, screaming and shouting and wildly gesticulating; with their confusing mix of laughter and tears we can barely understand what they are saying. They've been to the tomb, and one of them says she's actually seen him - alive again.

But I know that cannot be true. I cannot believe such a tale, for if such a thing could ever happen in this world, then truly, anything would be possible.

It's Not My Fault!

Don't look at me like that. It's not my fault; you can't blame me for this. I never asked for this. I never wanted this man in my court, never wanted to stand in judgment over him. It's not my fault.

If you could have been there, if you could have been in the court and listened to how I questioned him, you would know. It's not my fault. Again and again I would ask him for a defense, but he would speak no word on his own behalf. How can you acquit a man when all the witnesses against him insist that he is a traitor against Rome, against the gods, and even against humanity, yet he says nothing in his own defense?

Did I think he was innocent? Yes, I suppose I did. But you can't blame me for this. You don't understand how a mob works, as I do. You don't know that rage that seethes under the surface, waiting to erupt. You don't understand that when the mob is deprived of its victim, it is quick to seek out another.

And that other victim would not have been you.

Would it be right to exchange the life of a Roman governor for the life of a Jewish carpenter?

It's not my fault. I wash my hands of this whole matter. His blood is on their hands, on your hands, but not mine. I wash my hands of him.

Don't look at me like that. It's not my fault.

I'm Not Stupid

I may not be well educated, I may not have the answers to all of life's mysteries, but I'm not stupid.

I was standing last Friday night in the courtyard when a big burly fellow - one of those brutes that makes you wish you had a dagger in your cloak - walked in. The wild-eyed look of him made me glad I was in a crowd when I saw him, instead of in a deserted alley.

As I took a second look at him, however, I realized that in spite of his brutish appearance, his wild-eyed expression was probably due to nervousness - perhaps even fear. His glances were furtive, as though he expected to be arrested and put on trial himself. He was shivering, but my gut told me it was only in part due to the cold.

When he saw the fire blazing in the middle of the courtyard he made his way toward it with an edgewise step, as though he was really on his way to somewhere else, as though he knew he didn't belong here, and was just waiting for someone to stop him and tell him to go away.

As no one spoke to him, no one told him to get lost, he elbowed his way through the group of soldiers and servants clustered around the crackling flames. He put his hands out close to the flames, then rubbed them together, warming them.

But his eyes never stopped darting around the circle nervously. And he didn't stop shivering.

One of the servant girls - my niece, actually - was on the other side of the fire, but she noticed him, and gave him a quizzical stare. Over the course of the next few minutes I watched as she continued glancing at him, as though she ought to know him. Finally she pushed her way around the circle until she was standing next to him, and she said, "You're with him, aren't you? You're one of his followers?"

The man scowled, lowered his head and hunched his shoulders - not as a shrug, but as a way of hiding his face. "I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered.

"You know, the Galilean - the one that's on trial."

"Never met the man," he replied, then moved away from the circle of warmth.

I chuckled to myself, because...well, because I'm not stupid. I know a lie when I see one, and now I understood why this man was acting so furtively. If he was a follower of the Galilean rebel, his life might be in danger too.

I followed to see where he would go and what he would do. As he passed through the gateway he was accosted again, and a second time the man muttered a denial of his connection with the religious zealot who was on trial.

Now, normally I'm not a sadistic man, but something in me just couldn't leave this situation alone without adding my own two cents to the man's torment, so I approached him at last and said, "You know, as you were sitting by the fire, I couldn't help but thinking, your accent is definitely the accent of a Galilean! Surely you must be a follower of that Galilean troublemaker?"

At that the man exploded, and from his mouth came the foulest and most profane obscenities I've ever had the misfortune to hear - even the Roman soldiers would have been impressed with his vile epithets. Then, when he had exhausted his supply of obscene vocabulary, he insisted at the top of his lungs, "I do not know that man!"

Then he walked away, weeping.

Such cowardice!

I may not be well educated, I may not have the answers to all of life's mysteries, but I'm not stupid. People ask me why I, a Jewish man, follow the ways of the Roman gods. Some think it is because I have spent so much time in the palace of the Romans that I have forgotten my Hebrew heritage.

Not so. I remember perfectly the heritage I once followed. But I also remember this: in all the legends of the Roman gods, there is never once a story of a big brutish hero like Hercules running in fear from a little servant girl. And as long as the Hebrew god can't find himself a better brand of hero, I don't see much reason to give him my allegiance.

I'm not stupid, after all.

Impossible

Peter knew it was going to be a bad day when the women burst into the house in screaming, laughing, crying hysterics. Actually, he'd known it was going to be a bad day ever since Friday. Running in fear, cowering in shadows, hiding his face whenever anyone came near...it was no way to live, but this weekend it was the only way to live.

And now came the hysterical women, telling wild stories of angels and grave robbers and gardeners who aren't really gardeners. I need this foolishness like I need more holes in my nets, he thought. There was no way out of it, though; he and John were going to have to visit the grave, simply to pacify these crazy women.

Okay, so maybe they weren't crazy; the stone that guarded the tomb entrance was definitely not in place. And the Roman soldiers, who guarded the stone that guarded the tomb - they were gone also. Peter stepped fearfully into the dim, eerie shadows of the grave, and felt the shiver of the horror of death in his bones.

But there was no death here - only the skin of death, the limp and wrinkled shroud that should have contained a body, but did not.

Peter scowled. John laughed. That's the difference between us, Peter thought, John never takes anything seriously. It's all a joke, even in the face of death. But John was not laughing for mirth alone, his laughter had the power of faith and the hope of eternity ringing in every peal.

Peter scowled again, and walked away shaking his head.

Later, as the eleven - twelve, minus the evil betrayer, a dozen less the cowardly traitor - sat around in the shadows of a locked and curtained room, talking in perplexed and frightened whispers, the shadows scurried to the corners of the room and a dazzling, glorious apparition appeared in front of them.

Peter stared. His eyes were wide, his mouth was open, and his knees buckled under him. He tried to speak, but no words would come out of his mouth; only one sound made it past his lips. And now he understood the source of John's pealing laughter.

Peter knew it was going to be a bad day, but...

Sometimes, when life goes from bad to worse, and from worse to impossible, the impossible becomes the playground for the greatest victories.

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