Ink, Bovines, and the Great Religious Divide

“Benjamin, stop doodling,” his mother rasped in a harsh whisper.

“Yes ma’am,” he obediently whispered back. Only after she returned her attention to the pulpit did he roll his eyes. With the way old Reverend Stenson was going on there was really no need to have whispered. His deep voice thundered about the small, wooden church like a herd of dairy cows.

Ben had to suppress a giggle at the thought of all the nodding and fanning church ladies as cows. Some weren’t far off from the comparison, especially his aunt just across the aisle. She must have felt his attention and turned to give a condescending smile. That was just her way, so he didn’t take any offense.

Besides, his mind has already wandered out of the church, up Dubary Street, through the one stoplight in town, across the town square, and into the Methodist church. He wondered if their sermon was as bombastically boring. He wondered if their women looked like cows.

He wondered if Sue Ellen Dennis doodled on her program when she got bored.

View this story's 1 comments.