Up The Garden Path. . . to the Church

Three words, obtained from Writing Fix:
An apple
A church
A beggar

This is where they led me. It isn't finished as you will see. The begger has not made an entrance. This is actually part of something else but I thought I share. For the true writers, take the three words and see what they lead you.

Pastor Whitmore put his lunch on the desk beside his Bible. Martha packed his lunch every day, in the same kind of brown paper bag and folded the top down the three times. He knew exactly what was in the bag -- a sandwich of whole wheat bread with some kind of meat, a small bag of his favorite chips, and a bright, red apple. She provided a Stanley Thermos with ice, cold tea. Never failed. He was as certain of it as he was of his name. And tonight, when he got home, he would hand her the neatly folded bag and tell her what a wonderful lunch she had given him.

He sat down in the stuffed leather chair behind his desk. As he sat down, he echoed the long, tired sigh that only old chairs can produce. He put his head back and closed his eyes. Anyone looking in would think he was in prayer, with his elbows on the arms of his chair and his hands clasped under his chin. He knew they would because the church secretary, Kate Winsome, had thought just that when she had come into the office unexpectedly last week.

“Oh, Pastor, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just putting away the books. Please go on with your devotions and I’ll come back later.” She had turned on her heel and pulled the door shut with a quiet but firm snick.

For a moment he had been amused and thought about telling her he was only resting his eyes. And then the idea came to him. He could rest quietly in his chair and if anyone did pop in, they would never know he wasn’t praying. Of course, he seldom rested anyway and that is why he always needed to take these catnaps. He had not slept well in years. And after this last one, it had only gotten worse.

They had discovered the body of the missing woman yesterday. She had not been given a name. Of course, they would not be able to identify her for some time. But it didn’t matter. He would still not be able to sleep. Oh, he went to bed every night at the same time, just like the experts advised. He didn’t eat a big meal after six o’clock. He got up at the same time every day. His whole life was on a schedule right down to the number of times he went to the bathroom. He put his clothes on every day in exactly the same order. Pants first, then socks, then shirt, then shoes, then his tie and coat. Yes, everything was scheduled, everything but sleep.

He had tried all the sleep aids he had ever heard of, warm milk, over the counter pills designed to cause drowsiness, melatonin, and exercise. Yet, he was always tired. He had begun to crave rest the way an alcoholic craves a drink. It still evaded him, slipping off into the darkness that devoured his soul.

Portentous idnit'? Now, what next? Actually, I already know.