Spartacus

This is a story I wrote a while back and continue to pull back out to revise. I'm sure I should continue to do so, but I though I would post it here for your insight. It is not necessary to be gentle - you won't scare off the newbie!


Speaking in Forked Tongues

“Amen, brother!” a man shouted from amongst the sea of raised arms to my right.

The air in the large tent was oppressive — heavy with the sounds of music and the smell of people well into the 18th hour of their 12-hour antiperspirant. All around me, worshipers had abandoned their once neat little rows of folding chairs in favor of standing, arms raised, and stretching their necks to better see the small platform stage.

The Reverend Jonas Knight stood there commanding their attention with not only his considerable size, but also the powerful sound system that must have been on loan from whatever heavy-metal band was touring in the area. He brandished a bible over his head and bellowed at the crowd with a radio voice born somewhere deep beneath his heavy jowls and just above his bible belt. His silvered hair sparkled in the revival tent lighting and its unwavering resolve to remain in place became more evident with each violent jerk of his head as he emphasized his message.

The reverend inhaled in a long, drawn out process that he exaggerated by arching his back and lifting his head upward. His substantial midsection parted his jacket as easily as if it were the Red Sea, exposing the black suspenders that narrowed to the limits of their elasticity. The suspender clasps clung desperately to the only part of his belt that peeked from underneath the cavernous overhang of his belly. Just at the point when it seemed all manner of clothing chaos was about to break loose, his pent up kinetic energy exploded.

“Are you feelin’ it people?” he roared. Assisted by his suspenders, his body recoiled upright as his head shot forward and he faced the crowd again.

The large woman in front of me felt it. With cat-like agility that would be the envy of any woman half her age or half her weight, she leapt up onto her chair. She let out a guttural cry, hiked her skirt up high enough that I could make out the manufacturer of her control tops, and then broke into an elaborate, foot shuffling routine. The woman had clearly seen Riverdance more than once — probably had the video.

I stared at the woman, ignoring the metallic screams of agony coming from the folding chair as it fought to retain its shape. A drop of sweat ran down the middle of my forehead and into my eye and I quickly wiped it away so as not to miss this biblical event. It was like driving by a highway accident and craning your neck to get a glimpse of destruction and gore, only to cringe and turn away once you did. I was sure my cringe reaction was only moments away and I could only watch with anticipation as this train wreck unfolded.

A familiar voice to my left broke my concentration.

"I said isn’t this great?” Kara bubbled with excitement, her arms stretching upward and the suddenly unattractive wet stain of her armpit glaring at me like some kind of warning.

This was only my fourth date with Kara. She had invited me to her regular church services, but I had found reasons not to attend. Tonight, I agreed to come along with her to a tent revival her church was holding in the field next to their main building. I attended a church of another faith regularly and had learned all the pertinent bible lessons through years of Sunday School, so I was no stranger to religion.

None of that, however, had prepared me for the sounds, sweat and salvation I was witnessing here tonight.

“Yes, it is.” I said, raising my arms next to hers.

I whipped my head around at the crashing sound, but I was too late. The dancing woman was already lying flat on her back in the grass. Her folding chair had been reduced to a twisted, almost artistic, sculpture of devastation. A yellow label on the bottom of the seat was now visible and it read, “Maximum weight: 250lbs”. The chair was simply no match for a 200-plus pound Irish clogger.

The Reverend Jonas Knight stepped down from the platform in the direction of the woman on the ground and a flock of his entourage closed in and joined him. “Let me through to touch this child of Gaawd”. I had heard the three-letter word stretched to two syllables before, but never three.

I looked down at the woman, whose eyes were tightly closed and her arms still stretched upward. Her dance routine must have generated an intense amount of nylon friction and static, because the strands of hair that had escaped the tight bun on top of her head were standing straight out in all directions. This, and the way her skirt clung to her legs, convinced me she was carrying more charge than a cattle prod and I expected the first person to touch her would sizzle and fry on the spot.

The reverend’s arm parted the surrounding patronage and he knelt over the woman, placing his hand on her forehead. There were no sparks, but the woman shuddered and the reverend said, “Jesus, cleanse this woman of ungodly spirits and fill her with your love and joy.”

With that, the reverend backed away and some of his support staff rushed in beside the woman, two of them leaning down next to her head and talking to her. I could not hear what they were saying, but in another moment one of them jumped to his feet and shouted, “She is speaking in tongues!”

A chorus of "Amen" erupted from the crowd. I had read of this kind of thing, but never seen it. Leaning over the remnants of the chair, I listened for this revelation of language. The only thing I could make out over the noise was the woman mumbling something incoherent over and over.

I stood back up and found the reverend had turned his attention to a young man nearby. He already had his hand on the man’s forehead and the man began to fall backwards as if passing out. People standing around the gentleman caught him and laid him on the ground. Once again, the reverend’s staff gathered around the man and knelt down next to him. I tried to watch what was going on, but my view was interrupted by the good reverend himself. He had stretched his arm out and his hand now rested on Kara’s head.

“Jesus, cleanse this young woman of ungodly spirits and fill her with your love and joy.”

I watched as Kara fell backward into the arms of a number of people who laid her on the grass. Then I heard someone near the young man shout, “The brother is speaking in tongues!” and I turned to see. As I did, I found myself looking directly into the Reverend Jonas Knight’s eyes. I had been spotted by his targeting radar and he was locked on.

There was a slight moment of recognition where I knew what was about to happen, but never enough time to react. A meaty, damp palm smacked me on the forehead and I felt hands grasping my arms. I could see nothing, but the sounds of the crowd around me grew louder.

“Jesus, cleanse this young man of ungodly spirits and fill him with your love and joy, “ the reverend said again.

He pushed my head backward as the hands on my arms began to pull in the same direction. I started to take a step back, but someone had placed their foot behind my heels like a wheel chuck. I could do nothing but go to the ground. I remember one time when I had recovered a fumble near the line of scrimmage in a high school game and ended up on the bottom of a dog pile of the other team's players. I was smothered, scratched, bitten, poked and prodded until the referees finally pulled everyone off me, and I had never felt so uncomfortable and claustrophobic since. Until this moment.

Both my hands were being held gently, but the firmness of the grip on my arms and shoulders implied a different intent. Also, it felt as though someone were sitting on my ankles. A person began to talk directly into my ear.

“Speak in tongues, brother. You can do it. Show Jesus you are cleansed.”

Someone was patting my forehead with a damp cloth and I couldn’t see who was near me. I tried to twist away, but realized I was pinned with little chance of escape.

“Don’t forsake his glory and presence in you, brother. Your girlfriend is already moved by the spirit and is speaking in tongues. You can do it, too.”

The man spoke constantly, not waiting for a reply and repeating this discourse over and over. I couldn’t hear Kara to know if the man was telling the truth, but it seemed the only way to end this barrage was to give him what he wanted. Having only the large woman’s example to go by, I began sputtering gibberish based on the only foreign language references I could conjure at the time. The result sounded like a mix of any of the native tongues spoken by visitors to Gilligan and his shipmates, and the heavy German accent of the captors of Hogan and his fellow heroes.

“Yes, yes” said the man and he leapt up from my side and shouted, “He speaks in tongues!”

My relief of being freed from the oppression faded to despair. I felt used. I had sold out to escape an uncomfortable situation with no thought of how I had played a role in promoting this façade. I heard the crowds move around the room, continuing the same sequence of events, as I was assisted in getting to my feet and then led to a small, closed-off area behind the stage.

I watched as people came in to congratulate friends and family who had demonstrated their spiritual enlightenment by speaking in languages they had never heard, much less never spoken. Kara’s parents surrounded her and tears streamed down their faces as they hugged their glorious child.

Eventually, the reverie in the main tent calmed down and the people in the small room started filing out. I did not make a move to follow and a man came up to me and asked, “Brother, don’t you want to come out and witness to others how you were filled with the spirit and moved to speak in tongues? Don’t you want to share this miracle?”

I looked back at him. “Nope. I think I've said enough things I know nothing about already tonight.”

I stepped through the back flaps of the tent and out into the grassy field. I looked up at the night sky as I heard the first person begin telling their story of revelation from inside the tent. I fought back tears of shame and remorse.

The marvels of the heavens shone just as brightly tonight as ever before, but the instruments of faith had been tarnished forever.

eggo

I AM SPARTACUS!

Sorry I couldn't resist. This was a very funny, witty piece. How this made it to page two, I will never know. I laughed my ass off as clean funny prose. You certainly can write. I was a bit disappointed in the end.

The main character seemed like someone who got dragged along to this tent thumping revival. He certainly didn't display any godliness with his acute sarcasim and internal laughter at the whole proceedings.(and rightly so) I would have had him do something a bit different to end it.

foot shuffling=foot-shuffling

Quote:

I had been spotted by his targeting radar and he was locked on.

Passive voice

Quote:

Until this moment.

Fragment

Thanks for the read, good job

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Spartacus

Thanks, Eggo, for the kind words. I have to admit that I am disappointed along with you. The end is the part that has suffered through the most revision and is destined for further changes. I think I suddenly felt as if I should make some poignant statement at the end - the result of which simply betrays the nature of the character.

I'll work on it some more.

Thanks also for the other little nits - the process never stops.

Brooks

BeYoNd WoRdS

HI Spartacus! Thanks for posting this piece. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it. You stated that you continually pull this story out for further revision and it shows. It reads like a polished piece.

My favorite line: "He brandished a bible over his head and bellowed at the crowd with a radio voice born somewhere deep beneath his heavy jowls and just above his bible belt. "

The ending worked for me. The fact that the main character tells us. . .
"I attended a church of another faith regularly and had learned all the pertinent bible lessons through years of Sunday School, so I was no stranger to religion.". . .prepares us for the ending.
"The marvels of the heavens shone just as brightly tonight as ever before, but the instruments of faith had been tarnished forever."

I mean, you're not poking fun at religion. You're poking fun at people.
I found Speaking in Forked Tongues to be entertaining, well-written, and though I hesitated at the title at first, I didn't find the piece offensive.
Nice job.

-BeYoNd WoRdS

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semtecks

Aww, i was going to do that.

Spartacus (seriously? Spartacus!? I can't say that with a straight face.),

This story was bloody hilarious. From someone who's been to a revival meeting or two, you did a good job of describing the utter wackiness that goes on. I was a little let down by the ending myself, but for such a good story I'm sure you'll find something that works.

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Spartacus

Beyond Words and semtecks - thanks for the comments. I am still debating the appropriate ending to the story...

Brooks

mjk

a witty and delightfully well written story. oh the delicious morsels of irony. your description of the reverend is exquisite; he came to life off the screen.

you have some excellent lines in here. i would quote some, but i can't bare to separate them from the lines which keep them company. you obviously have a firm grasp of the written language and know how to make it work for you.

since i'm allowed to be rough...

i think the "her" throws off your flow.
replace "where" with "when"
you don't need that second "never."

just real tiny things, i had to look hard the second read.

the ending... hmm... personally, i would have loved to see some more of that sardonic humor to wrap this up nicely, but the tone of your piece changed so this ending is probably most appropriate. it makes me wonder about the narrator's own faith, as there was nary a mention of it before and i got the impression he wasn't a spiritual/religious individual. perhaps another line or two that relates back to his faith? i'm just throwing out an idea though, as i think the ending works perfectly well as is.

this was a joy to read and i thank you for posting it.

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Chris Miller

Hi Spartacus,

Very funny, but not over the top. Nice descripitions.

"This was only my fourth date with Kara."

Nice. Pulled me in with this. Now I know what’s going on.



"The result sounded like a mix of any of the native tongues spoken by visitors to Gilligan and his shipmates, and the heavy German accent of the captors of Hogan and his fellow heroes."

Ha ha! This is the best description of glossolalia I have ever read.


Like the rest, I really enjoyed this piece. The ending is too telling and seems to change voice. He loses his sense of humor and seems unduly traumatized. Plus, you’ve already shown us what a crock it all is (for the narrator). There is no need to tell. The best endings for me are purely descriptive and poetic. If you’ve done your job (which you have) then just give the reader a poetic parting look at what is going on and close.

E.g. “A ray of sun pokes through dark clouds like the beam from a flashlight, shining into the eyes of Kara who is recounting her recent interrogation by the Lord, causing her to squint.”

Just an example. Of course you’ll find something better and more appropriate.

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Spartacus

Thanks to everyone for the read and the comments.

mjk - Your nits are spot on and I found a couple more myself after including yours. I could simply never create a "Venus de Milo", because I am inclined to keep chipping away until it is nothing but a pile of dust.

Chris - You know, more than one of my revisions has actually included the word "glossolalia", but it is such a little known word that I fear it would have people trudging off the dictionary. I would rather they stick with the story. Funny you should bring it up, though.

I am also concerned that the language description I used is dating the piece. It's alright to date the narrator, but I am sure we are on the verge of a generation of readers with which references to Gilligan's Island and Hogan's Heroes will have no meaning. That makes me feel old!

Maria - The ending remains an issue. I do not feel that I am done with it. I wanted the tone of the narrator to change as a representation of the impact from what occurred. I think, though, that the mood shift was too acute. I will likely end up injecting at least a smidgen of the sarcasm the narrator possesses back into the ending.

Thanks again...

Brooks

Jimbob

Spartacus,
I enjoyed this, especially the way you described the reverend. I could almost see him standing there in the pulpit working up the crowd. I've been there. The only thing you left out was the part about passing the plate.

I can't resist noting though, that this kind of stuff goes on at both ends of the religious spectrum. I once attended a new-age channeling session in which a young woman purported to be channeling the spirit of a twelfth-century Frenchman. For just about an hour, she spouted new-age twaddle in a transparently phony French accent laced with south Texas expressions.

At the end of the session, I turned to the woman next to me, about to comment on how utterly moronic the performance was. Before I could speak,
she looked at me with a srarry-eyed gaze and said "Oh, isn't he wise!"

I shut my mouth and left.

Jimbob

cacafire

LOLOL!
What a great piece! I have to admit, by the second sentence I was tempted to stop reading. In almost every story I have read, that happens. Still, I'm glad I finished it, and I have no complaints. I liked the ending, too.

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Spartacus

Thanks for the comments...

JimBob - your story is not unusual and kind of reflects what the narrator was witnessing in the story. Maybe I should add at least one reference to money (ala passing the plate) to complete the picture.

cacafire - I'm glad you kept reading. I'm curious though, do you typically consider bailing on a story early on due to the lack of a significant "hook"? ... or is there some other reason?

Brooks