"How do you know when you are finished with a piece of writing?"—Evie, age 10 Evie, you've asked a stumper. I wish I had a clear, concrete ... Read More
Jellybean Highfive stood in front of the back of a room, his back to the front of the wall. Directionally near to him sat a youth pastor on a stool.
“It’s going to be epic,” the youth pastor said, raising his eyebrows, which were thin and trimmed and raised.
“Really?” Jellybean asked interrogatively.
“Fo’ sho’ bro,” he said, grinning sideways and scrunching up his eyes beneath a wide-brimmed hat featuring a baseball logo of a baseball team called the Yankees.
Jellybean nodded, thinking about what the experience might be like. Would there be dragons? Would there be maidens saved and heroes made? Would people escape fire and doom and hellish fear to be released into light and love and hope and happiness? He imagined himself in an epic, with long hair and a glorious but slimming beard. A battle-axe-shaped sword in one hand a sword in the other. A shield and a bow and mighty feathered arrows from the slings of Mount Fountain, a lucky emerald amulet of burnished gypsy, and a dream the size of seven hairy kingdoms.
“I am the epic,” Jellybean said, accidentally out loud.
“Totally,” the youth pastor said. “I feel you.”
Jellybean re-noticed he was not in an incredible epic but in a room with a huge number of posters featuring men in skinny jeans and expensive euro-lady-punk haircuts.
“Why will it be epic?” Jellybean asked, eagerly like.
“Cause we’re gonna have pizza!”