I tend to be long-winded. I crave deep stories with complex characters that evolve over a lengthy novel or series of novels. When I write, I give rein to that craving and then have to edit, cutting deeply so that the current of the narrative doesn’t bog down in a delta of little trickles that caught my attention on the way to the conclusion. Writing ten-minute sermons is an exercise in painful restraint and constant throwing away of extraneous insights. Recently, giving homilies in retirement homes where the time limit was even more restrictive, I found myself spending more time excising than I did creating.
All this is to say, short stories aren’t really my genre. When I’ve written them recently, they’ve been based on my novels and illuminate characters or themes already under exploration. Until… this image hit me and became the kernel of a real short story, standing alone, complete unto itself. I’ve no idea where this came from. But I’m grateful for the gift and happy to pass it on to you. I’ll include the first few paragraphs here and if you find yourself intrigued, click the link to receive the whole manuscript. Let me know what you think!
The Color of Fear
By Margaret A. Babcock
White is the color of fear.
I didn’t know that until this morning, when I walked in on Ben as he was eating breakfast alone in the little dining nook off the kitchen. His com-pad was on the table in front of him, and when he turned to acknowledge my greeting, I could see his face was dark red, showing anger. That was easy. He’s been so angry since he got home from the mission that he often resembled a beet for hours. But this was different—jagged white streaks were coursing up and down his neck, shivering on his temples like lightning bolts.
“Jesus, Ben, what does that mean?” It slipped out before I could filter the concern from my voice. He glanced down at his fingers where the same milky zigzags pulsed, then grabbed his hat and veil and put them on. Too late. My gaze remained fixed on his hands.
“I don’t know, Mira. It might be…” The covering faced me, hiding his expression, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his hands anyway. “I think it’s panic.”
He reached toward the gloves that lay beside his plate, but I captured his shaking fingers in mine. “No, let me see. I need to record this.” The lightning strikes of white began receding with my touch. I guess that was the gift of a five-year marriage. We stabilized each other. “What brought on this powerful emotion?”
The shrouded head nodded toward the com-pad. There, in the bold text of the latest headlines, lay the trigger: “Washington Votes to Restrict Reproduction Rights of the ‘Chameleon’ Crew.”
For more of the story: https://drive.google.com/file/d/13Y6xQXCbe14s9n-EhN33QIgZtGobkUPi/view?usp=sharing