Fiction Friday: Novelines from the Book

Mother said my testimony would become stronger every time I bore it, but was that not just because I would be convincing myself?

Mother would sometimes slip into the habit of speaking in old English, as that was how we were supposed to conduct ourselves in prayer.

Mormons loved fat-laden casseroles & water to drink at every function. It was thrift at both ends of the spectrum.

Funeral potatoes & lime-green Jell-O with shredded carrots no longer sounded strange to me. I was in their world, but not of it.

He went on & on about how wonderful his wife was, just as she went on & on how blessed she was to have a worthy priesthood holder in the home.

The Mormon garments had been the fabric that miracles were fabricated of, for they guarded one from fires, rape, & all manner of weaponry.

Sister Bear catching on fire seemed to appeal to more people than finding out Brother Schafer had once been a rake, & not of the gardening kind.

The bearing of testimonies was an exercise in mesmerism, cloaked in religious language, the brain lighting up in spiritual socialization.

Fiction Friday: Micropoetry from the Book

The prime of Miss Annie McCarrick had passed,
but the prime of Miss Laurie Nolan was coming fast.
Unmarried, Mother had always been at her prime.

Mother & David’s pasts were a mystery,
their presents, uncertain,
their futures, set like a precious stone
in a tiny, golden halo.

Their churches were called wards,
their youth groups, institutes.
They served funeral potatoes at
lively potlucks.
Peculiar people, these Mormons were.

I was asked to pray in public,
when I had never prayed in private.
I was asked to do unnatural things
for the sake of the supernatural.

I prayed from memory,
& not from my heart,
for my heart had no memory
of prayer.