Reverand Maynard
6+13. Blink and you’ll miss it.
No warnings except that this is very short and very pointless.

Eunice Pallerdi, the eldest and sanest citizen of Palatka--or so she liked to call herself--was slowly making her way down her dirt driveway, flanked by a few of her small dogs, when the unexpected visitor pulled into it.

She did not slow her steps to greet them however. Once a body that old was in motion, she reasoned, it’s best not to slow it lest it lose momentum. So she continued, walking, eying the dark windows of the now parked car that surely cost more than her house, her dogs and her heart surgery combined. And as she passed the vehicle, the driver’s door open and a man stepped out of it.

She thought immediately that he looked like one of her doctors. He was tall and broad and looked like money . . . other people’s money. Definitely a doctor.

“Excuse me ma’am,” the doctor was asking her over the din of her yapping dogs as he walked after her and and she couldn’t help but hope one would bite his ankles, “could you tell me how far we are from . . .” she heard him shuffle a paper and then, “Crescent City?”

By this time the woman had finally reached her destination, the mailbox, and reached inside to fish out any gems of communication that might be hiding within. She rarely got visitors and when she did it was dim-witted city people like this one.

Pulling out her letters, she slowly perused through the scant items and then unceremoniously tugged on the collar of her shirt and slipped the handful into the loose cup of her brazier, chuckling at the odd look on the doctor’s face as she began the walk back to her home.

“Ma’am,” He asked again, obviously assuming she hadn’t heard him the first time, “would you know-”

“What business you got in Crescent?” she finally asked, her voice raw and rough, telling the tale of seventy years of nicotine addiction. “Got family there, have ya?”

To his credit, the doctor remained polite, despite her unfriendly tone and the little trickle of sweat beginning at his brow . . . northerners.

“No, ma’am,” he replied smoothly, “but my friend here does and it’s been some time since he’s returned.”

Curiosity getting the better of her, she broke her golden rule and slowed her steps to bend beside the car and peer into it’s interior. Inside she found a woman . . . no . . . another fellow, with golden hair like her daughter, Susan’s (may she rest in peace), and he was polite enough to nod at her before she stood back up.

UNFINISHED--don’t you love that woman? I’m certain she’s related to me.