Stretch: The Humbled Hero
Writing Exercise #38
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Stretch: The superpowered monk
The great miracle had happened all over the world. That’s what they told me, a few years later. At the time I had no idea what was happening. A light shone down from heaven, and—well, you know the rest.
Different people received different powers. I felt like I had them all. It was like waking up with the awareness that I could drive a manual car, or skateboard, or walk a tightrope. I knew I could fly, I knew I was strong, I knew I could burn things by looking at them.
Yet—surely, this miracle was some mistake. I was a novice in a monastery, I had given my life to God and secluded myself in the cloister.
I told all this to my confessor. The first thing my confessor asked was, “Do you feel you do not have a vocation?”
I refused. “No, not at all!” I said. “Only, I feel as if God gave me these abilities for some purpose. Surely, because I have them, I ought to use them for some good?”
My confessor looked very stern, upon hearing this. “If your vocation is to the Order then your first duties are to the Order. We receive novices from all over the country. Some can paint, some can build, some can run fast, some can cook. All of them use their skills for the good of the Order, or exercise their recreation after their duties to the Order have been fulfilled.”
He paused briefly, but saw a hopeful look in my eyes. Anticipating my next question, he continued: “God has given you these powers. Hmph. So be it. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. If the Lord wishes you to use these talents, let the Lord Himself come and instruct me to grant you permission. Until then—you have been given an exercise in humility. You must not leave the grounds of the Monastery, nor are you permitted to use your powers for any reason whatever. Offer this sacrifice to God in reparation for the sins committed against the Immaculate Heart of Mary.”
= = =
I obeyed. None of my brothers knew of this unique brand of suffering I was given. It was a long time before reports of others with abilities began popping up. One, even appeared in the nearby city.
Pilgrims to the monastery would tell us of his deeds. And as these stories began to work their way around the monastery, it was clear—the man in the nearby city was not doing the Lord’s work.
I went to my confessor. I begged him, I pleaded with him, I explained—this man had to be stopped. God put me in the right place, with the right abilities, at the right time to stop some evil.
My confessor harrumphed. “Do you feel you do not have a vocation?” he asked.
I assured him, no—I was committed to my vocation.
He continued, “God gave you this Monastery to head off a predisposition to pride, perhaps? Until the Lord Himself instruct me otherwise, you are to remain here.”
That night, in my free time after Compline, I sat at the highest point of the monastery, and watched as Megaton Man attacked the city.
Oh, how I prayed for release.
(547 words)
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Have you ever read Canticle for Leibowitz? Asking for no reason.
What is your signature talent or skill?
Have you ever visited a monastery that was still active?
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy! Come back next week for another writing exercise!
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Thank you and God bless!
Cool story, good job
This is a spectacular summer storm, really one of Our Father’s better efforts, thought Brother Matthias as he hustled out back and reached for the handle to the corrugated tin shack to refill the water barrel. The next thing he remembered he was laid out flat. Sans eyebrows but otherwise no worse for wear. Except for that racket. The chatter. Everyone at once marveling about the lightning strike and his miraculous survival. Then it struck him. Not a lip moved. Yet he heard them all clear as day. He was a long way from Damascus but apparently he had awoken from his electrocution with powers of telepathy. He could tell what each of his comrades was thinking. Interesting in a vacuum. But beyond useful in a community sworn to silence. Once his powers became known he was called upon throughout the monastery for all sorts of workaday communications.
Now instead of crude pantomime or tiresome writing on chalkboards to convey even the simplest requests, a sideward glance would be all it took to let Matthias know it was time to gather the turnips. Or trim the candles. Productivity soared.
But the gift came with a dark side. Exposed now were the secret thoughts and desires of every friar. What lay behind Brother Franco’s lingering stares at vespers. More than the love spoken of in 1Corinthians. And laid bare were Brother Brutus’s innermost thoughts on sheep and goats which went well beyond separating them at Judgnent Day.
The head of the order saw his young charge’s anguish and scribbled down that he would pray for the Good Lord to take away this thorn, this scourge masquerading as a superpower. But of course, Mathias already knew that.
An ethical dilemma and a cool plot!