New Story: Leap of Faith
Hello, and welcome to another installment of: Actually posting blogs that are relevant to its name! Starring me: Van, and my special guest... My imagination!
Anyway, I've got another story for you guys. It's about a woman named Marcie. She had a dream, a plan to succeed, and almost didn't follow through. She thinks back to her struggles and how she was stuck in a rut. It wasn't until she got advice that showed her the importance of taking that leap for her dreams, no matter how scary it seems. I hope you all enjoy the story.
Marcie stirred in her sleep as the sharp smell of black pepper and pig fat invaded her dreams. She opened her eyes and took a moment to adjust herself to the ceiling above her, which rocked back and forth like a giant crib. Sitting up, she slipped her toes into the fluff of the new plaid slippers Jacque had gotten for her while they were docked at the Tamil Nadu coast in India 2 weeks before; or was it longer than that? She couldn’t remember. The days had begun to bleed together since she began her voyage.
Marcie rolled off the cot and stood on the cold wooden floor. She steadied herself with the guard rail beside her bed as her balance familiarized itself with the ship’s constant bobbing. She breathed in the mesmerizing scents of bacon and eggs being fried two doors down in the tiny kitchen. The smell brought her back to more than 6 months ago; back when Marcie was nothing more than a mediocre waitress at a mediocre diner in the middle of Mediocre-ville, USA. She stood in front of the grimy mirror across the closet-sized bedroom and stared blankly at her reflection. It always took her a few seconds to recognize herself these days. She was not the same woman as the one that left everything behind. Marcie grabbed the toothbrush from the sink and began monotonously scrubbing as she thought back to the day she left her old life behind.
---
“Order up!” Shouted Wilson, “Come on Marcie, I’ve got eggs getting cold ovuh’ere!” “Grab ‘em before they re-harden into a shell.” He tapped his spatula onto the little golden bell, and an ear-splitting ring pierced through the tightly-packed diner. At once, Marcie shoved a hand through the swinging door in the back. She grabbed the plate of fried embryos and walked it to father Reinhardt, who sat with his hands clasped and head slightly lowered. He looked to be preparing for the upcoming prayer of his breakfast. She slid the plate in front of the old man.
“Here you are, father. Sorry for the wait. Can I get you anything else?”
Father Reinhardt raised his head to see Marcie. “It’s perfectly alright, Marcie. Thank you. I’ll just have another cup of coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all, father. Besides, I could use the extra karma.” She winked and walked off to grab the coffee pot for him. She went back through the swinging door and headed for the pot, but her path was blocked by a giant wearing a white apron stained with too many grease spots to be called legally sanitary. Wilson’s arms were crossed over his bulbous stomach as he towered over her. She could see he wasn’t in a good mood today, but if you asked around, people would say they’ve never seen Wilson in any mood above brooding.
“Marcie . . .” He began with a low grumble, which meant that she was on her last straw, or her final strike. It was always a toss-up for Wilson’s choice of metaphor. “You were late again today.”
“I know, Mr. Strom, but it was only a few minutes, and you know how bad the roads can get after they freeze. I had to bike slowly to keep from-”
Wilson Strom waved a meaty finger in front of her face. “No more excuses, Marcie. This is the third time this month you’ve been late. I’m trying to help you, but you won’t even help yourself.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Strom, I promise it won’t happen again.”
“I’ve heard that too many times now, Marcie. I don’t know how much longer I can let it slide.” He reached back and grabbed the full coffee pot. A sliver of steam poked out from its spout. He handed it to her. “Just get back to work. This is your last straw.” He lumbered past her and returned to the grill. Marcie stood with the pot in her hand for a second before catching her breath and walking out the door.
She tried to keep her composure as she refilled father Reinhardt’s beige mug to its brim. The old priest grabbed her wrist. “Everything alright, child?”
There’s no hiding things from a priest, Marcie thought. Any place can be a confessional.
Marcie’s poker face cracked a little as she looked down at the man, and that was all he needed to gesture for her to sit at the booth. Marcie looked around at the rest of the diner to make sure no one else needed any assistance. She was glad to see nobody did, and she sat down across from him. He leaned forward in his seat and whispered, “Tell me what’s on your mind, Marcie.” His face was warm, and the deep crevices carved there gave him an almost mystical wisdom that made it easier to talk to.
Marcie took a deep breath, “I don’t know. I’m just not happy anymore, father.” She waited for some sort of reply, but the man just continued to stare into her eyes, so she continued. “I had dreams. I wanted to see the world and write about my experiences with different people and cultures.”
“And why haven’t you done these things?” Marcie expected his voice to sound condescending, but father Reinhardt sounded genuinely curious at what she was saying.
Marcie stammered with her words. Trying not to make too many un-needed excuses. “I don’t know. I . . . I guess it’s partly my own fault. I was in school, way back when, majoring in journalism. That’s why I got this job. I was paying my way through and trying to save up enough money to start.” She brushed a curl of hair out of her face and behind one ear. She had never talked about her dreams with someone before. As back as she could remember she was alone. No one to talk to, or help her with anything.
Father Reinhardt continued staring without saying anything. “That was ten years ago today. I swear to God. I remember shaking Mr. Strom’s hand when he told me I got the job. I thought, ‘this is it. This is where I start making it on my own.’”
“And why didn’t it?” Father Reinhardt chimed in with all the politeness a holy man can offer. Which is quite a lot.
Marcie slid a hand over her tightly pulled back hair and said, I don’t know . . . School got expensive and I had bills that needed paid. It all started to slowly fall apart around me. Now I’m here. Ten years later and still struggling to make ends meet at this shit-hole.” Her eyes widened in fear. “Sorry, father.”
He waved a hand in forgiveness. “Don’t worry about it, Marcie.” He took a sip of his coffee, licked his wrinkled lips, and said, “I don’t think that you failed to go on your trip because of finances. Money is nothing but paper. It can be made anywhere in the world. I believe that what is stopping you is fear. Fear of leaving and then finding out that you aren’t capable of doing what you thought. You are afraid of failure, my child.”
That comment hit Marcie like a slap in the face. She fell back into her leather seat. She whispered to herself, “I’m a coward.”
“Yes, you are.” Father Reinhardt agreed. Marcie looked at him with disbelief on her face. He continued, “You are a coward, I’m a coward, everyone in the world is a coward at one time or another. Being brave is scary. That leap of faith seems a lot further once you’re standing on the ledge, but you mustn’t let that stop you from achieving what you want. You are a strong individual, Marcie.
I can tell. How else could you have paid your way through school with nothing but a waitressing salary? If my opinion means anything to you, I say that you can succeed at anything you put your mind to. The devil himself cowers from your path forward.”
Marcie sat up in her seat and wiped away the tears that were threatening to spill down her rosy cheeks. “You think I should go for it?”
"I will not make the decision for you. You are the master of your own path.”
Marcie left the booth and told father Reinhardt thank you before returning to the back of the diner. She placed the coffee pot on it’s hot plate and strode toward the back door where her turquoise jacket was hanging from the coat rack. Pulling it on, Marcie made her way to where
Strom was leaning over the sizzling grill. She tapped him on the soft part of his shoulder. The behemoth turned and looked down on the 32-year-old woman. “What is, Marcie? Get back out there and help the customers, will ya? We’re about to get slammed from the retirement party that just got out at the community center.”
Marcie untied her white apron with both hands behind her back and handed it to Wilson. He clutched it with a confused look. “What the hell is this, Marcie?”
“Consider it a resignation letter.” She smiled so big it almost hurt. “I quit.”
Wilson snorted and turned back to the grill. “Good one. You can’t quit, Marcie. You couldn’t make it out there without this job.”
She put two fists on her hips and spoke loud and clear. “You’re wrong, Mr. Strom! I Can make it out there. I don’t need you or this crummy job. I’m going to go live the life that I want!” She pushed through the sliding door into the seating area. Wilson’s screams could be heard throughout the small diner. Most of the customers looked worried, but Marcie ignored the shouts. Her stomach was in knots and she was sure she was seconds from puking her breakfast all over the floor. For her dignity, and the appetites of the customers, she held it down and strode from the building. She went straight home, packed a bag, and was on a plane to Paris early the next day. She had never felt more frightened. Or more alive.
---
Walking into the cramped kitchen, Marcie saw Jacque hunched over the smoking grill. He was sliding her breakfast onto a paper plate. He looked back at her in the doorway and smiled. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty, how was your sleep?”
Marcie grabbed the plate from him and started eating a slice of bacon standing at the counter. “It was relaxing, I feel refreshed.”
“You look refreshed.” He looked at her the way most women wanted to be looked at by the man they loved; infatuated, respected, and with so much admiration that you feel like anything is possible. It was the same look he gave her when their eyes met as she made her way out of the terminal and underneath the WELCOME TO PARIS sign.
“How’s the writing coming along? Did you get any done yesterday?”
Let me know what you all think. It's still got some polish that needs to be done. Maybe some character changes, as well. Anyway, See you all tomorrow.
Buh-bye.
Anyway, I've got another story for you guys. It's about a woman named Marcie. She had a dream, a plan to succeed, and almost didn't follow through. She thinks back to her struggles and how she was stuck in a rut. It wasn't until she got advice that showed her the importance of taking that leap for her dreams, no matter how scary it seems. I hope you all enjoy the story.
Leap of Faith
Marcie stirred in her sleep as the sharp smell of black pepper and pig fat invaded her dreams. She opened her eyes and took a moment to adjust herself to the ceiling above her, which rocked back and forth like a giant crib. Sitting up, she slipped her toes into the fluff of the new plaid slippers Jacque had gotten for her while they were docked at the Tamil Nadu coast in India 2 weeks before; or was it longer than that? She couldn’t remember. The days had begun to bleed together since she began her voyage.
Marcie rolled off the cot and stood on the cold wooden floor. She steadied herself with the guard rail beside her bed as her balance familiarized itself with the ship’s constant bobbing. She breathed in the mesmerizing scents of bacon and eggs being fried two doors down in the tiny kitchen. The smell brought her back to more than 6 months ago; back when Marcie was nothing more than a mediocre waitress at a mediocre diner in the middle of Mediocre-ville, USA. She stood in front of the grimy mirror across the closet-sized bedroom and stared blankly at her reflection. It always took her a few seconds to recognize herself these days. She was not the same woman as the one that left everything behind. Marcie grabbed the toothbrush from the sink and began monotonously scrubbing as she thought back to the day she left her old life behind.
---
“Order up!” Shouted Wilson, “Come on Marcie, I’ve got eggs getting cold ovuh’ere!” “Grab ‘em before they re-harden into a shell.” He tapped his spatula onto the little golden bell, and an ear-splitting ring pierced through the tightly-packed diner. At once, Marcie shoved a hand through the swinging door in the back. She grabbed the plate of fried embryos and walked it to father Reinhardt, who sat with his hands clasped and head slightly lowered. He looked to be preparing for the upcoming prayer of his breakfast. She slid the plate in front of the old man.
“Here you are, father. Sorry for the wait. Can I get you anything else?”
Father Reinhardt raised his head to see Marcie. “It’s perfectly alright, Marcie. Thank you. I’ll just have another cup of coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all, father. Besides, I could use the extra karma.” She winked and walked off to grab the coffee pot for him. She went back through the swinging door and headed for the pot, but her path was blocked by a giant wearing a white apron stained with too many grease spots to be called legally sanitary. Wilson’s arms were crossed over his bulbous stomach as he towered over her. She could see he wasn’t in a good mood today, but if you asked around, people would say they’ve never seen Wilson in any mood above brooding.
“Marcie . . .” He began with a low grumble, which meant that she was on her last straw, or her final strike. It was always a toss-up for Wilson’s choice of metaphor. “You were late again today.”
“I know, Mr. Strom, but it was only a few minutes, and you know how bad the roads can get after they freeze. I had to bike slowly to keep from-”
Wilson Strom waved a meaty finger in front of her face. “No more excuses, Marcie. This is the third time this month you’ve been late. I’m trying to help you, but you won’t even help yourself.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Strom, I promise it won’t happen again.”
“I’ve heard that too many times now, Marcie. I don’t know how much longer I can let it slide.” He reached back and grabbed the full coffee pot. A sliver of steam poked out from its spout. He handed it to her. “Just get back to work. This is your last straw.” He lumbered past her and returned to the grill. Marcie stood with the pot in her hand for a second before catching her breath and walking out the door.
She tried to keep her composure as she refilled father Reinhardt’s beige mug to its brim. The old priest grabbed her wrist. “Everything alright, child?”
There’s no hiding things from a priest, Marcie thought. Any place can be a confessional.
Marcie’s poker face cracked a little as she looked down at the man, and that was all he needed to gesture for her to sit at the booth. Marcie looked around at the rest of the diner to make sure no one else needed any assistance. She was glad to see nobody did, and she sat down across from him. He leaned forward in his seat and whispered, “Tell me what’s on your mind, Marcie.” His face was warm, and the deep crevices carved there gave him an almost mystical wisdom that made it easier to talk to.
Marcie took a deep breath, “I don’t know. I’m just not happy anymore, father.” She waited for some sort of reply, but the man just continued to stare into her eyes, so she continued. “I had dreams. I wanted to see the world and write about my experiences with different people and cultures.”
“And why haven’t you done these things?” Marcie expected his voice to sound condescending, but father Reinhardt sounded genuinely curious at what she was saying.
Marcie stammered with her words. Trying not to make too many un-needed excuses. “I don’t know. I . . . I guess it’s partly my own fault. I was in school, way back when, majoring in journalism. That’s why I got this job. I was paying my way through and trying to save up enough money to start.” She brushed a curl of hair out of her face and behind one ear. She had never talked about her dreams with someone before. As back as she could remember she was alone. No one to talk to, or help her with anything.
Father Reinhardt continued staring without saying anything. “That was ten years ago today. I swear to God. I remember shaking Mr. Strom’s hand when he told me I got the job. I thought, ‘this is it. This is where I start making it on my own.’”
“And why didn’t it?” Father Reinhardt chimed in with all the politeness a holy man can offer. Which is quite a lot.
Marcie slid a hand over her tightly pulled back hair and said, I don’t know . . . School got expensive and I had bills that needed paid. It all started to slowly fall apart around me. Now I’m here. Ten years later and still struggling to make ends meet at this shit-hole.” Her eyes widened in fear. “Sorry, father.”
He waved a hand in forgiveness. “Don’t worry about it, Marcie.” He took a sip of his coffee, licked his wrinkled lips, and said, “I don’t think that you failed to go on your trip because of finances. Money is nothing but paper. It can be made anywhere in the world. I believe that what is stopping you is fear. Fear of leaving and then finding out that you aren’t capable of doing what you thought. You are afraid of failure, my child.”
That comment hit Marcie like a slap in the face. She fell back into her leather seat. She whispered to herself, “I’m a coward.”
“Yes, you are.” Father Reinhardt agreed. Marcie looked at him with disbelief on her face. He continued, “You are a coward, I’m a coward, everyone in the world is a coward at one time or another. Being brave is scary. That leap of faith seems a lot further once you’re standing on the ledge, but you mustn’t let that stop you from achieving what you want. You are a strong individual, Marcie.
I can tell. How else could you have paid your way through school with nothing but a waitressing salary? If my opinion means anything to you, I say that you can succeed at anything you put your mind to. The devil himself cowers from your path forward.”
Marcie sat up in her seat and wiped away the tears that were threatening to spill down her rosy cheeks. “You think I should go for it?”
"I will not make the decision for you. You are the master of your own path.”
Marcie left the booth and told father Reinhardt thank you before returning to the back of the diner. She placed the coffee pot on it’s hot plate and strode toward the back door where her turquoise jacket was hanging from the coat rack. Pulling it on, Marcie made her way to where
Strom was leaning over the sizzling grill. She tapped him on the soft part of his shoulder. The behemoth turned and looked down on the 32-year-old woman. “What is, Marcie? Get back out there and help the customers, will ya? We’re about to get slammed from the retirement party that just got out at the community center.”
Marcie untied her white apron with both hands behind her back and handed it to Wilson. He clutched it with a confused look. “What the hell is this, Marcie?”
“Consider it a resignation letter.” She smiled so big it almost hurt. “I quit.”
Wilson snorted and turned back to the grill. “Good one. You can’t quit, Marcie. You couldn’t make it out there without this job.”
She put two fists on her hips and spoke loud and clear. “You’re wrong, Mr. Strom! I Can make it out there. I don’t need you or this crummy job. I’m going to go live the life that I want!” She pushed through the sliding door into the seating area. Wilson’s screams could be heard throughout the small diner. Most of the customers looked worried, but Marcie ignored the shouts. Her stomach was in knots and she was sure she was seconds from puking her breakfast all over the floor. For her dignity, and the appetites of the customers, she held it down and strode from the building. She went straight home, packed a bag, and was on a plane to Paris early the next day. She had never felt more frightened. Or more alive.
---
Walking into the cramped kitchen, Marcie saw Jacque hunched over the smoking grill. He was sliding her breakfast onto a paper plate. He looked back at her in the doorway and smiled. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty, how was your sleep?”
Marcie grabbed the plate from him and started eating a slice of bacon standing at the counter. “It was relaxing, I feel refreshed.”
“You look refreshed.” He looked at her the way most women wanted to be looked at by the man they loved; infatuated, respected, and with so much admiration that you feel like anything is possible. It was the same look he gave her when their eyes met as she made her way out of the terminal and underneath the WELCOME TO PARIS sign.
“How’s the writing coming along? Did you get any done yesterday?”
Let me know what you all think. It's still got some polish that needs to be done. Maybe some character changes, as well. Anyway, See you all tomorrow.
Buh-bye.
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