For three weeks, I have participated in a writing challenge over at Frankie’s Wining Room with a focus on points of view. This week’s challenge takes a turn in a slightly different direction and is hosted by Katie Rene Johnson. Each piece is intended to stand alone, but if you (like me) enjoy seeing the chronological progression of things in writing, I recommend you read excerpts in order. This is the second piece of flash fiction in the What’s In A Name writing challenge. The entire series begins in Illness, Achievements, and Challenges. Enjoy!

“Welcome to my orchard.”

Charles’ jaw dropped. Or it would’ve, if he’d still had one. Before his eyes appeared a phantom—a spiritual giant of a man who had revolutionized the entire North Hill neighborhood before America ever heard of any Great War. “You’re the Reverend Caesar Frayne. I have—had—a copy of every book you ever published. You were my inspiration.”

The apparition dipped his head in modest acknowledgement. Only he didn’t look like an apparition to Charles. He looked as normal as any human can look in 2016 wearing a 125-year-old 3-piece suit with a pocket watch, cufflinks, and a fedora.

Somewhere in the back of his brain, Charles wondered if they were visible to humans. He doubted it. He didn’t believe in ghosts, purgatory, or any of that other nebulous stuff. He’d devoted his life to preaching the Gospel, cutting it straight from the Word of God and leaving no room for speculation. He believed wholeheartedly in “absent from the body, present with the Lord,” and expected at any moment to be treading on golden pavement.

So standing on meticulously manicured lawn in the churchyard at North Hill Presby, staring at his own tombstone and chatting with the ghost of Reverend Frayne, was not exactly what he had in mind when, on an impulse, he’d ripped open his harness and plunged sixty-two stories from the construction site into oblivion. Having trusted in God while being led into the ministry, he had trusted in God through the death of his son and the departure of his wife. Through the encouragement of the presbytery to “take some time” to cope with the tragedies. To reconcile with his wife, who had already ripped him up one side and down the other for being behind the wheel when they were T-boned by a pickup that ran a red light.

“I don’t understand,” Charles protested, “I don’t belong here. I don’t believe in this—place. Wherever or whatever it is.”

Caesar’s ghost placed a hand on his shoulder. Or appeared to, anyway. “Son, it matters not what you believe or disbelieve. You are here, now, and the task set before you is that which you are intended to accomplish.”

Charles turned and looked directly at him. “I don’t know what to do.” He felt utterly defeated, thoroughly confused, and infinitely betrayed. Everything he had ever known or believed to be true was disintegrating.

Caesar’s expression sobered, intensified, and Charles distinctly sensed emotion radiating from him. What was this place? He could feel Caesar’s recognition. All of it. The reverend had once been in this position, too.

“For unto whomsoever much is given…”

“Of him shall be much required.” The words surprised Charles, tumbling bitterly out of his spirit as if they had been premeditated. He looked accusingly at Caesar. “You keep doing that. Why?”

Caesar ached for him. Charles could sense it, and if he’d still had his spine, it would be prickling. “Would you please use words,” he burst out in frustration, “instead of broadcasting emotion, or whatever you call what you’re doing?”

He responded with a grin, “May I call you Charles?” At Charles’ nod, he continued, “Let me show you something you’ve probably seen before, but most likely haven’t noticed.”

He followed Caesar across the cemetery, to where a mature black walnut tree presided over a bunch of berries that were for the birds. He halted at a familiar headstone and gestured for Charles to come closer. “I’ve noticed, in your time at North Hill PC, you often visited this location. But did you ever take time to look closely at the edge of this gravestone?”

Charles merely glanced at the front face of the stone. This was the good reverend’s grave, its marker bearing his name and vital statistics. He stepped closer to look at the design along the edge, and realized it was actually a quote of some sort.

“Read it aloud, Son.”

“Thou artless, common-kissing hugger-mugger?” Charles was confused. “That’s Shakespeare, isn’t it? Does it mean what I think it does?”

“I requested they put it on there,” Caesar replied. “I constantly felt like a failure, never living up to the standards I felt were required of a man in my position.”

Charles nodded in agreement. He could identify with that, having lost everything that was dear to him—including his ministry. He had failed everyone—his son, his wife, his congregation. Percy. Everybody at the job site—oh, dear God, everybody there that day had seen him plummet—“What have I done?” he cried out in anguish. “I’ve ruined everything. Oh God, forgive me!”

I already did. He could sense it clearly, almost as if the words had been spoken aloud. Only this time it didn’t feel like they came from Caesar. He cast a questioning gaze in the Reverend’s direction.

“Ah, good. So that’s been taken care of, then.” Caesar reached for his pocket watch and checked the time. “It’s a good thing, as we have an appointment in the city.”

“We do?” Charles was beginning to wonder if confusion had become his permanent state.

Caesar chuckled. “Relax, Son, we simply have a message to deliver. After that, you get to go home.”

Home. Charles could sense it stronger than ever before. Gold and pearls were but details. Once he’d taken care of business, he would see his Saviour face to face. “We’re going to see Percy, aren’t we?”

“That we are,” replied the reverend.

Charles took off like a shot, speeding his way across the city toward the 62^nd floor. He couldn’t explain, could only follow the impression, the knowing with certainty that what he was about to do was right. Hopefully, Caesar could keep up.

Now it’s your turn. Leave a comment or send me a message to give feedback. Check out the writing challenge for yourself if you are curious to see how different individuals have approached the same material, or if you would also like to participate.

Until the next time…