Untitled - Story in Progress

My name is Harold. My last name isn't all that important. I reck'n that most will have forgotten it by now. I belong in a town called Claysdale. Small town as most go. 'Specially in this day and age. No longer those mom and pop shops, family owned and all. No, now there are those big cities and all those businesses that squash us little guys. Well that aint be what I am writing all this down for. You see, this small town Claysdale, had more goin' ons than most would realize. T'werent in the papers or nothing. Just local sorts.

Claysdale is in Colorado. Not by a main road and most times we are snowed in when a blizzard comes. These folks had to rely on some home remedies from time to time, which suited us just fine. Of course we had our own mischief and hardships but we were happy. Well, that was before. Now, it aint that fine or even happy here. Instead, its like a black cloud has come over the town. Not so much praying as before and some queer ones a'comin in, talkin' about educatin' us ignorant folks. We may not be as learned as others but we get along just fine. Also know when what they are spewing aint from God but from the Devil himself.

There also be folks here that are having to hide their Gifts. The city folks comin' in seem right eager to find them out and that ken only mean trouble. Martha, her Gift is being real happy, seems right now dour. She looks as gray as a ghost having to hold all that in. Susan has told her boys to keep quiet about what they what they see. “Too risky” she says. Well its this man's opinion that what's risky is keepin it all quiet. Dangerous, too. So, while I don't know much, I do know what is right and what isn't. Eddie told me about you, Preacher, and well if you can help us than that would be mighty fine. Bless ya Preacher.

Harold.

Roger leaned back with a sigh. He had read the letter over several times since he had open it this morning. Written in scrawled handwriting that was hardly legible did not help him feel that this wasn't some prank. Included with the browned letter was a map that supposedly led to this town, Claysdale. He couldn't find it on any map or even Google. Nothing.

Why am I even considering this? Well, this man had called him a Preacher but that wasn't really accurate. He hadn't even entered into Seminary and was still thinking about it. Shifting between being a Physical Therapist or a Minister was about as far as he had gotten. Already he was 25, with parents and peers expecting something out of him. What, he didn't know, other than it better be something.

He peered around his room. It was in and of itself not worth much. A worn out desk with a few cracks held up a laptop, college applications, books and more books. He loved to read, much to others chagrined. Most simply did not understand the joy of feeling pages leaf through your hands instead of moving a mouse to scroll down a screen.

He had a small twin bed on the far wall. Some random pictures that his mom had said would make his room more appealing. Small dumbbells were against his doubled door closet. A overhead ceiling with a dim light completed it. While it wasn't much, he was relatively comfortable here.

Roger read over the letter once more. Gifts. This man, Harold, had spoken of Gifts. What in the world was he talking about? Oh, surely Roger knew about the Gifts of the Spirit. But that was only for the Apostles, not for today. If they were, wouldn't people be raising the dead or something? He bit his lower lip, a habit he did when he was thinking. I'll figure this out later.

He shoved his laptop into his bag, pulled a skull and crossbone baseball hat on, and braced for stepping out his bedroom door. He already knew what he would see: Mom with bleary shot eyes from lack of sleep and overwork with a pile of cigarettes next to her. He no longer argued with her about it. There was also that overwhelming wall of secrets between them. They both just promptly ignored it.

Roger took a breath, stepped out the door, mumbled a bye which he received no response to and made a beeline for the door. He only started to breathe easy again when he was in his truck and had started the engine. A red 1993 Dodge Ram pick-up was his pride and joy. He felt like he had some power and control behind the wheel. That was until he pulled up to the non-descript building five miles from home. Then all his feeling of power went out the window and dread took its place.