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These brief, stammering illuminations brought out with ghastly distinctness the monuments and headstones of the cemetery and seemed to set them dancing. It was a dark summer night, shot through with infrequent shimmers of lightning silently firing a cloud lying low in the west and portending a storm. So, with no particular apprehension for his immediate future, he fell asleep and all was peace with Henry Armstrong. No philosopher was he - just a plain, commonplace person gifted, for the time being, with a pathological indifference: the organ that he feared consequences with was torpid. He had, withal, the invalid’s apathy and did not greatly concern himself about the uncommon fate that had been allotted to him.

But dead - no he was only very, very ill. His posture - flat upon his back, with his hands crossed upon his stomach and tied with something that he easily broke without profitably altering the situation - the strict confinement of his entire person, the black darkness and profound silence, made a body of evidence impossible to controvert and he accepted it without cavil. That he really was buried, the testimony of his senses compelled him to admit.

The fact that Henry Armstrong was buried did not seem to him to prove that he was dead: he had always been a hard man to convince. Rick is pursuing an MFA with Lindenwood University.

He works as a substitute teacher and writes when the kids are at recess. + Richard Manly Heiman lives in the California “Gold Country” where there is little gold and no water from which to pan it. When she finally finished pondering, she wrote “perseverance of the saints” on dozens of index cards and taped them up all over her apartment. But church secretary Julia Petry dwelled for months on the pastor’s final statement. A new pastor was installed and things gradually returned to normal. Over time all the talk and speculation died down. “They said they were going to conferences and such-but how do we really know?” Hattie James said more than once. The ladies in the Altar Guild continued to gossip about the frequent trips the Mitteres took. I think the both of ‘em was alien scouts sent here to spy on us before the rest of their gang invade!” The word in ‘the street’-the middle school youth group-was that pastor and wife only appeared to be present that night, and what everybody really saw were just highly sophisticated holographic projections. Zach Rodgers, oldest parishioner and considered highly eccentric, had other ideas: “I always thought those Mitteres was up to something. “He was a practical joker, you know.”Īfter a brief investigation, authorities ruled out foul play and figured it for a publicity stunt a collective conspiracy to attract new members. Tommy Holcomb, leader of Teens Afire, thought it was a gag. + In the weeks that followed numerous theories were advanced. And remember–perseverance!” With those words, in front of 48 staff and churchgoers, John and Teresa Mittere vanished. Then taking his wife’s hand, he announced, “So farewell everyone-at least for now. “No one explains Ezekiel like you do!” “Who will eat all the cookies during coffee hour now, John?” said Clare Little, the organist. “We’ll miss you too, preacher!” shouted Elias Fryar. “Well, dear,” his wife said, “I won’t miss the camping as much as you will.” This drew general laughter. From a distance, like the song.” Some of the older parishioners chuckled. But-know that we’ll be watching over you still. We’ll miss the potlucks and retreats, picnics and summer campouts. “Worshiping together every Sunday… Bible study… watching your children grow in body and spirit. “You are family to us–truly.” “We’ll miss you,” continued her husband. These five years at Holy Family Anglican Remnant have been amazing for us!” Reverend John Mittere told the assembled guests at his farewell party. Copyright 2016 The Fifth Letter a story by Richard Manly Heiman + “Thank you so very much, everyone, for a wonderful evening.