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Incoming…

Ideas are funny things. They tend to arrive out of the blue for no obvious reason, yet when they do, they arrive with remarkable clarity.

Why I would suddenly see a 15th century monk in a grocery parking lot is beyond me, but as I caught up with email yesterday morning, there he was…

Janetta Wilkins pushed her cart into the back of the line at the corral in the parking lot and turned to walk back to her car. The sun beat down on the blacktop, making her feel sympathetic for the roast she just purchased for Sunday dinner.

She first opened the passenger door and cranked the window down, then closed that door and trudged around the front of the car to do the same on the driver’s side, planning to let the air flow through the car before she slid behind the wheel.

That’s when she noticed the odd man walking into the parking lot from the field beside the grocery.

He was short and stocky, but what really struck her was his clothing.

He wore a long brown robe that appeared to be tied at the waist with a length of rope, a large hood resting on the back. His feet were in thin leather sandals, covered with dust and dirt. He was balding, with a crown of thick black hair that matched his unkempt beard. As he got closer, she saw that he had unusually thick eyebrows, nearly joined at the center, seeming to have a life of their own. His face was fixed in a grimace, his head tilted forward which made his eyes difficult to see from beneath the bushy brows.

Despite the oppressive heat, Janetta got in her car and immediately locked both doors and rolled up the windows.

That dude is seriously wrong, she thought, and I don’t need no trouble in my life today. She backed out of her spot and turned away from the man. It was the long way out of the lot, but as long as it was away from him, that was fine by her. She drove for three blocks before she pulled to the side of the road and opened her windows to allow the blissfully cool breeze to flow through as she continued on her way.

And it went on from there, about 2300 words worth of where the hell did that come from?

I suppose I may find out eventually, but if I don’t, no problemo. As long as it continues to tell me what it wants to say so I can capture it on paper, all is good.

Maybe… just maybe, it’s better if I don’t find out where they come from?

Peeking behind the curtains doesn’t always end well.

Sleep well…

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