Nimble up there - Short Story By R. P. Singletary

 

Nimble up there

Short Story

By R. P. Singletary 

Cumulus, stratus, cirrus. And what was the fourth? She looked hard, but the answer wasn't up there. Not any more or any higher. As high as she tried to reach. Above the broken steeple. She wished the performances this year would raise enough to repair it.

The bass rhythms from the courtyard vibrated the young woman's white folding chair. Practically no one had shown up for the first autumn concert, and they were the co-hosts for the entire season. Was everybody still down on the Gulf, working remotely or actually vacationing this go-round?

Phyllis tapped her on the shoulder.

“I didn't mean to frighten you,” her friend said. “Nowhere close to Halloween, and man, you so jumpy lately.”

The woman shrugged.

The clarinetist hit it hard. Phyllis swayed her arms in front of them, trying to change the subject without using a word. Music solves so many problems. She considered herself a professional.

The woman thought the antics merely called more attention to all the empty chairs ahead of their row. Any way, she managed a smile for Phyllis. She was her oldest friend in the big city. They had been singing in the choir together since they'd met at church, what, twenty-two years ago this past spring?

The young soloist on the small outdoor stage nailed the high note. Phyllis winked at her old friend, interrupting her thoughts again. She smiled and hoped she hid her irritation once more. They both knew Phyllis could go even an octave higher than the lone singer's reach, soaring heavenward at the sad moment in the selection. Phyllis could work that wonder, unlike the cloud-counter sitting beside her.

The woman reached for another herbal cough drop in her purse. When she unwrapped it, she and Phyllis entertained the same thought. They both ignored commenting. The woman herself had been able to hit higher notes. For over two decades, she had been the star soprano in every Christmas and Easter cantata in the sanctuary right behind them. Until this year. When the surgery had changed everything, right before the weird rains started, changing the weather pattern and the clouds shrouded the metropolis, ceasing the concerts until now. Odd the timing, the stiff thoughts of the aged.

Nimbus, she answered her own question. That's when she last saw those clouds. They had damaged the steeple, that spiritual voice in the sky. Nimbus, she mumbled to herself, like nimble. And she commenced to hum an old hymn for the first in a long time.

R. P. Singletary is a lifelong writer and a native of the southeastern United States, with recent work in Literally Stories, Litro, Teleport, CafeLit, JONAH, Ancient Paths Christian Literary, Flora Fiction, Stone of Madness, Screen Door Review, Lost Lake Folk Opera, The Stray Branch, Bending Genres, and elsewhere.