From Those We Love the Most
Part I
Sister Hazel was aware that the Diet Pepsi may have been too much for her weakened heart. It was all that caffiene, hitting her at once, like a thousand dogs on the trail of some bloody animal. The carcass they could smell and the carcass was HER and all those dogs were some advanced metaphor for caffiene near-poisoning. What ten-year-olds are dragged into the ER for after they have a Red Bull. Never mind.
She lived an independent lifestyle, first of all. Second, yeah she was a nun, by the Blessed Order of Saint Oksana the Hermit.
"Who?" most people would say after she explained her obscure division. She would then shake her head and cluck her tongue in the most nun-appropiate of manners.
It fit with her introversion and her preference for being at home. She was married to Jesus, but Sister Hazel would not find herself stuffed into a hatbox with several other smelly women. It was the 2000s, after all, and nuns tended to be older rather than younger. As of this year, Sister Hazel was a good, solid, 43. 43 added up to 7 and that is how many days there are in God's divine week. Sister Hazel appreciated that.
The train was full of younger people, mostly. And by younger, teenagers. They were sullen and moody and on their cell phones and with their legs spread out and listening to their iPods too loud and not talking to anyone but their peers in loud, gabby voices that threatened to pierce Sister Hazel's delicate eardrums.
The bass on one young man's was definitely inexcusable. He was listening to rap and moving his head up and down, up and down. Sister Hazel rubbed the plastic, cold bottle in her weather-beaten hand and sighed.
"Could you..." she started to say but then her voice drifted out and over the heads of everyone in her traincar. She lacked the courage, or moral fortitude, to tell the boy he was giving her the migraine of the season.
Sister Hazel was aware that the Diet Pepsi may have been too much for her weakened heart. It was all that caffiene, hitting her at once, like a thousand dogs on the trail of some bloody animal. The carcass they could smell and the carcass was HER and all those dogs were some advanced metaphor for caffiene near-poisoning. What ten-year-olds are dragged into the ER for after they have a Red Bull. Never mind.
She lived an independent lifestyle, first of all. Second, yeah she was a nun, by the Blessed Order of Saint Oksana the Hermit.
"Who?" most people would say after she explained her obscure division. She would then shake her head and cluck her tongue in the most nun-appropiate of manners.
It fit with her introversion and her preference for being at home. She was married to Jesus, but Sister Hazel would not find herself stuffed into a hatbox with several other smelly women. It was the 2000s, after all, and nuns tended to be older rather than younger. As of this year, Sister Hazel was a good, solid, 43. 43 added up to 7 and that is how many days there are in God's divine week. Sister Hazel appreciated that.
The train was full of younger people, mostly. And by younger, teenagers. They were sullen and moody and on their cell phones and with their legs spread out and listening to their iPods too loud and not talking to anyone but their peers in loud, gabby voices that threatened to pierce Sister Hazel's delicate eardrums.
The bass on one young man's was definitely inexcusable. He was listening to rap and moving his head up and down, up and down. Sister Hazel rubbed the plastic, cold bottle in her weather-beaten hand and sighed.
"Could you..." she started to say but then her voice drifted out and over the heads of everyone in her traincar. She lacked the courage, or moral fortitude, to tell the boy he was giving her the migraine of the season.
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Sister Hazel is most definitely a reference to the 1990s band.
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