Inside and Out

He recited a passage in old Gaelic and paused, peering over the rims of his reading glasses.  “Anyone?”  We sat at our desks in various poses, leaning forward with furrowed brow or gazing off to contemplate the Irish greenery outside our window.  Carlow's lawn stretched away from the building like a kelly drop-cloth, almost obscuring its Celtic cross on one side and ancient rock on the other.  It was bordered in pink, yellow and white roses.

“I’ll let you hear it again,” he said.  His glasses slid further down his nose and he peered at us with ice-blue eyes.  He repeated the passage, more slowly this time, letting the ancient rhythms roll over the class like a wind waves over a wheat field, swooshing softly while it skims overhead.

“Still no one?” he asked.  Heads shook around the room.  Our mentors, side-by-side in the second row, glanced at one another and shrugged.  My creative nonfiction mentor moved to the edge of his seat and cradled his chin in his hand, ear crooked toward our afternoon guest speaker.  The room waited.  Still and silent.

“It’s from the Gospel according to Mark,” he said.

“Well, no wonder,” I thought and looked outside to watch the leaves curtsy and bow to the rhythm of the rain.  Around me, the room murmured and rustled back to life.

Comments

[Anonymous]

Why don't you rewrite this and submit it as a 6? It would be great!