Thoughts and Prayers A short story about school shootings

TW: In the light of the most recent school shooting, this story came to me from a prompt from my writers: "Why is that door always locked?"

Personal note: To all the victims, I am sorry; hopefully one day and one day soon, our lawmakers will work together to stop this violence against our kids.

Thoughts and Prayer's

Gwen wipes the damp from her face. The 134 families in the crowd can’t know and won’t know the guilt she’s feeling now. Billy, her husband, stands beside her, a few feet behind the pulpit, in a button-down blue shirt she wrestled to get him into this morning before the big reveal.

His wardrobe of choice now since Mary Jane passed away to a better place is a stained Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt and ripped jeans.

That’s if he gets out of bed.

The kids’ choir singing echoes through the church, but it’s muffled to Gwen’s ears, and grief distorts more than sounds lately.

Last week she told Billy she swore she saw MJ run across the street.

“MJ’s gone to the other place—hopefully the better place.” His gruff demeanor used to turn her on; now it upset her, and she upset him. He was upset she couldn’t shake off the grief and kept rolling around in it like a mud bath she couldn’t wash off.

Her voice was inaudible as she walked away from him. “I know she’s in a better place. Just wait until you see what I have hidden in the church.”

The anguish of losing her daughter had stolen her voice until … until she came up with an idea. A quick moment of clarity wrapped in the never-ending nightmare. The same nightmare that awoke her every night.

MJ’s flowing blonde hair as she ran past the lockers.

MJ’s legs dodged the bullets past Mrs. Williams’ classroom.

(Mrs. Williams didn’t make it either.)

MJ was in the open gym where other teens had fallen. Holding her side.

MJ is in the boy’s locker room, hiding under the coach's desk, thinking she’s safe.

“Mom, I love you. Mom, I’m Safe.”

The creak of a heavy door and POP! POP! POP!

That’s not fireworks on Gwen’s voicemail.

The choir stopped singing. They await the surprise that is behind the locked door.

Gwen’s face scrunches at the crowd, and doubt runs rampant across the new frown lines. Billy gives her a nudge.

The key in her hand weighs millions of pounds. Billy gives her a stern eye, saying: this was your idea; are you going to do it or not?

She grips the key hard and she rushes to the pulpit before her nerves vanish like the ghosts in the locked room.

Eyes of parents, caregivers, siblings, aunties and uncles sear through her soul. Now or never, she thinks, now or never to rid ourselves of this grief of this sadness to get our revenge…

“Ladies and gentlemen, parents and caregivers, aunts, uncles, siblings and friends the group Billy and I founded the Prevention of Gun Violence Against Children PGVA has done a lot in our communities to help us heal. However, this has not been enough; the congressmen offer thoughts and prayers.” She scans the crowd; they are on the edge of pews, waiting and wondering what the key holds, what more could the PGVA do? “We are not telling you to annihilate your anguish or bury your grief into a place that can’t be seen or touched or felt, but now some of these congressmen and women are wishing for their own thoughts and prayers.”

“What’s behind the door, GWEN?” a rowdy man who lost two kids calls from the third row. She glances back at Billy, who is urging her to get on with it; she can’t keep them waiting any longer.

“Please make a single file line and I’ll unlock the door. You all signed waivers at the beginning; anything you see in here shall not be discussed on the outside, and law enforcement shall not be notified or you will…join them.”

The children start up singing again. “By thy mercy.”

Gwen steps up to the Mahogany door, inserts the key, and opens the double doors for the guest to see. A red-haired woman peeks in and covers her mouth. She sprints to a trash can.

Her husband’s jaw is on the ground. Billy is at the pulpit now.

He announces, “Keep the line moving. If you have a weak stomach, I suggest you get out of line now.”

The line moves on until the last soul has looked into the room.

Gwen takes her place back at the front. “The door will remain locked until our grief is not a gaping hole, and thoughts and prayers no longer work anymore—from now on we only accept action.”

Gwen pauses, “If you have any suggestions for who should join in this room, leave it in the donation plates. There are several placed around the room.”

Several members of the crowd start filling out little sheets of paper and dropping in their donations.

The End.