The Silly Siberian Story

Proposed Church Building Project, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I've decided on a new strategy for writing. Instead of trying hard to write well and failing, I will start out writing as poorly as I can with the reassuring thought that I can only improve. This story in particular is dedicated to my friends at the Orthodox Writer's Guild. May you stay warm and write well.

Aaron
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It was a dark and stormy night in deepest Siberia. The church was encrusted with snow and ice obliterating all trace of color to the point it looked like a white cardboard architectural model in a church fellowship hall. The worshippers in their big furry Russian-looking hats scurried inside like homeless mice looking for bread crumbs. They would not have batted a frozen eyelash if Dr. Zhivago himself had pulled up in a horse drawn sleigh with his girlfriend named Lara.

Inside the church-cum-ice palace they huddled in a shivering mass looking for all intents and purposes to be a giant sleeping bear which was ironic because this region of Siberia was known as Ursa Somnolus. The walls might as well have been made from cardboard in trying to keep out that ultra-severe bone chilling cold, but as I mentioned earlier this was not an architectural model in a church fellowship hall somewhere in the MidWest, but a bona fide Russian Orthodox peasant church from deepest Siberia in which this story is set, OK?

So, where was I? Oh yes, the figurative sleeping bear was waiting for the service to begin. The mighty Russian deacon tromped out onto the solea but not before the bell ringer's mallet shattered the brittlely frozen bell into a million little singing pieces signaling the service to begin. Nonplussed, the deacon bellowed out with a deep basso profundo voice that set the church's foundations to shaking. The huddled mass of wooly worshippers began to awaken as large cracks began to spread through the floors, like what happens in movies when they try to really ratchet up the suspense. With nary a whimper the colorless structure collapsed into a heap of sanctified rubble.  KA-RAAASH!  BOOM!  *secondary explosions*

Within minutes a supersonic helicopter zoomed in overhead and a lone figure erupted from its innards like a black condor giving birth. With only feet to spare the figure deployed his parachute at the last possible second and pounced on the pile of ruble. It was none other than Vladimir Putinovich himself who promptly ripped off his shirt and began throwing large beams of wood off those trapped below. His torso steamed with sweat and super human effort. Within minutes everyone was freed, had been given CPR, and were communed with the reserve host from the altar which had been left miraculously untouched by the cataclysm.

Dr. Zhivago never did show up, but they all lived happily ever after anyway.