Spires Like Reaching Hands Short Story

“Laissez les bons temps rouler.”

“Say what?” The young woman broke from the view of the busy street and shielded her eyes to take in the man sprawled at the wrought-iron table.

“It’s what the Louisiana French say: ‘Let the good times roll.”

The Louisiana French had to have something there on this fair Spring day. The pleasant fragrance of the pansies and sweet alyssum warming in the sun wafted from the railing planters of the rustic balconies. Tiny chirping mingled with the hubbub of tourists as the sparrows flitted into the blue washed canvas above Bourbon Street. It was perfect. Except...

“A breeze would be nice.”

“Nothing a cool drink won’t fix.”

Crammed into the corner of an intersection, the bar boasted of being among the oldest in the French Quarter, proving it with the exposed brick from the chipping exterior. With careful steps the couple had avoided tripping over the rutted wood floors to take a table on the patio.

He snapped his fingers, and the blonde waitress joined them.

“Another round of margaritas?” the waitress asked.

“How about we order something different, babe?”

“I’m concerned about the cost.” She shifted in her chair and toyed with the damp napkin from the previous beverages.

“When has money been a problem?”

Her gaze returned to the compact skyline. “You know what I mean…”

He smiled at the waitress and pointed at the menu. “The Forbidden Fruit for us, thanks!”

“See that spire over there?” She nodded once the waitress vanished into the dark interior. “How it seems to be reaching for something?”

He crossed his arms. “Come on. Out with it.”

“Have you tried it before?”

“The Forbidden Fruit?”

“Is it good?”

“Fabulous! It’s great mix of rum and grapefruit or something.”

“Grapefruit’s so-so with me.”

“Trust me, babe. You’ll love this.”

“You said that about the other thing, remember?”

“And I still say it: you can trust me.”

“I don’t like trying new things.” She scrunched the napkin in the palm of her hand.

“But it’s so simple. No need to go anywhere.”

“Is it safe?”

“What’s that?” He leaned forward as the waitress wiggled past his chair and placed the drinks on the table.

She took a tentative sip and shivered. “Is it supposed to taste like that?”

“Just give it a chance.”

“I’m not sure I want to.”

“Fine. Then don’t.”

“I just can’t be as confident as you.”

“You’re being a baby.” He winced at the wounded look she shot him and cleared his throat. “It’s so small you won’t even know you swallowed it.”

“But is it safe?”

He placed the glass down with a huff. “Come on, Whit. Millions take it every day.”

“Okay. Okay. Whatever you say.”

“It’s whatever you say.”

“Aren’t you the one doing all the talking?”

“Don’t make me into a monster, babe. I only want what’s best for you.”

She took another swallow of the amber liquid and wrinkled her nose. No shiver came, and she began to believe he was right. She cocked her head, squinting through the sun at him. “And if I don’t? Won’t that be the end?”

“It will end all the fun we’ve been having; all the fun we could have.”

“New York was nice, wasn’t it?”

“And Chicago. And Miami.”

“Something has to end.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“But something does, doesn’t it?” She pressed.

He flicked his phone on and scrolled through the notifications as the sparrows tweeted to each other in the boughs of the bordering tree. He exhaled and placed the phone on the table. “It’s nothing. At the most, a bunch of chemical reactions. It’ll all turn out good in the end.”

“The end,” she echoed.

“Would you stop thinking about it and just enjoy your Forbidden Fruit?” He took a long draught and nodded at her. “See? It’s delicious.”

The drink did taste better now. By the time she hit the bottom, she might even like it as well. Sure, she could like it. She could like it all because he knew what he was talking about.

She raised her eyes, singling out the dart sailing into the distant haze. “There goes another airplane. Just like the one that will take us away from here in a couple of hours... isn’t it?” Releasing the balled napkin she’d been squeezing, she jumped up and dashed to the railing overlooking the street. She gripped the wrought-iron until the metal dug into her skin.

He moved soundlessly beside her. “It doesn’t have to be the last flight for us.”

She sniffed, her restless eyes tracing the skyline. “That spire seems to reach for something in the open sky. But there’s nothing there. It won’t get what it wants. We won’t get what we want, will we?”

“Those planes can carry us to Seychelles, the Maldives, and Bora Bora.”

“But only later. Not presently, though.”

He exhaled. “Be logical.”

“Other couples make it work.”

He turned her face toward him. “But it’s more fun with just the two of us.”

She lowered her head to hide the rebellious tear sliding down her cheek. “And then what?”

“Europe?”

“And after?”

“Does it matter?”

“Even fun gets old.”

He threw his shoulders back and rolled his eyes. “Can you think of anything better?”

“I heard a… someone on a podcast.” She turned and leaned against the railing, monitoring his expression as she chose her words. “He talked about a man who died–”

He snickered. “And that’s going to help.”

“No… no. He said he died but was actually alive.”

“Houdini did that every day.”

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“People verified he was dead, though. But then he was alive again, and he even had the wounds to show them.”

“Come along. You need to get out of the sun.”

“Let go of my arm.” She pulled away, clinging to the railing. He threw his hands up and turned his back to her, pulling out his phone.

A cloud sailed over the sun, dousing the heat-bleached patio in somber hues. She studied the other patrons enjoying their drinks, and their carefree laughter caused her to wonder if they were even human. Surely all joy had vanished from the world, so how could they smile, let alone laugh?

“I wonder if he is right,” she whispered.

His thumb flicked up, scrolling through the social media photos, and she reiterated, “He might be right, you know.”

“Hhmm?”

“There might be more out there. We just don’t know it ourselves, and we need to be shown.”

“Anyone…” He faltered on a video, and she sighed.

“Anyone can record a podcast, babe.”

“And anyone can tell you it’s safe when it’s not.” She swiveled to face the street, her eyes magnetically returning to the beacon above the rooftops.

Shoving the phone in his pocket with a growl, he spun back to her. “What do you want? Seriously! What. Do. You. Want?”

“Maybe to know you love me!”

“Don’t be crazy–”

“Have you said it?”

“Those things don’t need to be said.”

“Then prove it.”

“Don’t do it–is that what you want to hear?”

“I-I am not sure…”

He threw his hands to the sky. “How? Then tell me how!”

“By going there.” She pointed at the skyline and sniffed. “With me. Now.”

“That’s not for us.”

“How do you know?”

“We’re a different kind of people from them,” he shot back.

“People change.”

“What do they really know?”

“We can find out.”

He tore away from her pleading eyes, but she grabbed his arms, forcing him to face her. “What have we got to lose?”

“Maybe everything.”

“Or maybe nothing.”

The fire of defiance in his eyes died, and he dropped his shoulders. The tenderness of his expression which first drew her to him returned, and he cupped her chin in his hand. A slow, regretful smile emerged. “Let me pay for the drinks… and then you can lead the way.”

She exhaled, releasing all the emotions tightly-knotted inside of her, and her hand moved instinctively to her belly.

“Do you want to finish your drink?”

She smiled and shook her head. He threw the bills on the table and reached for his glass, halting just as his fingertips brushed the sweating surface. He dropped his hand. “What made me think this tasted good?”

He returned, and reaching for her hand, they started down the street. The cloud passed on, and the sun once again beamed on their shoulders, but she no longer minded. The stately brick building rose before them, its erect presence standing the tests of time and proclaiming it for all to see by the white spire reaching like a hand into the azure expanse. She was just beginning to realize what the spire was reaching for, and there waited more in that open sky than a mass of nothingness.

He stopped short before the steps, his fingers drumming the side of his jeans. “Are you… are you sure about this? We don’t belong here, you know?”

She smiled up at him. “We’ll be fine. We’ll be just fine… now.”

THE END

Is there something familiar in the theme and structure of this short story?

Perhaps you’re wracking your brain to figure out where you’ve read a similar story.

I like to call Spires Like Reaching Hands my 99-year-old response to Ernest Hemingway’s short story. In Hemingway’s Hills Like White Elephants, a dilemma has arisen to blight the devil-may-care couple’s carefree and immoral lifestyle as they jaunt from continent to continent. Without outright pronouncing the word abortion, a topic which would be an even greater controversy in 1927, the man in the story doggedly attempts to coerce the “girl” he’s traveling with to go through with the procedure. He continually assures her the operation will be simple – not safe, mind you, and dangles their future happiness together on this linchpin. Exasperated, the girl at last comes to some internal resolve, though, in Hemingway style, the decision and ending are left ambiguous.

After being disgusted with what I read, I made a resolution of my own. Despite being 99 years late, there needed to be a rebuttal to this flippant handling of life in the womb while offering a more hopeful alternative in Christ to the dissipating lifestyle that could only end in dissatisfaction and despair.

Perhaps Spires Like Reaching Hands is not the most original in concept, nonetheless, I believe that since rubbish publications like this exist, there ought to be a clarion of truth in answer to them.

So, I hope you enjoyed my short story, and I’d like to know your opinion in the comments!