Pancakes and Silence (A Short Story)

 Recently, I posted a Facebook status that challenged anyone and everyone to give me writting topics for a short story that I would post here, to my blog. This is the first one and I have Natalie Carr to thank for the story topic "eating pancakes with a monk". Without further a due, here is the story...

Pancakes and Silence

 

        The stillness of the room was deafening. My patience was lingering only by a thread, as I waited and waited for something to happen. Anything. Keeping my body still as I sit awkwardly on my knees was impossible. My breathing was louder than anything else in the room. Louder than the fifteen Monks that sat along me and across from me at the lowered table. They seemed like majestic, stoic creatures that couldn’t possibly be human. How can anyone be this quiet, most of the time? There is no way in hell I could, I know that. Respect.

         I am here because I have something to prove. To myself, and to everyone else, I must prove I can be silent. I came her three days ago. For three long days I have wanted to ask questions, say hello, speak in some way. A vow of silence seemed easy until the end of the prayer; when the oath was official. This is the hardest thing I have ever done.

A monk entered the room. He was dressed slightly different than the other Monk’s. He was wearing a robe like then, but the rope waist belt wasn't tan, it was gold. He sat at the head of the table. I knew now that I would at least hear sound louder than my impatient breathing. He spoke a poetic prayer that he spoke at every meal. I couldn’t understand it, but the importance of it soaked into me like water soaks into a sponge.

         With my head bowed, and ears open, I waited for the meal to be passed silently down the row. Then I could nod a thank you to the kind man next to me and eat. I was so hungry. Three meals a day are served at the Monastery, but they are meager tasteless meals. Usually rice, or beans, or something equally as boring. Today, it was pancakes.

        When the plate is passed to me, I look at the man next to me and he is grinning. His smile is goofy, and huge and it catches me off guard. I laugh out loud and then immediately regret my own disrespect. I piled a small stack of them onto my plate and passed it to the next Monk who looked at me with judgement in his eyes. I know he was thinking of my inexcusable laughter. I should have cared more and gave him an apologetic look back, but I didn’t. I wanted pancakes.

         I searched the table for syrup, for butter, for fresh fruit. Anything to elevate these pancakes and make them what they deserve to be. There was nothing. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I know life in the Monastery means to use as little as possible to get by. Syrup is a frill and Monks are a no-frills kind of people.

         I couldn’t help but think of the monk’s grin. I wanted to know why he was grinning. Was today special? Was there something he knew that I didn’t? Was he just a smiley guy? Or maybe, he was smiling so big because of the pancakes. Don’t pancakes bring out the innocent child in all of us? I wish I was grateful enough to grin ear to ear over a small stack of plain pancakes.  I guess I need to spend a little more time here, living amongst majestic, stoic, creatures that smile like children. Human children.