“…pray-for-us-sinners-now-and-at-the-hour-of-our-death-Amen.” Cassandra gasped. She was a big believer in saying at least four or five Hail Mary’s to a single breathe if possible. As she stood up from the empty pew, her knees popped loudly.
Cassandra was just lighting a vigil candle when a heavenly voice from above began to speak.
“Child…” It whispered. “You have been chosen…to devote your life to the one true Catholic Church!”
Cassandra froze; she just received “the call”! The blood rushed to her cheeks. She had been waiting for this moment her whole life!
The voice spoke again. “Remember… to check the church bulletins for upcoming community events!”
Cassandra raised an eyebrow. She looked up and saw a miniature speaker embedded in the ceiling overhead. Without batting an eye, Cassandra tipped over the table of vigil lights, and walked quickly out the doors as an inferno of flames ignited in the sanctuary behind her.
When the meteor fell to earth, a piece broke off in the atmosphere and landed on Mimosa Lane, taking out a chunk of road the size of a Buick. The residents, busy getting ready for work, rushed out to their front lawns.
“We’re under attack!” Some people screamed. Others marched their families back into the house and straight into their bomb shelters, not even stopping to finish breakfast.
When emergency crews arrived, they discovered that the hole in the street was shaped like an “X”. Speculations of this being a SIGN or perhaps even ALIEN TREASURE were tossed around wildly.
“I say we find out!” One neighbor declared.
Equipment was rented and permits obtained. After digging for weeks in an ever-widening area, the residents unearthed an ancient Indian burial ground. Though crestfallen, everyone on the block helped themselves to a skull souvenir before filling in the hole with steaming asphalt.
The problem with the nuns at Our Lady of Immeasurable Sorrow was that they had supersonic hearing, and that they were immortal. Most students figured the sisters could read minds, and it took so much of the children’s concentration to keep impure thoughts suppressed, hardly anyone misbehaved.
Scott Finnegan, however, was nothing but trouble: he fidgeted, his shirts were always untucked, and most days he fell asleep in class.
One morning Sister Mary Crapaud woke him with a sharp rap to the skull.
“Quit it, you old biddy!” Scott blurted out. The room went dead silent. Scott’s eyes filled with the fear of God. “I’m sorry!” He squeaked.
“This insolence will not go unpunished.” Sister Crapaud croaked.
The next day Scott was not in class. No one even acknowledged his empty seat. And that day at Morning Mass, the host wafers seemed especially fresh. In fact, they were still warm.