Eustace was a mild-mannered minister whom everyone liked. His
elderly parishioners looked forward to his visits and the school-children
enjoyed his slide-show talks, but at weekends he became a different man.
On Saturdays he locked his study, sat at the desk he had inherited
from a long line of fire-and-brimstone preachers, and wrote furiously. His
congregation cringed when he stormed into the pulpit on Sundays and scoured
their souls of hidden sins with his sermons.
Afterwards they filed out of church in subdued awe, asking Eustace
what inspired such eloquence, but he wasn’t ready to confess to being a
ghost-writer.
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Thanks once again to Rochelle http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ for this week's Friday Fictioneers' photo prompt.
This picture immediately made me think of my father - he used to write his sermons at a similar desk, although Pa needed no ghosts to inspire his sermons.
If you follow the link on Rochelle's blog you can read what the photograph meant to other writers.
