February 23, 2010
Prompt: “Strange things happen,” he said.
"Strange things happen," he said, "and usually when you least expect it". Smiling at her as she walked down the hall towards him, their first meeting replayed in his mind. She had arrived early, as she most always tried to do especially for appointments and when she was going someplace new. He wasn't completely ready for the meeting, but he had smiled then too. A welcoming and friendly smile, making her feel less stressed. She found that gesture, of a simple smile, something to look forward to with each of their subsequent meetings. He never let her down. Now, looking at her as she entered the room, he felt the calming warmth of her presence, unpretentious yet professional. He was fond of her. He hadn't expected it but this time, he thought, maybe a friendship could develop. Either way, for now he planned to just enjoy her company as they worked.
--Nancy Janssen, RBWG member
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Strange things happen when you try to do good. She had volunteered her services for a small nonprofit that seemed to hold the promise of growth, inspiration and learning. Little did she know that she was doomed from the start. Her liaison between board and organization turned out to be the most unprofessional person she could imagine. He consistently wasted her time by lying, manipulating and over-promising. To make matters worse, he prompted others to basically spit in her face for helping out. "We don't care what you think", they would say. "You can't possibly understand," they would say. "Why haven't you brought on someone with skill sets we need," they would say. "What - you don't have the money" for our teachers. "Never mind, we don't care; we want it anyway," Reason did not prevail. We asked for their help and again we were shouted down, threatened, chastised, insulted and finally they used the all-important word, "sue". Strange things happen when you try to do good.
-Marcia Plotkin, RBWG member
* * *
One day later I turned my car down the avenue that led to Savara’s house. I felt a sense of foreboding as I walked to the side door. There was an emptiness about the place and a cruel drama being played inside. Mrs. Mishra stood for a long moment looking out at the street of slanted shadows before she let me in. Her three-year-old daughter stood trembling, her dress bunched up in her fists. I sat and called her over. I put my arms around her frail body and she cuddled into my lap.
“Show me where you put Savara when you punish her,” I said. She opened the basement door. I put the child down and walked over to the dark cellar; I was greeted by a dank musty odor as I peered down the stairs. “Turn on the light. I said
“There is no light,” she said. I knew then that this is a house where strange and terrible things happen.
--Eileen Callan, RBWG member
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