No Room at the Inn
Written by Emma McCoy
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Hi everyone! As some of you may remember, I did a series last Easter that consisted of short stories from the perspective of a little boy from Jesus’ time. This little boy witnessed the events of Easter and struggled to make sense of them.
For Advent this year, I want to do something similar. But rather than take us back to Jesus’ time for his birth, I’m going to situate us in modern day. Follow along these short stories as I take us through a familiar story in an unfamiliar way. Can you identify all the parts of the Advent story? Here’s a hint: the narrator is an outsider, watching everything from ‘outside’ the story.
Advent: Week 1
No Room at the Inn
Someone was arguing downstairs loud enough for me to hear it through the thick wooden door. I paused, the cursor on my computer blinking. Should I go down to the lobby? I didn’t particularly want to. Someone else probably would. I wasn’t the kind of person to make a noise complaint. I wasn’t the kind of person to take time off work to travel halfway around the country on a whim, either, but here I was.
It was a strange thing. I’d been working a steady banking job for over a decade, perfectly fine with my apartment and paycheck and bi-annual visits to the parents and evenings spent with just me and a book. But last week a terrible ache seized me, one so powerful I hadn’t hesitated to follow the urge to take Labor Day weekend off like everyone else and travel. One “cozy inn for fall” Google search later, and here I was, surrounded by Maine’s finest trees and kitschy gift shops.
The arguing stopped downstairs. A relief. But when I tried to write again, any flickering inspiration I’d felt was gone. Poof. Blown out. Dried up. I sighed, waiting to feel irritated, but there was still nothing but the ache. I should probably be worried soon…
Rather than worry about it, I shut my laptop and walked downstairs. Just as I rounded the corner, fall wreaths lining the walls, the front door shut.
“Everything alright?” I asked the receptionist.
She scowled at me, her face only slightly softening when she realized I was a guest. I wasn’t really used to being a guest anywhere.
“It’s fine now,” she said, brushing away stray hairs that weren’t there. Behind her, a wooden sign proclaimed Welcome to your home away from home! in curly script. “I was trying to explain to them that there are absolutely no vacancies right now but they wouldn’t listen. It’s Labor Day Weekend, for Christ’s sake, not that I have to tell you that. It’s our busiest weekend of the year. Now, I do apologize about the disturbance. Can I help you with anything?”
I glanced out the front window just in time to see a couple walking away. The woman was very pregnant.
“She looks very young,” I remarked.
“There’s nothing I can do,” the receptionist said primly. “I doubt they’ll be able to find anything for a few days. They should have made arrangements in advance.”
“Where’d they come from?”
“I didn’t ask. Though they certainly don’t look like they’re from here. Now, is there anything I can do to help you?”
She wasn’t going to tell me anything else. I walked back to my room, but the image of the man and woman walking away stayed with me. I couldn’t write anything else that day. I laid on my bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking of nothing in particular until it was time for dinner. I ate alone in the packed dining room—families returning from day hikes, old couples showing each other the crafts they’d made that day, groups of women drinking wine. The ache was sharper, watching them. Was I jealous of their conversation? Togetherness?
Was I lonely?
After dinner, I took a shower and tried to read, but my attention kept slipping off the page. I took melatonin and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Around midnight, I woke up as suddenly as if someone had shouted my name into my ear.
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About the author
Spring Church member, Emma McCoy (M.A.), has two poetry books: This Voice Has an Echo (2024) and In Case I Live Forever (2022). She’s been published in places like Across the Margin, Stirring Literary, and Thimble Mag. She reads for Chestnut Review and Whale Road Review. She’s probably working on her novel right now. Catch her on Substack: https://poetrybyemma.substack.com/