Grant Application Submitted to Fund Decision on Whether to Apply for Grant

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Act I – The Porch Where It Began

Boot Barnes sat in his usual chair on the warped front porch, one boot heel hooked against the railing like it had been measured and approved by some unseen authority. The late afternoon air hung steady, the kind that made even a breeze feel like paperwork.

Across the road, a pig lay in the exact same patch of dirt it had occupied since Tuesday. It blinked once, then resumed doing nothing with an intensity that could have been mistaken for purpose.

Clovis Strickland came up the steps holding a folder so thick it appeared to have its own gravitational pull.

Boot didn’t look up at first. “That pig moved yet?”

Clovis paused, checked the pig, then checked his notes.

“No,” he said. “But I’ve got it documented as ‘stationary under current conditions.’”

Boot nodded slowly. “Good. Wouldn’t want it relocating without proper clearance.”

Clovis set the folder down and flipped it open with the care of a man unveiling a plan that had already taken too long to explain.

“We’ve got an opportunity,” Clovis said.

Boot leaned back. “That so?”

Clovis tapped the top page. “There’s a grant available.”

Boot squinted. “For what?”

Clovis hesitated—not because he didn’t know, but because the answer required structure.

“It’s a planning grant,” he said carefully.

Boot stared at him.

“A grant to plan what?” Boot asked.

Clovis straightened slightly. “To plan how we might apply for a larger grant.”

Boot let that settle.

Then he looked back at the pig.

“So,” Boot said, “it’s money… to decide how to ask for more money.”

Clovis nodded. “Exactly.”

Boot leaned forward, elbows on knees.

“What does the grant do?”

Clovis opened his mouth, closed it, then flipped another page as if the answer might be hiding under better formatting.

“Well,” he said, “it allows us to explore options.”

Boot blinked. “Options for what?”

Clovis looked at the pig again.

“That,” he said vaguely, gesturing toward the entire town.

The pig did not move.

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Act II – Town Hall and the Shape of Possibility

The meeting at Town Hall filled slowly, not because people were eager, but because no one wanted to be the first to admit they didn’t understand why they were there.

Shelley Fawn Wexler stood at the front, holding a clipboard like it was the last solid object in a room of shifting intentions.

“Alright,” she said, tapping the microphone that wasn’t plugged in. “We are here to discuss the preliminary grant application.”

Trixie Jo Bartlett raised a hand.

“Preliminary to what?” she asked.

Shelley smiled the way one does when clarity is optional.

“To the full grant application process,” she said.

Tiffany Annette Roark leaned over to Ricky Travis “RT” Mullins.

“That mean we ain’t applied yet?” Tiffany whispered.

RT shrugged. “Sounds like we applied to think about applying.”

Clovis stepped forward.

“This is Phase One,” he said, pointing to a chart that contained arrows, circles, and one box labeled “Outcome (TBD).”

Mabel Dean Ashcroft sat near the back, arms folded.

“You don’t need money to start,” she said.

The room paused.

Shelley cleared her throat. “Well, this funding would help us determine where to start.”

Mabel tilted her head. “You start by starting.”

Pastor Arnold Peeler raised a gentle hand.

“Now, Sister Mabel,” he said, “there’s wisdom in preparation.”

Mabel looked at him.

“Preparation ain’t supposed to replace doing,” she said.

Sheriff Peeler leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“What’s the problem we’re solving?” he asked.

Clovis looked at Shelley.

Shelley looked at Clovis.

Finally, Clovis answered.

“We’re determining that,” he said.

Boot raised his hand slowly.

“What does the grant do?” he asked again.

Clovis inhaled.

“It funds the process of defining the scope of the issue.”

Boot nodded like he understood.

Then he turned to Daisy the hound, who was lying under his chair.

“Daisy,” he said, “you ever needed money to figure out what you was gonna do?”

Daisy thumped her tail once.

The pig, outside, remained in place.

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Act III – The Diner and the First Expansion

At the diner, the conversation spread faster than the gravy.

Lurleen Davenport set down a plate in front of Maggie Sue Dillard.

“They’re getting money to decide what to do with money,” Lurleen said.

Maggie Sue stirred her coffee. “Seems efficient.”

Evelyn Grace Tipton leaned in. “How much money?”

Lurleen shrugged. “Enough to study the question.”

Chester Ray Blevins, seated nearby with a stack of printed flyers he hadn’t yet distributed, chimed in.

“I printed out the grant summary,” he said. “It’s sixteen pages of explanation and one sentence of purpose.”

“What’s the sentence?” Maggie Sue asked.

Chester squinted at the paper.

“‘To facilitate a structured exploration of future funding pathways.’”

There was a long pause.

Santiago “Sonny” Morales leaned back.

“That’s a fancy way of saying ‘we don’t know yet,’” he said.

Doug “Doughboy” Teeter nodded. “But we’re gonna know real organized.”

Coach Freddie Stubblefield tapped the table.

“You can’t win a game if you don’t know what sport you’re playing,” he said.

RT looked up. “Are we playing a sport?”

Tiffany sipped her drink. “Feels like we’re watching one.”

Mabel walked in and took a seat without asking.

“You don’t need money to start,” she said again.

Lurleen sighed. “We heard.”

Mabel nodded. “Then why ain’t you starting?”

Across the street, through the diner window, the pig remained in the same place.

It had not yet been included in the grant.

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Act IV – The Sheriff’s Office and Jurisdiction

Sheriff Peeler sat behind his desk while Officer Kenny Joe Teeter shuffled through a stack of documents.

“Sheriff,” Kenny Joe said, “do we have jurisdiction over grants?”

Sheriff Peeler leaned back.

“Only if they break the law,” he said.

Kenny Joe nodded. “What would that look like?”

Sheriff thought for a moment.

“Applying without knowing why,” he said.

Kenny Joe flipped a page.

“That might already be happening.”

Sheriff stood and walked to the window.

He looked out toward the road, where the pig still lay.

“That pig moved?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Kenny Joe said.

Sheriff nodded. “Consistent.”

Dr. Neil Cowgill entered, holding a clipboard of his own.

“I’ve been monitoring the town’s condition,” he said. “There’s a rising level of anticipatory planning without corresponding action.”

Sheriff raised an eyebrow. “That serious?”

Dr. Cowgill nodded. “It can lead to paralysis.”

Kenny Joe looked concerned. “Is there a treatment?”

Dr. Cowgill considered.

“Usually,” he said, “you start doing something.”

Sheriff chuckled. “Mabel been prescribing that all week.”

Dr. Cowgill nodded. “She’s not wrong.”

Sheriff looked back out the window.

The pig blinked.

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Act V – The Church and the Blessing of Intentions

The church filled with a quiet kind of purpose that hadn’t yet decided what it was for.

Pastor Arnold Peeler stood at the pulpit.

“We are gathered,” he said, “to seek guidance on this endeavor.”

Sister Lila Mae “Hallelujah” Pruitt stood up before he could continue.

“Hallelujah!” she shouted. “We ain’t funding confusion!”

Pastor Peeler raised a calming hand.

“This is about preparation,” he said.

Mabel, seated in the third pew, shook her head.

“You don’t need money to start,” she said.

Sister Lila Mae pointed upward. “The Lord didn’t file a grant to make the world!”

Pastor Peeler sighed softly.

“True,” he said. “But He did plan.”

Mabel leaned forward. “He didn’t plan so long nothing got made.”

The congregation murmured.

Shelley Fawn Wexler, seated near the aisle, scribbled notes.

“This could be included in the community input section,” she whispered.

Trixie Jo leaned over. “What section is that?”

Shelley smiled. “The one where we show engagement.”

Mabel looked at Pastor Peeler.

“Are we doing something,” she asked, “or are we planning to plan to do something?”

Pastor Peeler paused.

Then he answered honestly.

“We are… preparing to prepare.”

Sister Lila Mae stood again.

“Hallelujah, that’s a circle!”

Outside, the pig remained still.

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Act VI – The Return to the Porch

Boot sat exactly where he had been, as if the porch itself required continuity.

Clovis returned, now carrying a second folder.

Boot didn’t look up.

“That pig moved yet?” he asked.

Clovis checked.

“No.”

Boot nodded. “Reliable.”

Clovis sat down.

“We’ve entered Phase Two,” he said.

Boot glanced at the folder.

“What’s Phase Two do?”

Clovis took a breath.

“It allows us to refine the scope of our exploratory planning.”

Boot blinked slowly.

“What does that mean?”

Clovis flipped to a chart.

“It means we’re narrowing down what we might consider.”

Boot leaned forward.

“Have we considered doing something?”

Clovis paused.

“That would be Phase Four,” he said.

Boot nodded.

“Seems like a long road to get where you already at.”

Clovis looked at the pig.

The pig did not respond.

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Act VII – The Crenshaw Intervention

Brett and Alyssa Crenshaw arrived at Town Hall with the energy of people who had recently moved somewhere and intended to improve it.

“We’ve reviewed the documents,” Alyssa said.

Shelley nodded eagerly. “And?”

Brett leaned forward.

“You’re applying for a grant to decide whether to apply for a grant.”

Clovis nodded proudly.

“That’s correct.”

Alyssa blinked.

“Why not just apply for the main grant?”

Silence.

Boot raised his hand.

“That’s what I asked,” he said.

Mabel nodded. “You don’t need money to start.”

Pastor Peeler cleared his throat. “There is value in structure.”

Alyssa tilted her head. “But structure without action…”

“…is architecture for nothing,” Brett finished.

Shelley scribbled that down.

“That’s good,” she said. “We can use that.”

Clovis looked uncertain.

“But if we skip phases,” he said, “we risk being unprepared.”

Mabel stood.

“You’re already unprepared,” she said. “You just got paperwork for it now.”

The room shifted.

Outside, the pig remained in place.

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Act VIII – The Final Review

The town gathered again, this time to finalize the grant application to fund the decision-making process.

Shelley stood at the front.

“We’ve incorporated feedback,” she said.

Trixie Jo raised a hand. “What changed?”

Shelley flipped a page.

“We added a section on potential outcomes.”

RT leaned forward. “What are they?”

Shelley read:

“Option A: Proceed with grant application.”

“Option B: Further study required.”

“Option C: Reassess after additional planning.”

Boot nodded. “That’s thorough.”

Mabel stood again.

“You don’t need money to start.”

Clovis stepped forward.

“But this ensures we start correctly.”

Mabel looked at him.

“There ain’t a correct way to begin something you ain’t beginning.”

Pastor Peeler sighed.

“We must trust the process,” he said.

Sheriff Peeler leaned against the wall.

“What happens if the grant gets approved?” he asked.

Clovis smiled.

“We begin Phase Three.”

Boot leaned back.

“And what does that do?”

Clovis answered.

“It allows us to determine the best approach to applying for the main grant.”

Boot looked at Daisy.

Daisy yawned.

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Act IX – The Submission

The application was submitted with ceremony.

Chester Ray printed a certificate.

Shelley took a photo.

Clovis tracked the submission in three separate logs.

Pastor Peeler offered a prayer.

Mabel stood outside, arms folded.

“You don’t need money to start,” she said one last time.

No one argued.

They were too busy waiting.

Boot walked out to the road.

He stood near the pig.

“Well,” he said, “you got any plans?”

The pig blinked.

Then, for the first time all week, it stood up.

It took three slow steps.

Then it lay down again in a new spot.

Boot nodded.

“Progress,” he said.

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Epilogue – Awaiting Funding

Weeks passed.

The town received notice.

The grant had been approved.

Celebration followed.

Clovis announced Phase Three.

Shelley scheduled meetings.

Pastor Peeler prepared a blessing.

Mabel shook her head.

“You don’t need money to start,” she said.

Boot sat on the porch.

“What does the grant do?” he asked again.

No one answered.

Across the road, the pig did not move.

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Disclaimer

This story is a work of fiction set in the fictional town of Sequatchie Crossing. All characters, events, and institutions are imagined for the purpose of satire. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or processes—especially those involving planning grants, phased funding, or decisions about decisions—is purely coincidental.

No pigs were funded during the writing of this story.

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At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.

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