Thursday, September 26, 2013
The Delusion of Christians
Do we delude ourselves when we say that we are Christians? Or do we prove our Christianity by what we do?
"But prove yourselves doers of the word, and not merely hearers who delude themselves. For if anyone is a hearer of the word and not a doer, he is like a man who looks at his natural face in a mirror; for once he has looked at himself and gone away, he has immediately forgotten what kind of a person he was." (James 1:22-24 NAS)
Delusion is one of the great tricks of Satan; with it, he can convince us that we are indeed practitioners of Christianity when, in fact, we may merely be thespians in a Christian role. Oh, I don’t think we intentionally don our dramatic persona; I think we’re just afraid to look at the truth about our Christianity. If we did, we might find ourselves recognizing that our professed faith requires more of us than we are willing to give. The great hallmark of Christ was His giving – He gave us hope, salvation, eternal life with God, and a purpose to our lives. That purpose is to give so that others might come to know Christ and receive that which He would give. To do that, though, requires true Christianity.
Christianity is both faith and action; by faith we accept Christ as our Savior and by action we demonstrate to the world that our faith is tangible. Faith, without demeaning it in any way, is simply believing in something that cannot be empirically proven. We all have faith – faith that gravity will always be there, faith that the sun will rise in the morning, faith that we will be loved by our spouses. Action, though, demands something of us – our energy, our willingness to give of ourselves, a commitment. As James so aptly puts it:
"Even so faith, if it has no works, is dead, being by itself." (James 2:17 NAS)
When James speaks of our looking at our natural face in a mirror and, immediately upon turning away, forgetting what kind of a person we truly are, he is reminding us that we are incapable of seeing the genuine reflection of what and who we are. A true mirror will exactly reflect our image but through our own self-deception and Satan’s distortion we believe that we are something other than what our image displays.
The First Time I Saw Eileen
The first time I saw Eileen, I must admit that I was underawed. Here was a woman with an Afro that stuck out about 12 inches on either side of her head. She was wearing a peasant blouse with 2 tassels in rather obvious locations and an old pair of faded jeans. She had on hippie-styled granny glasses and no shoes. She was sitting in a sort of lotus position on the sofa in the house of my shipmate Robbie. It was a blind date; you know, the kind that you say that you will never participate in and yet you somehow end up being a part of.
My day had been quiet – in fact, it was about 9 AM and I was asleep on the ship when I was told that I had a phone call on the quarterdeck. You must remember that this was prior to the invention of cell phones. After getting dressed and stumbling up the ladder to the quarterdeck, I heard Robbie saying that a friend of his wife was staying with them and would I like to come over and have dinner with them. My brain was saying “No thank you – I have something to do tonight” but my mouth was saying “Sure, Robbie, what time?” I immediately tried to correct the situation but Robbie didn’t give me time. “About 5,” he said and hung up.
Great. Just great. Well, I wasn’t about to make any special concessions for someone that I had never met, so I went in my very best (well, at least it was clean) plaid flannel shirt and jeans. Did I mention that I had on my Navy-issued glasses? The ones everyone called “birth control” glasses? And I arrived in my white Ford F-150 pickup truck. Definitely a man of distinction and impeccable taste. But back to Eileen.
We obviously had nothing in common other than we were both breathing and alive. I’m sure she was contemplating a sit-in or something as a protest against the military-industrial complex that she thought I represented and I was anxiously hoping that the cops would show up and save me from someone who was undoubtedly an anarchist. No such luck. We ended up sitting across from each other at dinner and I had to admit that she was good-looking although I probably wouldn’t want to introduce her to my folks.
The evening kind of dragged by and I was glad that soon it was about over and I could escape. I had managed to survive without creating any problems or making a total fool of myself. As I was getting up to leave, I was going to say “Thanks, I had a nice time” and head for the door but it didn’t work out quite that way. Instead, I said “Hey, would you like to go to a movie tomorrow?” And the rest, as they say, is history.
Something Unexpected in a Happy Meal
Now, don’t get me wrong but Happy Meals aren’t exactly my thing. I know, I know – the kids love them but, for me, there just isn’t enough food in there to keep a mouse happy, let alone a gourmand such as myself. I have on occasion bought one, although I am careful to indicate it is for my grandchild. Honestly, I only buy Happy Meals for the toy in the box – not the food.
I did find something in a Happy Meal one time that was so unexpected that I couldn’t believe my good fortune in receiving that particular box. After all, how many people do you know that have a ¾ inch plastic pistol that can get you arrested if you carry it into a school? Aren’t those things illegal? Well, don’t tell anyone but I did get one and I have to admit that it is definitely scary, especially after I used my pocket knife (also illegal in schools and in airplanes) to remove some of the excess plastic that tends to extrude from little plastic toys. And, the fact that it is green makes it look almost like it has been sitting somewhere in an area unprotected from the weather and it gained a patina of verdigris. Almost an antique.
I think I am going to give it to the little brat next door and encourage him to take it to school to show his friends – won’t his dad have a hard time explaining why his “wonderful little Tommy” has been arrested and is in jail awaiting trial for terrorizing the school teachers with his gun. I can only hope that none of them have a heart attack at seeing such an obviously dangerous instrument; however, should it happen, I doubt that I would lose much sleep over it.
Light My Fire
“Come on baby, light my fire. Come on baby, light my fire. Try to set the night on fire”
Thus sang Jim Morrison in early 1967. The inference is, of course, obvious and although this is certainly not the only song that influenced the fire of the sexual revolution of the 60’s, it was almost certainly one of the songs that helped to fuel it. Compare those words of Jim Morrison to the words of Elvis Presley just 11 years or so earlier:
“Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfilled. For my darling, I love you and I always will.”
Not quite so much fire involved there – more of a quiet, caring and thoughtful approach that would, in just a few years, be considered trite and old-fashioned.
I, for one, loved both songs. "Love Me Tender" evoked that soft side of my nature (yes, there is a soft side of my nature) while "Light My Fire" appealed to my fascination with that which is chaotic and agitated (yes, believe it or not, I can be chaotic). And, even though I was only 11 when Elvis sang his song, I knew that love was supposed to be tender and caring. I knew that love was supposed to be permanent and committed. I knew that there was supposed to be one love in your life.
At 21, well – that was a different story that we will not go into here. All I can say is that I am delighted that I have come back around to that 11-year-old’s point of view again. As I get older, I realize that chaos is not all I thought it would be - can any of us say that life is better now than it was when Elvis sang "Love Me Tender"?
Thus sang Jim Morrison in early 1967. The inference is, of course, obvious and although this is certainly not the only song that influenced the fire of the sexual revolution of the 60’s, it was almost certainly one of the songs that helped to fuel it. Compare those words of Jim Morrison to the words of Elvis Presley just 11 years or so earlier:
“Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfilled. For my darling, I love you and I always will.”
Not quite so much fire involved there – more of a quiet, caring and thoughtful approach that would, in just a few years, be considered trite and old-fashioned.
I, for one, loved both songs. "Love Me Tender" evoked that soft side of my nature (yes, there is a soft side of my nature) while "Light My Fire" appealed to my fascination with that which is chaotic and agitated (yes, believe it or not, I can be chaotic). And, even though I was only 11 when Elvis sang his song, I knew that love was supposed to be tender and caring. I knew that love was supposed to be permanent and committed. I knew that there was supposed to be one love in your life.
At 21, well – that was a different story that we will not go into here. All I can say is that I am delighted that I have come back around to that 11-year-old’s point of view again. As I get older, I realize that chaos is not all I thought it would be - can any of us say that life is better now than it was when Elvis sang "Love Me Tender"?
My Version of Gone With The Wind
Just for Miss Ev and with sincere apologies to Margaret Mitchell
Gone With The Wind
A poem I sat to write but ere a word was penned
I found, to my chagrin, my thoughts were gone with the wind.
Alas, now what to do? I don’t think Evelyn would buy
That my words had been stolen by Yankees, evil and sly.
The dog ate my homework seemed less than appropriate
And I didn’t want to risk that she would expropriate
My seat in writers group henceforth and for evermore
I cringed at hearing her proclaim “Nevermore!”
I’ve got it, this excuse she will have to believe!
I swear my assignment I had achieved,
But that final act of Sherman’s occupation
Caused my paper to burn in Atlanta’s conflagration.
Gone With The Wind
A poem I sat to write but ere a word was penned
I found, to my chagrin, my thoughts were gone with the wind.
Alas, now what to do? I don’t think Evelyn would buy
That my words had been stolen by Yankees, evil and sly.
The dog ate my homework seemed less than appropriate
And I didn’t want to risk that she would expropriate
My seat in writers group henceforth and for evermore
I cringed at hearing her proclaim “Nevermore!”
I’ve got it, this excuse she will have to believe!
I swear my assignment I had achieved,
But that final act of Sherman’s occupation
Caused my paper to burn in Atlanta’s conflagration.
6-Word Novels
One of our exercises in writing group was to write a complete "novel" in just 6 words. Not an easy task, I can tell you. Below are some of mine (and certainly not the best of our group!).
Senate seat for sale, call Blago.
Hope and change - lost, not found.
Market crashes; acrid smoke; splattered blood.
I love Congress; smoke and mirrors.
Red and yellow, summer is over.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
He Adjusted His Glasses and Read It Again
He adjusted his glasses and read it again… it still read the same way – cancer; terminal cancer. Slowly he put the paper down and removed his glasses. From habit, he pulled his handkerchief out of his back pocket and proceeded to wipe the lenses of some imaginary speck of grease, some dirt that may have caused him to misread the letter. He knew, of course, that he had not misread it; he didn’t make mistakes of that kind. The finality of the diagnosis pulled at the edges of his mind, threatening to crumble that invincible wall that he had so carefully placed around his feelings so many years before.
Reluctantly, he picked up the letter and scanned it again, hoping to find some small imperfection that he could use to destroy its credibility. It wasn’t that he couldn’t believe it – it was that he refused to believe it despite his awareness that the doctor was a man of impeccable character and capability. The top man in his field within a 500 mile radius of his home; a man that had politicians, movie stars and captains of industry as his clients.
Should he tell his wife? Should he lay the burden on her shoulders as well? Would it not be kinder to keep her unaware of the situation until it was too far gone to be hidden? Or was it merely cowardice on his part that sought to hide the truth from his partner of more than 35 years? The truth was that she might figure it out on her own even if he didn’t say a word about the letter or its contents. He never underestimated her ability to discern when things were just not quite right but he hoped that he might use some diversion that would throw her off.
With a sigh, he realized that, in all fairness, he should let her know – after all, she believed in sharing all things. Even the bad things. He just hated hurting her even when he knew that it was the right thing to do. How would her life be after the cancer had its way? How would she cope with the grief? Life was such a fleeting thing at the best of times and death was the end for everyone but why did it have to be cancer? Why not a simple falling asleep and failing to wake up?
He pushed back his chair and went in search of his wife. She was, more than likely, in the garden tending to her flowers so he opened the French doors that opened onto the patio and stepped outside. The garden lay before him, a thing of beauty that reflected the beauty of its keeper. He found her kneeling in front of the fountain watching the gold fish in the pond darting in and out of the lily pads.
“Sweetheart, I have some rather bad news,” he said.
Even as he said it, he knew that he had not approached it with the grace that he needed to. Her shoulders hunched slightly and she slowly turned around. Her beauty staggered him as it always did when he first glimpsed her face – it was incredible how much he loved her.
Bravely, she smiled and looked at him questioningly – waiting for him to reveal to her what was weighing so heavily on his mind.
“The doctor confirmed it – its cancer.”
A shadow crossed her face and then the determination that was such a part of her shone forth.
“Well, she has had 14 good years and, after all, cats don’t live forever. Just don’t tell her, please – she wouldn’t understand.”
Reluctantly, he picked up the letter and scanned it again, hoping to find some small imperfection that he could use to destroy its credibility. It wasn’t that he couldn’t believe it – it was that he refused to believe it despite his awareness that the doctor was a man of impeccable character and capability. The top man in his field within a 500 mile radius of his home; a man that had politicians, movie stars and captains of industry as his clients.
Should he tell his wife? Should he lay the burden on her shoulders as well? Would it not be kinder to keep her unaware of the situation until it was too far gone to be hidden? Or was it merely cowardice on his part that sought to hide the truth from his partner of more than 35 years? The truth was that she might figure it out on her own even if he didn’t say a word about the letter or its contents. He never underestimated her ability to discern when things were just not quite right but he hoped that he might use some diversion that would throw her off.
With a sigh, he realized that, in all fairness, he should let her know – after all, she believed in sharing all things. Even the bad things. He just hated hurting her even when he knew that it was the right thing to do. How would her life be after the cancer had its way? How would she cope with the grief? Life was such a fleeting thing at the best of times and death was the end for everyone but why did it have to be cancer? Why not a simple falling asleep and failing to wake up?
He pushed back his chair and went in search of his wife. She was, more than likely, in the garden tending to her flowers so he opened the French doors that opened onto the patio and stepped outside. The garden lay before him, a thing of beauty that reflected the beauty of its keeper. He found her kneeling in front of the fountain watching the gold fish in the pond darting in and out of the lily pads.
“Sweetheart, I have some rather bad news,” he said.
Even as he said it, he knew that he had not approached it with the grace that he needed to. Her shoulders hunched slightly and she slowly turned around. Her beauty staggered him as it always did when he first glimpsed her face – it was incredible how much he loved her.
Bravely, she smiled and looked at him questioningly – waiting for him to reveal to her what was weighing so heavily on his mind.
“The doctor confirmed it – its cancer.”
A shadow crossed her face and then the determination that was such a part of her shone forth.
“Well, she has had 14 good years and, after all, cats don’t live forever. Just don’t tell her, please – she wouldn’t understand.”
An Unusual Phobia
Write about an unusual phobia...
Okay, let’s do this right – let’s inquire into the meaning of “Unusual Phobia” – break it down into its component parts:
Unusual - uncommon in amount or degree
Phobia - a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it.
Well, there’s my fear of falling off high places like cliffs and high bridges or tops of buildings and while that fear is persistent, it isn’t irrational and it isn’t unusual. After all, falling off high places is inimical to life as we know it so it could hardly be a phobia.
Okay, how about my fear of aliens conquering the earth? Nope – that’s not it; while that is more than likely uncommon in degree and may be irrational, it is not a persistent thing with me (I only worry about it when I’m awake) so I guess it isn’t a phobia.
You know what? This writing assignment was a little more difficult than I originally thought. What would be a fear that I would have a compelling, uncommon desire to avoid? Well, there’s the movie Chamber of Fear with Boris Karloff? Maybe that would count since it has fear in the title? No; I like Boris Karloff and only werewolf movies really scare me – I mean, OMG – the hair growing on the arms and the claws growing out from the ends of the fingers! Now that is scary but it’s hard to have a phobia about something that isn’t real (they aren’t real, are they?).
An unusual phobia...
Okay, how about a phobia of the mailman? After all, they deliver things from the government and I DEFINITELY have a phobia (or at least a paranoia) about stuff that comes from the government so maybe by extension that could be an unusual phobia.
Nah – that’s probably not unusual enough to satisfy the Eradicator of Egregious Elucidations for whom I must write. Not that she is so obviously evil, mind you, but misplace a comma or muddle your syntax and beware the Wrath of the Wicked Witch of Wordsmithing!
I mean, come on! I don’t think this is in the running for a Pulitzer or anything, is it? Or a Newberry award? A Reader’s Digest feature of the month? I didn’t think so.
I guess I’ll just have to admit I don’t have any phobias that are unusual and take my lumps.
Okay, let’s do this right – let’s inquire into the meaning of “Unusual Phobia” – break it down into its component parts:
Unusual - uncommon in amount or degree
Phobia - a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it.
Well, there’s my fear of falling off high places like cliffs and high bridges or tops of buildings and while that fear is persistent, it isn’t irrational and it isn’t unusual. After all, falling off high places is inimical to life as we know it so it could hardly be a phobia.
Okay, how about my fear of aliens conquering the earth? Nope – that’s not it; while that is more than likely uncommon in degree and may be irrational, it is not a persistent thing with me (I only worry about it when I’m awake) so I guess it isn’t a phobia.
You know what? This writing assignment was a little more difficult than I originally thought. What would be a fear that I would have a compelling, uncommon desire to avoid? Well, there’s the movie Chamber of Fear with Boris Karloff? Maybe that would count since it has fear in the title? No; I like Boris Karloff and only werewolf movies really scare me – I mean, OMG – the hair growing on the arms and the claws growing out from the ends of the fingers! Now that is scary but it’s hard to have a phobia about something that isn’t real (they aren’t real, are they?).
An unusual phobia...
Okay, how about a phobia of the mailman? After all, they deliver things from the government and I DEFINITELY have a phobia (or at least a paranoia) about stuff that comes from the government so maybe by extension that could be an unusual phobia.
Nah – that’s probably not unusual enough to satisfy the Eradicator of Egregious Elucidations for whom I must write. Not that she is so obviously evil, mind you, but misplace a comma or muddle your syntax and beware the Wrath of the Wicked Witch of Wordsmithing!
I mean, come on! I don’t think this is in the running for a Pulitzer or anything, is it? Or a Newberry award? A Reader’s Digest feature of the month? I didn’t think so.
I guess I’ll just have to admit I don’t have any phobias that are unusual and take my lumps.
Shadows - A new short story
Shadows
Shadows. Illusions. Shape-shifters. Perhaps cosmic dust that had been spreading since creation. None of us knew the truth. The mood of depression and defeat that encapsulated all of us was palpable. Sure, we were all hand-chosen for this mission and had suffered through extensive psychological testing prior to that selection. A more stable group of people could not have been found and, yet, all of us were unnerved by the shadows.
None more so than Silva. He had been transformed from a man with huge reservoirs of strength and an unshakeable faith in his own courage and capabilities to a near-catatonic lump of trembling flesh that would not walk. We briefly debated the merits of trying to take him with us. No one wanted to leave him but we had no way to carry him without further endangering ourselves and he would not walk. Surely he would understand what we had to do, wouldn’t he? I made the decision to leave him.
He cried in silence but did not fight us as we squeezed him into a cleft in an overhanging rock that almost completely hid him from view. Why we were hiding him or what we were hiding him from was unknown to us. Those of us who believed in a merciful God said a quiet prayer for him, knowing full well that he would soon be dead.
Now there were only 6 of us left out of the original 15 who had left the ship. We had repeatedly tried contacting the 3 men we had left with the ship but it was like speaking into an acoustic dead zone; we had no idea if they just couldn’t hear us or if they were no longer there. I would never admit it to my crew but I was certain that they were not there – making it an even dozen of us that were dead.
We could not begin to guess what had killed the people we were leaving behind – they were just dead. Not a single death had been witnessed by any of us. Each man was unmarked, with no wound or evidence of what had killed him. Yet, each face was a grotesque death-mask and terror was permanently etched into their features.
At first, we tried to carry our dead with us back to the ship but it was simply beyond our capability. In the perpetual shadows surrounding us, each of us could barely look out for ourselves. Even had there been good lighting, the footing was treacherous. With the shifting shadows and the perilous terrain, being responsible for dead weight was just not possible. We lost Johnson when he fell and ripped his suit while trying to carry out Miller who had been the first person to die. We could only watch in anguished disbelief as Johnson choked, writhed and died as he tried to breathe the thin and poisonous atmosphere.
After we left Silva, I took point only because I was the leader; I wanted to remain in that cleft with Silva and just close my eyes. I wanted to shut out those illusions, those shapes, the terror. All fear is powerful but when all you can see are shadows and those shadows continually evolve into something that reaches deep into your psyche, the fear morphs into something enormously destructive. I had faced dangers and the fear that comes with danger multiple times in my career, but in every case I could see or at least know what it was that I was dealing with. Not here. Not even the powerful lamps we carried could remove the shadows – the light was simply swallowed up; like it couldn’t exist among the shadows; like it didn’t belong.
Only a few more kilometers to the ship and those of us who were left could leave this place forever. Leave the shadows. Leave the fear.
“Colonel, Stewart is missing!” Evans shouted. “He was right behind me and now he’s gone!” Panic was evident in Evans’ voice and that was nearly as dangerous as the shadows.
“Shut up, Evans! Just stop and get a grip; there’s no reason to lose control!”
What a joke. We had lost control within 24 hours of arriving in this God-forsaken place.
“Everyone just turn around. We’ll backtrack a bit and see if we can find him – he might have stopped for a moment to gather his strength.”
There was muttering at that command but they did turn around and start walking slowly back the way we had come. It was a compelling testament to their courage and the training they had received. We were scared and nearly broken, but we were still men. I was terrified and close to panic myself; I admit it. Stewart had been riding trail and now that we had turned around, I was riding trail. I couldn’t help thinking “It’s always the last man in line that dies.” I kept turning and looking behind me, expecting to see whatever it was that was killing us; expecting to die next. Before that could happen, though, the column stopped.
“Here he is, Colonel; he’s dead,” Evans muttered. “He looks just like the rest of them did.”
Evans was right – Stewart had the same look of horror on his face that all the other men had when we found them. Saying a silent prayer, I ordered the march to resume, leaving Stewart in the dust and shadows.
We were less than a kilometer from the ship when it finally occurred to me that I hadn’t heard anything from the men behind me for some time. I stopped and forced myself to turn around. Emptiness. Emptiness and shadows. Emptiness, shadows and fear. Who knew when the last man died or fell over? My heart hammered at my chest wall and it was then I knew that the shadows had won.
With grim determination, I turned back toward the ship and started to run; ignoring the possibility of falling and dying like Johnson. That seemed infinitely preferable to what had happened to all the others.
In one of those inexplicable twists of life, the shadows momentarily cleared and I could see the ship standing tall and proud and ready to return me to safety and sanity. It was so close!
I ran faster in an effort to beat the return of the shadows and, with them, my certain death. I knew it would be in vain. I could feel the breath of something unknown and unseen close at my back – something ancient and evil. I pushed myself harder in an effort to escape. The last thing I saw was the shadows closing back in over the ship and I knew it was too late; too far; too difficult. My screams went unheard by anything human.
Shadows. Illusions. Shape-shifters. Perhaps cosmic dust that had been spreading since creation. None of us knew the truth. The mood of depression and defeat that encapsulated all of us was palpable. Sure, we were all hand-chosen for this mission and had suffered through extensive psychological testing prior to that selection. A more stable group of people could not have been found and, yet, all of us were unnerved by the shadows.
None more so than Silva. He had been transformed from a man with huge reservoirs of strength and an unshakeable faith in his own courage and capabilities to a near-catatonic lump of trembling flesh that would not walk. We briefly debated the merits of trying to take him with us. No one wanted to leave him but we had no way to carry him without further endangering ourselves and he would not walk. Surely he would understand what we had to do, wouldn’t he? I made the decision to leave him.
He cried in silence but did not fight us as we squeezed him into a cleft in an overhanging rock that almost completely hid him from view. Why we were hiding him or what we were hiding him from was unknown to us. Those of us who believed in a merciful God said a quiet prayer for him, knowing full well that he would soon be dead.
Now there were only 6 of us left out of the original 15 who had left the ship. We had repeatedly tried contacting the 3 men we had left with the ship but it was like speaking into an acoustic dead zone; we had no idea if they just couldn’t hear us or if they were no longer there. I would never admit it to my crew but I was certain that they were not there – making it an even dozen of us that were dead.
We could not begin to guess what had killed the people we were leaving behind – they were just dead. Not a single death had been witnessed by any of us. Each man was unmarked, with no wound or evidence of what had killed him. Yet, each face was a grotesque death-mask and terror was permanently etched into their features.
At first, we tried to carry our dead with us back to the ship but it was simply beyond our capability. In the perpetual shadows surrounding us, each of us could barely look out for ourselves. Even had there been good lighting, the footing was treacherous. With the shifting shadows and the perilous terrain, being responsible for dead weight was just not possible. We lost Johnson when he fell and ripped his suit while trying to carry out Miller who had been the first person to die. We could only watch in anguished disbelief as Johnson choked, writhed and died as he tried to breathe the thin and poisonous atmosphere.
After we left Silva, I took point only because I was the leader; I wanted to remain in that cleft with Silva and just close my eyes. I wanted to shut out those illusions, those shapes, the terror. All fear is powerful but when all you can see are shadows and those shadows continually evolve into something that reaches deep into your psyche, the fear morphs into something enormously destructive. I had faced dangers and the fear that comes with danger multiple times in my career, but in every case I could see or at least know what it was that I was dealing with. Not here. Not even the powerful lamps we carried could remove the shadows – the light was simply swallowed up; like it couldn’t exist among the shadows; like it didn’t belong.
Only a few more kilometers to the ship and those of us who were left could leave this place forever. Leave the shadows. Leave the fear.
“Colonel, Stewart is missing!” Evans shouted. “He was right behind me and now he’s gone!” Panic was evident in Evans’ voice and that was nearly as dangerous as the shadows.
“Shut up, Evans! Just stop and get a grip; there’s no reason to lose control!”
What a joke. We had lost control within 24 hours of arriving in this God-forsaken place.
“Everyone just turn around. We’ll backtrack a bit and see if we can find him – he might have stopped for a moment to gather his strength.”
There was muttering at that command but they did turn around and start walking slowly back the way we had come. It was a compelling testament to their courage and the training they had received. We were scared and nearly broken, but we were still men. I was terrified and close to panic myself; I admit it. Stewart had been riding trail and now that we had turned around, I was riding trail. I couldn’t help thinking “It’s always the last man in line that dies.” I kept turning and looking behind me, expecting to see whatever it was that was killing us; expecting to die next. Before that could happen, though, the column stopped.
“Here he is, Colonel; he’s dead,” Evans muttered. “He looks just like the rest of them did.”
Evans was right – Stewart had the same look of horror on his face that all the other men had when we found them. Saying a silent prayer, I ordered the march to resume, leaving Stewart in the dust and shadows.
We were less than a kilometer from the ship when it finally occurred to me that I hadn’t heard anything from the men behind me for some time. I stopped and forced myself to turn around. Emptiness. Emptiness and shadows. Emptiness, shadows and fear. Who knew when the last man died or fell over? My heart hammered at my chest wall and it was then I knew that the shadows had won.
With grim determination, I turned back toward the ship and started to run; ignoring the possibility of falling and dying like Johnson. That seemed infinitely preferable to what had happened to all the others.
In one of those inexplicable twists of life, the shadows momentarily cleared and I could see the ship standing tall and proud and ready to return me to safety and sanity. It was so close!
I ran faster in an effort to beat the return of the shadows and, with them, my certain death. I knew it would be in vain. I could feel the breath of something unknown and unseen close at my back – something ancient and evil. I pushed myself harder in an effort to escape. The last thing I saw was the shadows closing back in over the ship and I knew it was too late; too far; too difficult. My screams went unheard by anything human.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)