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.”
Thursday, August 22, 2013
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.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Write about The Front Door Slammed
The Front Door Slammed
Wham!
I jumped as the front door slammed behind me. Fear washed over me in waves of ice water and I struggled to breathe. I shivered even though it was August and the muggy heat of Chesapeake had previously been sapping every bit of energy out of my old, tired body. It was a fear reprised from childhood when the front door slamming invariably meant pain and humiliation was soon to follow.
I was an only child – mostly because my mother refused to bring another child into the world to face the drunken wrath of my father. Consequently, it was me and me alone who had to bear with the beatings and near-starvation. Surprisingly, my father was never unkind to my mother even when drunk – unless, of course, you counted the beating of her only child as being unkind to her. He never laid a finger on her, almost never had a cross word for her and was constantly bringing sweet, unexpected gifts to her. Usually just before he beat me.
It had, obviously, been many years since my father had beat me – he died peacefully in his sleep more than thirty years ago. No, I had nothing to do with his death, although I had often turned the idea over in my mind more than once - even as a grown man. No, it was a natural thing. He even looked kind and somehow angelic lying there in his coffin. It was all I could do to pretend to mourn but I felt that it was required of me in order to protect my mother. No one ever knew about that side of my father – no one but me and my mom. She had tried to protect me but my father had created a small prison out of a closet and if she interfered, he would put her into it until the beating was done. I'm amazed that my mom retained any degree of sanity at all.
I have never married. How could I risk the possibility that something evil and foul lived within me and could, at any moment, leap out to destroy my family? No, it was better that I remain alone. I turned down all attempts at friendship from the people I worked with, as well. After all, I might strike out at them, too. Who knew how deep the stagnant pool in my heart? People considered me to be antisocial when, in reality, I was doing my best to keep from destroying the social network around me. It has been a lonely and sad life but I can’t do anything to fix it. I mean, who could I tell? Who would believe what I had to say – about my life, my fears or the slamming front door?
Wham!
I jumped as the front door slammed behind me. Fear washed over me in waves of ice water and I struggled to breathe. I shivered even though it was August and the muggy heat of Chesapeake had previously been sapping every bit of energy out of my old, tired body. It was a fear reprised from childhood when the front door slamming invariably meant pain and humiliation was soon to follow.
I was an only child – mostly because my mother refused to bring another child into the world to face the drunken wrath of my father. Consequently, it was me and me alone who had to bear with the beatings and near-starvation. Surprisingly, my father was never unkind to my mother even when drunk – unless, of course, you counted the beating of her only child as being unkind to her. He never laid a finger on her, almost never had a cross word for her and was constantly bringing sweet, unexpected gifts to her. Usually just before he beat me.
It had, obviously, been many years since my father had beat me – he died peacefully in his sleep more than thirty years ago. No, I had nothing to do with his death, although I had often turned the idea over in my mind more than once - even as a grown man. No, it was a natural thing. He even looked kind and somehow angelic lying there in his coffin. It was all I could do to pretend to mourn but I felt that it was required of me in order to protect my mother. No one ever knew about that side of my father – no one but me and my mom. She had tried to protect me but my father had created a small prison out of a closet and if she interfered, he would put her into it until the beating was done. I'm amazed that my mom retained any degree of sanity at all.
I have never married. How could I risk the possibility that something evil and foul lived within me and could, at any moment, leap out to destroy my family? No, it was better that I remain alone. I turned down all attempts at friendship from the people I worked with, as well. After all, I might strike out at them, too. Who knew how deep the stagnant pool in my heart? People considered me to be antisocial when, in reality, I was doing my best to keep from destroying the social network around me. It has been a lonely and sad life but I can’t do anything to fix it. I mean, who could I tell? Who would believe what I had to say – about my life, my fears or the slamming front door?
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Me versus You
I thought I knew the answers; turns out that I don’t even know the questions. I am nearing the end of my life – well, I am certainly closer to the end than I am to the beginning. And I am just now learning that I can never learn enough to keep up with the changes to the world. No, I’m not talking about new gadgets, new inventions, new ways to do things – I’m talking about changes in people.
What has happened to courtesy? What has happened to respect for a person? What has happened that no one counts for much of anything any longer?
I hold a door open for anyone – not just women, the elderly, or handicapped folks – everyone. Why? Because that is what I was taught – courtesy is indicative of a concern for others. It is indicative of the fact that I am recognizing that person and respecting them. How many folks do you suppose bother to say thank you? I’ve never actually counted but I am going to start doing so just so I can answer that question for my own benefit.
How many times have you wondered just where the world is going? I find that I am more and more frequently wondering just that. When did our love for others become just a self-love world? At what point does our self-love give way to a hate-others sort of society? We are already all about self-love; we are well on our way to hate-others, I believe. I don’t think I want to live in that sort of world, do you?
It’s not about Democrats versus Republicans, blacks versus whites, old versus young or anything else other than me against you. Me is much more important than you. Me is what it is all about – you is so last week.
Are you tired? I am.
What has happened to courtesy? What has happened to respect for a person? What has happened that no one counts for much of anything any longer?
I hold a door open for anyone – not just women, the elderly, or handicapped folks – everyone. Why? Because that is what I was taught – courtesy is indicative of a concern for others. It is indicative of the fact that I am recognizing that person and respecting them. How many folks do you suppose bother to say thank you? I’ve never actually counted but I am going to start doing so just so I can answer that question for my own benefit.
How many times have you wondered just where the world is going? I find that I am more and more frequently wondering just that. When did our love for others become just a self-love world? At what point does our self-love give way to a hate-others sort of society? We are already all about self-love; we are well on our way to hate-others, I believe. I don’t think I want to live in that sort of world, do you?
It’s not about Democrats versus Republicans, blacks versus whites, old versus young or anything else other than me against you. Me is much more important than you. Me is what it is all about – you is so last week.
Are you tired? I am.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Write About a Mess
I hit him - hard. He got back up and wobbled over to where I was standing. His lip was bleeding and my knuckles were skinned. I wasn’t sure but I think one of them was probably broken.
“Is that the best you can do,” he sneered? “My sister used to hit me harder than that and she only weighed about 70 pounds.”
“Listen, I said I don’t want to fight – why can’t you just leave it at that? Why get yourself all smacked around and maybe get some real damage?”
“Real damage? You’re going to pass along some real damage to me?” He looked up into the sky. “I don’t see any pigs flying,” he laughed.
The stretch of his lip when he laughed caused it to start bleeding heavily. Large drops rolled over his bottom lip and spilled to the floor. As I stood there, momentarily mesmerized by the blood flowing from his lips, he swung a huge haymaker right that caught me squarely on the side of the head. My eyes momentarily rolled back in my head and I abruptly sat down; not neatly or gingerly, mind you, but with a huge ‘whump’ that rattled my teeth together.
He stood over me and there was no longer a trace of laughter in his face. I knew what was coming next – a swift kick aimed at my ribs but I managed to partially block it with my left arm and I caught his foot with my right hand and pulled over and upward as hard and fast as I could. He fell backwards and his head smacked against the floor. He wasn’t unconscious but he was temporarily out of the fight. I took advantage of his situation and struggled to my feet. My head was throbbing and my left arm was strangely numb.
I knew that I had to do something to stop this fight; it was way out of hand. I did what any self-respecting boy would do.
“Mom, Mike started a fight and when I hit him back I split his lip. The blood on the floor is from his lip – he made the mess, not me!”
“Is that the best you can do,” he sneered? “My sister used to hit me harder than that and she only weighed about 70 pounds.”
“Listen, I said I don’t want to fight – why can’t you just leave it at that? Why get yourself all smacked around and maybe get some real damage?”
“Real damage? You’re going to pass along some real damage to me?” He looked up into the sky. “I don’t see any pigs flying,” he laughed.
The stretch of his lip when he laughed caused it to start bleeding heavily. Large drops rolled over his bottom lip and spilled to the floor. As I stood there, momentarily mesmerized by the blood flowing from his lips, he swung a huge haymaker right that caught me squarely on the side of the head. My eyes momentarily rolled back in my head and I abruptly sat down; not neatly or gingerly, mind you, but with a huge ‘whump’ that rattled my teeth together.
He stood over me and there was no longer a trace of laughter in his face. I knew what was coming next – a swift kick aimed at my ribs but I managed to partially block it with my left arm and I caught his foot with my right hand and pulled over and upward as hard and fast as I could. He fell backwards and his head smacked against the floor. He wasn’t unconscious but he was temporarily out of the fight. I took advantage of his situation and struggled to my feet. My head was throbbing and my left arm was strangely numb.
I knew that I had to do something to stop this fight; it was way out of hand. I did what any self-respecting boy would do.
“Mom, Mike started a fight and when I hit him back I split his lip. The blood on the floor is from his lip – he made the mess, not me!”
Friday, July 29, 2011
Writer's Assignment - Someone Calls Your Name
It was late and it was cold. The street was dirty, filled with muddy water from the recent, heavy rains. It was dark; most of the street lights shattered by vandals and the few that were left seemed to make it darker rather than lighter. Random pieces of trash floated down the gutters turned impromptu rivers. My shoes were sodden, filled with water from the multiple openings in the soles. Had it still been raining, my heart would have filled with water as well, flowing in through the holes in my soul.
I tried to pull the threadbare coat tighter about my shoulders but it, too, was sopping wet and having little to no effect on keeping me warm. At least the boonie hat had kept most of the rain off my head. Both had come from a thrift store that wasn’t too concerned with how clean things were before they sold them. I had waged a small battle with certain bugs for several days before the folks at the shelter had helped me conquer them. Life hadn’t been all that wonderful lately.
“Hey, Frost, where are you going?”
I stopped dead in my tracks for a few seconds and then slowly turned around.
No one was there. Just more trash and more water. More cold. More emptiness. More darkness.
Had I been so sunk in my misery that I had started imagining that someone cared about me? I started to laugh but the dry, hacking cough I had developed in the last day or so stole my laughter and drowned it in its infancy. I couldn’t even begin to believe that someone had some sympathy or concern for me.
I turned back around and continued my plodding trek down the street; stumbling now and again over things hidden beneath the brown water. I don’t know why I continued in that direction – all directions led to that ultimate destination of a destitute and useless end.
“Hey, Frost, didn’t you hear me? I’m talking to you.”
I stopped again but didn’t turn around. What would be the purpose?
“What do you want?” I whispered.
“You, of course,” the voice spoke. “I want you.”
“Why?”
“Because you have no time left and I am here to collect you.”
Ah, I thought – the Grim Reaper. Thanatos. Apollyon. Abaddon. Death. Well, he would get no argument from me; I was more than ready to leave this mortal coil and shuffle off to my reward or, more likely, to my punishment.
“What took you so long?” I asked. “Why didn’t you show up a couple of years ago when I was on top – why wait until I had lost everything? Why the prolonged suffering?”
“Not my choice, friend. I’m only the transportation; it’s someone else’s decision as to when I show up.”
Surprisingly, the water in my face was warm and the pavement was soft as any mother’s love.
I tried to pull the threadbare coat tighter about my shoulders but it, too, was sopping wet and having little to no effect on keeping me warm. At least the boonie hat had kept most of the rain off my head. Both had come from a thrift store that wasn’t too concerned with how clean things were before they sold them. I had waged a small battle with certain bugs for several days before the folks at the shelter had helped me conquer them. Life hadn’t been all that wonderful lately.
“Hey, Frost, where are you going?”
I stopped dead in my tracks for a few seconds and then slowly turned around.
No one was there. Just more trash and more water. More cold. More emptiness. More darkness.
Had I been so sunk in my misery that I had started imagining that someone cared about me? I started to laugh but the dry, hacking cough I had developed in the last day or so stole my laughter and drowned it in its infancy. I couldn’t even begin to believe that someone had some sympathy or concern for me.
I turned back around and continued my plodding trek down the street; stumbling now and again over things hidden beneath the brown water. I don’t know why I continued in that direction – all directions led to that ultimate destination of a destitute and useless end.
“Hey, Frost, didn’t you hear me? I’m talking to you.”
I stopped again but didn’t turn around. What would be the purpose?
“What do you want?” I whispered.
“You, of course,” the voice spoke. “I want you.”
“Why?”
“Because you have no time left and I am here to collect you.”
Ah, I thought – the Grim Reaper. Thanatos. Apollyon. Abaddon. Death. Well, he would get no argument from me; I was more than ready to leave this mortal coil and shuffle off to my reward or, more likely, to my punishment.
“What took you so long?” I asked. “Why didn’t you show up a couple of years ago when I was on top – why wait until I had lost everything? Why the prolonged suffering?”
“Not my choice, friend. I’m only the transportation; it’s someone else’s decision as to when I show up.”
Surprisingly, the water in my face was warm and the pavement was soft as any mother’s love.
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