Bobby and Sally said farewell to their newfound friends and headed down the path that would lead them out of the Talking Forest. The trees sang them gentle songs and wished them well. “Thank you for freeing us from the evil magician’s spell,” they cried out.
“You are very welcome,” replied Bobby, doing his best to sound chipper, while all the time his heart was aching from the thought that he might never again see the Talking Trees. They had helped him more than once, and he hated to leave them behind.
“Don’t feel sad,” Sally said to him as she noticed his frown. “We may yet be able to come back and see them someday. Until then, we’ll have their song in our hearts.”
As they neared the end of the path that took them to the Door in the Rock, Bobby looked back. Sally was right, of course; she almost always was. His older sister had a way of making the darkest day seem a little brighter. Bobby waved at the trees, said a quiet “Goodbye,” and turned away.
Just as it had when they first discovered it, the Door sensed their approach. A soft, comforting golden glow peeked out through the cracks around it, and the lock snicked open. Sally reached for the enormous carved knob, turned it effortlessly and pulled the door open. Soundlessly it swung wide, and the children walked into the golden light. The Door closed silently behind them, and they found themselves where they had started just four short days ago. Bobby looked at the wall behind them, but the Door was gone. All he could see was the cowboy and Indian wallpaper his mother had put up so many years ago.
He took his sister’s hand as a single tear formed in his eye. She looked down at him, wiped moisture from her own eye and told him, “I know; I’m going to miss them too.” She led her brother down the hallway to the stairs, and then down into the kitchen where their mother sat reading her magazine. The morning sun was peeking in over the yellow curtains covering the window.
“Well, it’s about time you two got out of bed. It’s almost 10 o’clock! Have some breakfast, now.”
The two children shared a puzzled look. Not a day had passed in their home, despite everything they had just experienced. Bobby looked up at Sally, who smiled and shook her head almost imperceptibly. “No,” she said silently, “let’s not say anything. No one would believe us anyway.” Bobby understood completely, and they both ran over to the counter where Mother served them the best breakfast they had ever eaten in their lives.
Outside the window the wind blew gently through the trees, and they sang a gentle song which only the children could hear.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Eight
And so the Field that once stood behind my childhood home was now nothing more than a shadow of its former beauty. Where once the neighborhood children had run freely from end to end, unhindered by building or road, strangers now parked their SUVs and visited doctors who could just as easily have practiced their medicine in an office in the village, technician answered calls from angry customers around the globe, and children were no longer safe to run where the rabbits had once been bountiful.
When I was young I could look out from my backyard and see nothing but a vast expanse of tall grass bordered by blue sky; an inviting playground provided by Nature for all to use. The Field was egalitarian; it accepted all, rejected no one. Perhaps that was its downfall. We saw it with the nearly-innocent eyes of children…all were welcome, and it never showed signs of running out.
The developers looked at the Field and saw money, and when money meets idealism there is never any doubt which will win. The Field was plowed under, roads were sown, foundations poured. My childhood became a vast parking lot for outsiders; interlopers who showed no respect for the sanctity of what had been a part of my very being. While now children sit before their Xboxes and plug themselves into a secretive world of iPods, we would fly kites, launch model rockets, play hide-and-seek, build forts, and meld with wonder around us.
We had no concept of communing with Nature; we simply did it. We could hear the song of the wind whistling past us as we rode our bikes helter-skelter down the path that transected the Field; we felt the vibration of the Earth in our very core. All was well while we were in the Field. It was our protector, and greedy men had taken it from us.
Every now and again I look into my eyes, reflected back by the mirror, and I am looking into the eyes of that 10-year-old boy who lived in that Field day in and day out, and I find myself silently apologizing to him for what the adults have done. Adults are so often an empty animal; the Child has drained from their soul, and they chase a dragon they can never catch, and wonder why they are unhappy.
When I was young I could look out from my backyard and see nothing but a vast expanse of tall grass bordered by blue sky; an inviting playground provided by Nature for all to use. The Field was egalitarian; it accepted all, rejected no one. Perhaps that was its downfall. We saw it with the nearly-innocent eyes of children…all were welcome, and it never showed signs of running out.
The developers looked at the Field and saw money, and when money meets idealism there is never any doubt which will win. The Field was plowed under, roads were sown, foundations poured. My childhood became a vast parking lot for outsiders; interlopers who showed no respect for the sanctity of what had been a part of my very being. While now children sit before their Xboxes and plug themselves into a secretive world of iPods, we would fly kites, launch model rockets, play hide-and-seek, build forts, and meld with wonder around us.
We had no concept of communing with Nature; we simply did it. We could hear the song of the wind whistling past us as we rode our bikes helter-skelter down the path that transected the Field; we felt the vibration of the Earth in our very core. All was well while we were in the Field. It was our protector, and greedy men had taken it from us.
Every now and again I look into my eyes, reflected back by the mirror, and I am looking into the eyes of that 10-year-old boy who lived in that Field day in and day out, and I find myself silently apologizing to him for what the adults have done. Adults are so often an empty animal; the Child has drained from their soul, and they chase a dragon they can never catch, and wonder why they are unhappy.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Seven
So if you feel as if you have no one left to turn to, no one left to listen to you, try turning to and listening to yourself. You may think there’s no one in the world who can understand you, and you may be right, but there’s always you. You are the most important person in the whole world, so don’t forget it!
When the day is gloomy and rain clouds threaten to drench your poor soul, kick those clouds in the pants and say, “Goodbye, gloom!” You make of your life whatever you want; if you want to be a doctor, then by golly, go out and be a doctor!* Just stop complaining. No one likes a complainer, especially a gloomy one. If you feel you must say things out loud, then at least have the courtesy to make them cheerful.
“I don’t want to be a doctor,” you say, petulantly. Very well, become a pilot, or nurse (if you’re a girl) or even a priest. God loves priests, and you can get all the best parking spots, although that’s not really the best reason to become a priest. Handicapped people, too. They get good parking spots as well.**
Whatever you choose to do with your life, do it with gusto! And remember what Albert Einstein said so many years ago: “If I hadn’t been so smart, I would have ended up collecting other people’s garbage!” So don’t be a lazy lout; go get the future you want! And always keep in mind our three part strategy:
1. Don’t criticize others unless you are in the right
2. Don’t worry about tomorrow; anything you break today can be easily fixed
3. Don’t throw away anything made of metal or plastic. They will be rare someday after the Apocalypse, and if you have them, you’ll be rich!***
Thanks for reading, and now, “Go Get ‘em, Tiger!”
*The publisher of this book in no way endorses practicing medicine without a license.
**The publisher of this book in no way recommends becoming handicapped in order to get good parking spots.
***This statement is in no way intended as a guarantee. In the event of an Apocalypse, move to the nearest shelter or army/navy surplus store
When the day is gloomy and rain clouds threaten to drench your poor soul, kick those clouds in the pants and say, “Goodbye, gloom!” You make of your life whatever you want; if you want to be a doctor, then by golly, go out and be a doctor!* Just stop complaining. No one likes a complainer, especially a gloomy one. If you feel you must say things out loud, then at least have the courtesy to make them cheerful.
“I don’t want to be a doctor,” you say, petulantly. Very well, become a pilot, or nurse (if you’re a girl) or even a priest. God loves priests, and you can get all the best parking spots, although that’s not really the best reason to become a priest. Handicapped people, too. They get good parking spots as well.**
Whatever you choose to do with your life, do it with gusto! And remember what Albert Einstein said so many years ago: “If I hadn’t been so smart, I would have ended up collecting other people’s garbage!” So don’t be a lazy lout; go get the future you want! And always keep in mind our three part strategy:
1. Don’t criticize others unless you are in the right
2. Don’t worry about tomorrow; anything you break today can be easily fixed
3. Don’t throw away anything made of metal or plastic. They will be rare someday after the Apocalypse, and if you have them, you’ll be rich!***
Thanks for reading, and now, “Go Get ‘em, Tiger!”
*The publisher of this book in no way endorses practicing medicine without a license.
**The publisher of this book in no way recommends becoming handicapped in order to get good parking spots.
***This statement is in no way intended as a guarantee. In the event of an Apocalypse, move to the nearest shelter or army/navy surplus store
Six
hill. Sergeant Mullroy lowered himself to the ground and rested against an old gnarled chestnut tree, nursing his leg as the wound threatened to reopen. The radio crackled as Johnson contacted HQ to report the successful completion of their mission.
Mullroy knew this would be his final mission. They were lucky to have survived this long, this deep in enemy territory. Nazi patrols came close to uncovering their position too many times; God was watching over them, but Mullroy doubted even He could protect them much longer this far across enemy lines. Berlin was a day’s walk from where they sat, and Hitler still commanded the might of the Third Reich.
His squad had indeed completed their mission, but it was only a single piece in a much larger puzzle. Thomas was dead, Riccards limped along with shrapnel in his chest, and Becker never returned from his reconnaissance. What remained of his command would get them back across the battlefields and to their rendezvous with the British on the Channel, but could accomplish little else. He would have to be content with that.
Something nagged at him, however. While they had, indeed, succeeded in destroying the munitions factory and ammo dump, there was still the matter of the secret Nazi lab. Mullroy had been briefed of its existence, but told little else. He alone in the squad knew it was a target of opportunity, one to be sought if at all possible. He paled at the thought of moving even deeper into Germany. His body ached to be back in Brooklyn with his wife by his side and a hot meal on the table. Too many nights had passed seeking shelter from the rain; too many days had passed hiding from German troops.
A bomber and fighter escort droned by overhead, no doubt heading for a raid on some defenseless British town. Mullroy pictures families deserting their supper tables at the sound of the air raid sirens, diving for desperate cover in homemade shelters. It angered him. It solidified his resolve. It brought him to a fateful decision.
“Men,” he said, pulling himself up to a standing position. “Do you trust me?” To a man they answered, “Yes!” “Then I have no choice but to tell you our work here ain’t done.” His men looked confused; confused and exhausted. “We got one more target to hit, and I have a feelin’ it’s gonna be the toughest of all.” He looked each of them in the eye as he spoke. “We could go home right now, but if we do, then Jerry is gonna be knockin’ on our doors next. One last job…that’s my promise to you. Then I’ll get you all home.”
They looked at him, at each other, and then Johnson answered, “Let’s kick some Nazi ass, Sarge.”
These were his men, and he knew they would walk through fire if he asked it of them. And he just might have to.
Read the conclusion of the story in volume 3, “Assault on Stalag 12”
Mullroy knew this would be his final mission. They were lucky to have survived this long, this deep in enemy territory. Nazi patrols came close to uncovering their position too many times; God was watching over them, but Mullroy doubted even He could protect them much longer this far across enemy lines. Berlin was a day’s walk from where they sat, and Hitler still commanded the might of the Third Reich.
His squad had indeed completed their mission, but it was only a single piece in a much larger puzzle. Thomas was dead, Riccards limped along with shrapnel in his chest, and Becker never returned from his reconnaissance. What remained of his command would get them back across the battlefields and to their rendezvous with the British on the Channel, but could accomplish little else. He would have to be content with that.
Something nagged at him, however. While they had, indeed, succeeded in destroying the munitions factory and ammo dump, there was still the matter of the secret Nazi lab. Mullroy had been briefed of its existence, but told little else. He alone in the squad knew it was a target of opportunity, one to be sought if at all possible. He paled at the thought of moving even deeper into Germany. His body ached to be back in Brooklyn with his wife by his side and a hot meal on the table. Too many nights had passed seeking shelter from the rain; too many days had passed hiding from German troops.
A bomber and fighter escort droned by overhead, no doubt heading for a raid on some defenseless British town. Mullroy pictures families deserting their supper tables at the sound of the air raid sirens, diving for desperate cover in homemade shelters. It angered him. It solidified his resolve. It brought him to a fateful decision.
“Men,” he said, pulling himself up to a standing position. “Do you trust me?” To a man they answered, “Yes!” “Then I have no choice but to tell you our work here ain’t done.” His men looked confused; confused and exhausted. “We got one more target to hit, and I have a feelin’ it’s gonna be the toughest of all.” He looked each of them in the eye as he spoke. “We could go home right now, but if we do, then Jerry is gonna be knockin’ on our doors next. One last job…that’s my promise to you. Then I’ll get you all home.”
They looked at him, at each other, and then Johnson answered, “Let’s kick some Nazi ass, Sarge.”
These were his men, and he knew they would walk through fire if he asked it of them. And he just might have to.
Read the conclusion of the story in volume 3, “Assault on Stalag 12”
Five
Lord Spangler the Munificent surveyed the land below, glorying in its magnificence. It was his, all his, and he made sure all the Little People knew it. Serf, peasant, lowly farmer, they all paid him tribute. As well they should. Hadn’t he just rescued them all from the grips of the fiery dragon? All right, perhaps it was in reality his father who had done so, but his father was now dead, and technically Lord Spangler had been in the general vicinity of the conflict, so by right s he could take at least partial credit for the kill.
And hadn’t he reduced their tax increase just last season? Instead of twenty additional draloons, they now only had to pay 18 per month. What a savings! How could they possibly complain about him now? Determined to give his subjects more reason to love him, Spangler had ordered that all executions would now be held in the early morning so his people would have time to watch tax evaders lose their heads and still be able to get to their farms and start raising crops for the castle. And still there were complaints!
He would never understand.
Lord Spangler looked forward to a quieter time. The excitement of the last two months had taken their toll on him, and he was determined to move back into his life of ease, no matter what the cost to those below him (and wasn’t everyone below him now?) Shadrack the Hero was now languishing in the oubliette, Vanessa the Chaste was carrying his child, and all the lands of Permia were his to plunder. Thank God he was born into royalty. He would have hated to be one of the lesser people, toiling day in and day out for their entire short lives just to make his life (rightfully) easier to live.
“Fool!” he called to his jester, Slappy the Pungent. “Bring me my dinner!” Slappy bowed and ran from the hall toward the kitchen. As he sank back onto the throne…his throne…he marveled at how God must love him to treat him so well.
What he failed to consider, however, was that perhaps some of Shadrack’s friends might have access to rope.
And hadn’t he reduced their tax increase just last season? Instead of twenty additional draloons, they now only had to pay 18 per month. What a savings! How could they possibly complain about him now? Determined to give his subjects more reason to love him, Spangler had ordered that all executions would now be held in the early morning so his people would have time to watch tax evaders lose their heads and still be able to get to their farms and start raising crops for the castle. And still there were complaints!
He would never understand.
Lord Spangler looked forward to a quieter time. The excitement of the last two months had taken their toll on him, and he was determined to move back into his life of ease, no matter what the cost to those below him (and wasn’t everyone below him now?) Shadrack the Hero was now languishing in the oubliette, Vanessa the Chaste was carrying his child, and all the lands of Permia were his to plunder. Thank God he was born into royalty. He would have hated to be one of the lesser people, toiling day in and day out for their entire short lives just to make his life (rightfully) easier to live.
“Fool!” he called to his jester, Slappy the Pungent. “Bring me my dinner!” Slappy bowed and ran from the hall toward the kitchen. As he sank back onto the throne…his throne…he marveled at how God must love him to treat him so well.
What he failed to consider, however, was that perhaps some of Shadrack’s friends might have access to rope.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Four
The blood failed to stop me, however. Again and again I plunged the silver dagger into its heart, again and again it screamed a primal shriek that sent every living creature in the woods running for safety. I was unsure when to stop; I don’t know if I could have had I wanted to. By the time exhaustion took hold and the adrenaline crashed from my system I had morphed the monster’s body into a pulped mass of blood and sinew, gashes and holes.
What I had accomplished I was unsure of; would this abomination truly stay dead, or had I simply postponed the inevitable? Tradition was mixed on how best to deal with the undead…some said a stake through the heart, some said garlic, other decapitation. I feared all these were the meanderings of weak minds watching too many Hammer horror films. Christopher Lee, as entertaining as he might have been, was no basis on which to build a practice of vampire hunting.
Vampire hunting. As I thought back on the last 7 days I came to the reluctant realization of it: I had, for better or worse, become a vampire hunter. Shit. Hugh Jackman looked better in a long coat and hat, Buffy looked better in a cheerleader outfit. I looked better in my Dollar General black shirt and khaki pants. I was built for unloading a truck and stocking shelves with shampoo, toilet paper and potted meat, not running through spooky forests, breaking into old mansions and stabbing vampires to death (death?)
I guess it was unavoidable, however. The moment that bastard grabbed Natalie and took her from me, changing her into the monster she is now, I had to act. One down, an entire coven to go. Do vampires have covens, or is that witches? Fuck. I have to get on Wikipedia and do some goddam research. Until then, I could really use a shower.
What I had accomplished I was unsure of; would this abomination truly stay dead, or had I simply postponed the inevitable? Tradition was mixed on how best to deal with the undead…some said a stake through the heart, some said garlic, other decapitation. I feared all these were the meanderings of weak minds watching too many Hammer horror films. Christopher Lee, as entertaining as he might have been, was no basis on which to build a practice of vampire hunting.
Vampire hunting. As I thought back on the last 7 days I came to the reluctant realization of it: I had, for better or worse, become a vampire hunter. Shit. Hugh Jackman looked better in a long coat and hat, Buffy looked better in a cheerleader outfit. I looked better in my Dollar General black shirt and khaki pants. I was built for unloading a truck and stocking shelves with shampoo, toilet paper and potted meat, not running through spooky forests, breaking into old mansions and stabbing vampires to death (death?)
I guess it was unavoidable, however. The moment that bastard grabbed Natalie and took her from me, changing her into the monster she is now, I had to act. One down, an entire coven to go. Do vampires have covens, or is that witches? Fuck. I have to get on Wikipedia and do some goddam research. Until then, I could really use a shower.
Three
couldn’t quite get the hang of the surfboard, so he finally gave up and flopped down on a beach towel. Basking in the sun, Pete took it all in; the sun, the sand, the ocean, the hot girls in skimpy bikinis. This is what it was all about! His house may have burned down, his car may have been stripped by gang members, and his sister may have run off with a biker, but Pete was satisfied.
“Well Pete, my man,” said Boosker as he dropped down beside his bud, “what the fuck are we gonna do now? We got no place to go, and no money to go there.” Pete thought Boosker looked like a douche in his new dreds, but who was he to say? The man got laid more than he did, so he must be doing something right.
“In my opinion,” answered Pete after seconds of careful deliberation, “we should hang here and see what kind of action we can drum up. I mean, shit! There’s girls, beer, and rich guys all over the place just begging to sign on for our next fantastic deal!”
Boosker shook his head. “I don’t know, man. That cop told us that if he ever caught us…”
“That’s the point, dude,” interrupted Pete. “We won’t get caught. Now I was thinkin’…we set ourselves up with a suit or two from Salvation Army, maybe a briefcase, and we got ourselves the start of a beautiful scam. Whadda you say?”
“I say you musta had a pretty fucked up childhood, my friend. But what the hell, I got no place else to go!” And with that he got up, brushed the white sand off his ass, and headed to the parking lot where his van sat baking in the sizzling Hawaiian sun. Pete followed closely on his heels.
Boosker stopped, pointed a finger at Pete’s chest and warned, “Just one thing…next time, I get the girl.”
Pete thought for a moment, then nodded his head. “You got it.”
The only reason he said it was because he knew it wasn’t happening. He followed Boosker to the van, leapt in and screamed like a little girl as he burned his flesh on the black vinyl seat. It was going to be a great day!
“Well Pete, my man,” said Boosker as he dropped down beside his bud, “what the fuck are we gonna do now? We got no place to go, and no money to go there.” Pete thought Boosker looked like a douche in his new dreds, but who was he to say? The man got laid more than he did, so he must be doing something right.
“In my opinion,” answered Pete after seconds of careful deliberation, “we should hang here and see what kind of action we can drum up. I mean, shit! There’s girls, beer, and rich guys all over the place just begging to sign on for our next fantastic deal!”
Boosker shook his head. “I don’t know, man. That cop told us that if he ever caught us…”
“That’s the point, dude,” interrupted Pete. “We won’t get caught. Now I was thinkin’…we set ourselves up with a suit or two from Salvation Army, maybe a briefcase, and we got ourselves the start of a beautiful scam. Whadda you say?”
“I say you musta had a pretty fucked up childhood, my friend. But what the hell, I got no place else to go!” And with that he got up, brushed the white sand off his ass, and headed to the parking lot where his van sat baking in the sizzling Hawaiian sun. Pete followed closely on his heels.
Boosker stopped, pointed a finger at Pete’s chest and warned, “Just one thing…next time, I get the girl.”
Pete thought for a moment, then nodded his head. “You got it.”
The only reason he said it was because he knew it wasn’t happening. He followed Boosker to the van, leapt in and screamed like a little girl as he burned his flesh on the black vinyl seat. It was going to be a great day!
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Two
Captain Lindburgh gave the order to increase thrust and move the Dominator out of the battlefield and into clear space. It was no easy task for Donnan; debris cluttered his view screens and blinded his sensors. Linde knew he was up to the challenge however. You didn’t fly for years with someone, watch him come up the ranks from deckhand to Chief Navigator without knowing what he was capable of handling.
As the Captain sat mesmerized by the main screen, he thought back on all that had been won, all that had been lost. Chenley, Foster, Dak-Tahrin, Ngo, and Sentramalor were all gone; their service records concluded with the highest commendations a captain could bestow. The Dominator had been badly damaged. If it hadn’t been for the heroic actions of his crew, she would now be a significant part of the debris field. The crew was exhausted. They had been pushed to their limits and beyond, then pushed even farther. It would take much time for them to recuperate, and Linde was sure that some of them would leave, hoping to spend what time they had left to them in quiet comfort with their families. Families who had not seen their loved ones in over a year.
That year had been filled with danger, excitement, death and life. They had greeted new friends, conquered old enemies, and charted new territories. It was a year that burned itself into the very fabric of his crew, smelting them in a cauldron of war, casting them in molds of courage. He would never command a crew such as this again. In fact, he may never command again. This realization had just come to him. He was the conquering hero, the Alexander of the Starmada. Nothing that came after could shine the merest light upon his accomplishments; it was time for him to set aside his ribbons, doff his uniform and fade away, as one soldier centuries ago had foretold.
When he was confident his crew had their return voyage underway and under control, he rose from his command station turned the con over to the Senior Officer and left the bridge. Normally at a time such as this he would head straight for the observation deck, but this time was different. He wasn’t ready yet to answer the questions the cold stars held for him. Instead he traveled down into the bowels of the ship, to the deck where the majority of the damage had been inflicted.
Scorched bulkheads, twisted metal and the sharp tang of sulfur assaulted his nose. His ship would never be the same. Neither would he. Neither would any of them.
As the Captain sat mesmerized by the main screen, he thought back on all that had been won, all that had been lost. Chenley, Foster, Dak-Tahrin, Ngo, and Sentramalor were all gone; their service records concluded with the highest commendations a captain could bestow. The Dominator had been badly damaged. If it hadn’t been for the heroic actions of his crew, she would now be a significant part of the debris field. The crew was exhausted. They had been pushed to their limits and beyond, then pushed even farther. It would take much time for them to recuperate, and Linde was sure that some of them would leave, hoping to spend what time they had left to them in quiet comfort with their families. Families who had not seen their loved ones in over a year.
That year had been filled with danger, excitement, death and life. They had greeted new friends, conquered old enemies, and charted new territories. It was a year that burned itself into the very fabric of his crew, smelting them in a cauldron of war, casting them in molds of courage. He would never command a crew such as this again. In fact, he may never command again. This realization had just come to him. He was the conquering hero, the Alexander of the Starmada. Nothing that came after could shine the merest light upon his accomplishments; it was time for him to set aside his ribbons, doff his uniform and fade away, as one soldier centuries ago had foretold.
When he was confident his crew had their return voyage underway and under control, he rose from his command station turned the con over to the Senior Officer and left the bridge. Normally at a time such as this he would head straight for the observation deck, but this time was different. He wasn’t ready yet to answer the questions the cold stars held for him. Instead he traveled down into the bowels of the ship, to the deck where the majority of the damage had been inflicted.
Scorched bulkheads, twisted metal and the sharp tang of sulfur assaulted his nose. His ship would never be the same. Neither would he. Neither would any of them.
The ghosts of lost crewmen, lost friends whispered incriminations in his ear as he finally moved up to the observation deck. The stars mocked him, the distant nebula colored the vision crimson. Blood was on his hands, and as Lady Macbeth, he was powerless to wipe them clean.
Home called him, and, weary as he was, he was eager to heed that call.
Space no longer comforted him. What had once embraced him now accused him.
He doubted he would ever be at peace again.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
One
and then she paused momentarily, long enough to steal one final glance at the place she had for so many years called home. Nothing but an empty shell, she told herself, attempting to comfort her weary soul. Nothing but an empty shell.
Paulette turned away from the dreary house and made her way in silence to the car. Sliding in behind the wheel she inserted the key into the ignition but did not start the engine. Something deep inside told her it would be disrespectful to break the early morning silence with the vulgarity of internal combustion. Looking out though the cracked windshield she watched as the sky glowed crimson, then yellow, and finally azure. She cried, silent sobs wracking her body until she could contain the sorrow no longer. A single piteous wail rose up from the depths of her body and assailed the morning.
Having no watch, Paulette was unaware how much time had passed. Her tears ran dry, her body ached with the effort of her grief, she had no pain left to offer. The day had begun, and she would have to move through it without those she had come to love, those she had come to cherish, those to whom she had given all she could. She was truly alone.
If she did not move forward now, she would be pulled into a pool of grey from which she would never ascend. If she did not push herself to be human despite her incalculable loss, she would forever be slave to her mourning. If she did not move…but how could she?
She must.
Rubbing the distress from her eyes, Paulette reached for the key, turned it and winced as the old engine coughed to life. The morning was shattered. Stepping on the gas pedal she pulled away from the curb, never looking back.
She was human again.
Human, and alone.
Paulette turned away from the dreary house and made her way in silence to the car. Sliding in behind the wheel she inserted the key into the ignition but did not start the engine. Something deep inside told her it would be disrespectful to break the early morning silence with the vulgarity of internal combustion. Looking out though the cracked windshield she watched as the sky glowed crimson, then yellow, and finally azure. She cried, silent sobs wracking her body until she could contain the sorrow no longer. A single piteous wail rose up from the depths of her body and assailed the morning.
Having no watch, Paulette was unaware how much time had passed. Her tears ran dry, her body ached with the effort of her grief, she had no pain left to offer. The day had begun, and she would have to move through it without those she had come to love, those she had come to cherish, those to whom she had given all she could. She was truly alone.
If she did not move forward now, she would be pulled into a pool of grey from which she would never ascend. If she did not push herself to be human despite her incalculable loss, she would forever be slave to her mourning. If she did not move…but how could she?
She must.
Rubbing the distress from her eyes, Paulette reached for the key, turned it and winced as the old engine coughed to life. The morning was shattered. Stepping on the gas pedal she pulled away from the curb, never looking back.
She was human again.
Human, and alone.
The Purpose of Project "The End"
One day a couple of months ago I heard a story on NPR about some guy who embarked on the project of writing one ending to a piece of music every day for a year.
I heard a sampling...some were great, some mediocre, some sucked. No avoiding that. You write that much in 365 days the odds will sometimes fall against you. What mattered was: he did it. Despite the fact that there were days when he just didn't want to do it, he did. You gotta admire that kind of discipline.
I came up with the thought of trying to duplicate this feat, but using words instead of music. I have some musical talent, but I have a much better command of the written language and little desire to humiliate myself in cyberspace.
Due to business travel and other commitments, there is no way I'll be able to do one a day, but the concept still holds true. The last page of a book. It may be fiction or non-fiction, comedy or tragedy, entertaining or downright crap. No guarantees. Wish me luck.
I heard a sampling...some were great, some mediocre, some sucked. No avoiding that. You write that much in 365 days the odds will sometimes fall against you. What mattered was: he did it. Despite the fact that there were days when he just didn't want to do it, he did. You gotta admire that kind of discipline.
I came up with the thought of trying to duplicate this feat, but using words instead of music. I have some musical talent, but I have a much better command of the written language and little desire to humiliate myself in cyberspace.
Due to business travel and other commitments, there is no way I'll be able to do one a day, but the concept still holds true. The last page of a book. It may be fiction or non-fiction, comedy or tragedy, entertaining or downright crap. No guarantees. Wish me luck.
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