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| Excerpt |
Lifting the first stiff from the stacked bodies, pain hammered the old man’s chest. His left arm went
numb, his breathing increased and the body slipped from his arms. The corpse hit the ground at his feet
and lay there, unmoving. The body’s life, extracted with maximum pain, existed only as a fading memory.
The old man leaned against the wall. He slid to the floor. Sitting against the doorjamb he reached into a
shirt pocket and extracted the container holding his pills. They held his only hope of ending the extreme
pain. If not stopped in the next few minutes, his heart’s explosion would provide another stiff for the
stack.
He placed the tablet under his tongue and waited for the nitro to work its magic.
One minute passed. The pain remained.
He counted the seconds to sixty, by five—no relief.
To engage his mind, he practiced a cadence of single seconds to ninety. The pressure increased, forcing
him to place a second pill under his tongue. Sweat, forming on his forehead, cascaded towards his eyes,
his nose, and his mouth. It remained there for a split second before plunging to his shirt.
Three minutes later the pain’s intensity refused to lessen. He placed a third nitro tablet under his tongue
and waited. He knew if this attempt failed, sure death followed. He sensed neither the strength nor the
inclination to drag his failing body from the parlor and into the hallway where the telephone, his
potential savior, sat in silence.
He passed the next minute mind mumbling his final prayers for forgiveness. He felt his life failed to
meet the standard set for a man wishing to achieve salvation. He hoped and prayed his soul would not
face the eternal damnation confronting the men whose bodies lay stacked a few feet away.
At the nine-minute mark of his ordeal, the old man heard, “Not yet. You’ve much to do,” from an
unknown source. Forcing his chin from his chest but unable to open his eyes or part his lips—the pain
vanished as suddenly as it arrived.
Five minutes later, the remaining heaviness in his chest and arm subsided. He rolled over on his hands
and knees and stood. He checked his vitals. Finding his signs normal, he gingerly walked from the room,
stepping over the body he dropped earlier. He entered the hall, turned left, and walked the twenty feet to
the kitchen.
He poured a glass of ice water from the refrigerator. Sipping the refreshing drink, he approached the
door to the back porch. He opened the screen door, stepped onto the porch, lowered his aging body onto
a swing to his right. He planted his feet and pressed back on the swing. When his legs achieved full
extension, he lifted his feet and allowed the swing to glide forward, knowing its return needed no help
from him. Gazing through the porch’s screen, he stared at the prepared field and the sunset beyond. The
blazing orange red highlights of the vanishing sun, mixed with the dull yellow rays of the yard light
installed at the corner of the equipment shed, cast an alluring hue over his handiwork. He felt sure the
yard light would provide the minimum he needed for the task ahead.
The swing rested. Unsure how long his restored, yet fragile, grip on life would last, the old man stood. I’
d better get busy. He’s right. I have much to do.
numb, his breathing increased and the body slipped from his arms. The corpse hit the ground at his feet
and lay there, unmoving. The body’s life, extracted with maximum pain, existed only as a fading memory.
The old man leaned against the wall. He slid to the floor. Sitting against the doorjamb he reached into a
shirt pocket and extracted the container holding his pills. They held his only hope of ending the extreme
pain. If not stopped in the next few minutes, his heart’s explosion would provide another stiff for the
stack.
He placed the tablet under his tongue and waited for the nitro to work its magic.
One minute passed. The pain remained.
He counted the seconds to sixty, by five—no relief.
To engage his mind, he practiced a cadence of single seconds to ninety. The pressure increased, forcing
him to place a second pill under his tongue. Sweat, forming on his forehead, cascaded towards his eyes,
his nose, and his mouth. It remained there for a split second before plunging to his shirt.
Three minutes later the pain’s intensity refused to lessen. He placed a third nitro tablet under his tongue
and waited. He knew if this attempt failed, sure death followed. He sensed neither the strength nor the
inclination to drag his failing body from the parlor and into the hallway where the telephone, his
potential savior, sat in silence.
He passed the next minute mind mumbling his final prayers for forgiveness. He felt his life failed to
meet the standard set for a man wishing to achieve salvation. He hoped and prayed his soul would not
face the eternal damnation confronting the men whose bodies lay stacked a few feet away.
At the nine-minute mark of his ordeal, the old man heard, “Not yet. You’ve much to do,” from an
unknown source. Forcing his chin from his chest but unable to open his eyes or part his lips—the pain
vanished as suddenly as it arrived.
Five minutes later, the remaining heaviness in his chest and arm subsided. He rolled over on his hands
and knees and stood. He checked his vitals. Finding his signs normal, he gingerly walked from the room,
stepping over the body he dropped earlier. He entered the hall, turned left, and walked the twenty feet to
the kitchen.
He poured a glass of ice water from the refrigerator. Sipping the refreshing drink, he approached the
door to the back porch. He opened the screen door, stepped onto the porch, lowered his aging body onto
a swing to his right. He planted his feet and pressed back on the swing. When his legs achieved full
extension, he lifted his feet and allowed the swing to glide forward, knowing its return needed no help
from him. Gazing through the porch’s screen, he stared at the prepared field and the sunset beyond. The
blazing orange red highlights of the vanishing sun, mixed with the dull yellow rays of the yard light
installed at the corner of the equipment shed, cast an alluring hue over his handiwork. He felt sure the
yard light would provide the minimum he needed for the task ahead.
The swing rested. Unsure how long his restored, yet fragile, grip on life would last, the old man stood. I’
d better get busy. He’s right. I have much to do.
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O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
Lord Byron
(1788-1824)
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
Lord Byron
(1788-1824)
QuillandPen.Com |
| O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men! Lord Byron (1788-1824) |