Who stole the money and from whom was it taken?
After Mr. Canaan was dead his widow and her lawyer opened his safety deposit boxes and inside discovered over two million dollars and a few Tai Chi videotapes.
The lawyer claimed Mr. Canaan was a gambler and had won the money at Atlantic City over a period of years and had stowed it away. He said one of the bundles was bound by a tape with the insignia from one of the casinos. Mrs. Canaan said she was unaware that her husband had been such a heavy gambler, but it must have been so because on finding the money she saw several casino binders. She mentioned the names of several.
Sherri Palatnik, a chronic junior executive, said she was not surprised. She had always thought something was amiss but she wouldn't elaborate. Later under oath in front of a grand jury, she denied having any knowledge whatsoever. In fact she denied having implied that rumors had reached her ears.
None of the partners of the law firm would give the goods on any other. Even those who had retired and were granted immunity refused to implicate any former coworkers. Each who came to testify fidgeted and appeared uncomfortable when the employee expense accounts were read out once again.
The Union had changed leaders a couple of times since Mr. Canaan's tenure. So none of the officers who came to speak could say much with any conviction.
The only thing that was a certainty, was that after the election in which Mr. Canaan lost his position, the law firm handling the Union's legal requirements was dropped in favor of another, not entirely different, firm. Many of the lawyers moved to the new firm. They were familiar with the Union members' needs.
In the end, the district attorney's assistant failed to make his case so it was a moot point as to how the money arrived in the safety deposit boxes. Mrs. Canaan was two million dollars richer, minus her attorney's fees of course.
And the old law firm which was paying a pension to the retired partner who had been a long-time friend of the deceased? They walked away quietly licking their wounds and hoped to rebuild their good name. They really did not need the bad publicity a trial would have brought on them.
These are rough times. Everyone says the stock market is due for a correction, in which case even privately held companies will suffer. Buying Union contracts could prove prohibitive under the new economy.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
When I Was Young
Once, when I was young and immortal, I was cruel and immoral. I walked an endless highway. I was infatuated with what I was capable of doing. It did not bother me to see someone with tears. Well, it didn't bother me much.
When I was green, I laughed more of the time and saw humor in misfortune because I did not know enough to realize one day misfortune would visit me.
When I erred I denied it. When I succeeded, I gloated. I became bloated with my own complacency. I carried the laurel wreath long after it had dried and withered and revisited my past glory as if it were something fresh and new. I fully expected those around me awaited something from me which was fresh and new and I tried to pass off the stale remnants as such. No one ever accused me of begging for compliments, though if they had, it might have awakened me.
Once, when I was sleeping safely in the past, my tomorrows lacked the urgency I feel in them today.
When tomorrows were countless, I thought I would always have my friends and that I would have acquaintances for almost as long. Now the future feels like a finite possibility and probability lessens. There are days I walk alone.
When the days began to grow shorter, my attention was drawn to jesting matters. I played a waiting game, for there was no necessity to rush to checkmate. There were options aplenty and if none appealed there was the option to create more, a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, if you will, but self-fulfillment is a well bound to run dry. The days grew shorter and now I feel the loss of hours, not merely moments. The scales measuring the past against the future have been tipped in favor of the former.
Once, when I did not state these inevitabilities, I believed they could be staved. Now, no longer young, I walk the road I paved.
When I was green, I laughed more of the time and saw humor in misfortune because I did not know enough to realize one day misfortune would visit me.
When I erred I denied it. When I succeeded, I gloated. I became bloated with my own complacency. I carried the laurel wreath long after it had dried and withered and revisited my past glory as if it were something fresh and new. I fully expected those around me awaited something from me which was fresh and new and I tried to pass off the stale remnants as such. No one ever accused me of begging for compliments, though if they had, it might have awakened me.
Once, when I was sleeping safely in the past, my tomorrows lacked the urgency I feel in them today.
When tomorrows were countless, I thought I would always have my friends and that I would have acquaintances for almost as long. Now the future feels like a finite possibility and probability lessens. There are days I walk alone.
When the days began to grow shorter, my attention was drawn to jesting matters. I played a waiting game, for there was no necessity to rush to checkmate. There were options aplenty and if none appealed there was the option to create more, a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, if you will, but self-fulfillment is a well bound to run dry. The days grew shorter and now I feel the loss of hours, not merely moments. The scales measuring the past against the future have been tipped in favor of the former.
Once, when I did not state these inevitabilities, I believed they could be staved. Now, no longer young, I walk the road I paved.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Published at disenthralled
My story The Bust appears in Walter Conley's literary journal disenthralled, Issue #4. His e-zine has a noirish feel, and he did a great job in giving this issue an international flavor. I'm especially thrilled to be appearing there along with Nora Ibsen, AJ Dresser, and Michael J Solender, and some other writers who are new to me.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Before I Was Born
Before I was born, the world was a vastly different place. This is not to say my being born changed it, but I was born right around the mid-point of the twentieth century and the second half of that century was more technologically advanced than any era in history up until then.
I was born into the atomic age. The era of cold war and computers, television and space exploration, teenagers as a phenomenon and rock and roll, gadgetry and equal rights and terrorism and everyone capable of having their fifteen minutes of fame; all of these exploded on the scene during that period and before I was born many of these were considered in the realm of science fiction and imagination. The if-onlies of the first half of the century became yesterday's news by the end of the second millennium.
Before I was born, people worked hard just to break even and people worked at careers and not too long before I was born an American president assured everyone that if they worked for most of their lives, when they got to their golden years they could enjoy a leisure that would make the time truly feel golden, so that the world I was born into held a promise and possibility most of my ancestors could not count on. By the end of the century that assurance was dwindling, but now people are being urged to provide the promise for themselves and being given leverage to do so.
That old world, which did not feel like an old world to the people around when I was born, is now historical in tone. Before I was born, for the most part, the recording of the times was done on film of black and white. Two great wars that involved most of the world were fought in the first half of the twentieth century. All the memories of the first are in black and white and much of the second is also.
We landed on the moon in 1969 and sent machinery much further into space later on, but it must be remembered man only learned how to fly heavier than air machinery in the beginning of the century. Automobiles which are a ubiquitous sight only came about in the 1900s. The Twentieth Century probably witnessed about a third of the inventions and achievements we take for granted in our daily lives. I was born at the mid-point and the acceleration of progress since that point is almost incredible. Things that became part of the human landscape in the first half of the century were phenomenal and many past great minds foresaw their coming, but if seers were able to describe in exact detail what has come about since my birth, they might have been burned as witches. Who could have predicted something like a pocket computer to wirelessly transmit messages, in a past century, or could even offer a reason for the need to invent such an object?
Before I was born, a millionaire was a rare bird and by dint of his achievement became a historical personage. Today they are "a dime a dozen."
When I sit and daydream, I think I would have liked to be living in the world that existed before I was born. Since that time we have come closer to the possibility of actually going back there. We have cloned animals and may soon clone humans, now if we can conquer the time travel problem that would be the neatest trick of all.
I was born into the atomic age. The era of cold war and computers, television and space exploration, teenagers as a phenomenon and rock and roll, gadgetry and equal rights and terrorism and everyone capable of having their fifteen minutes of fame; all of these exploded on the scene during that period and before I was born many of these were considered in the realm of science fiction and imagination. The if-onlies of the first half of the century became yesterday's news by the end of the second millennium.
Before I was born, people worked hard just to break even and people worked at careers and not too long before I was born an American president assured everyone that if they worked for most of their lives, when they got to their golden years they could enjoy a leisure that would make the time truly feel golden, so that the world I was born into held a promise and possibility most of my ancestors could not count on. By the end of the century that assurance was dwindling, but now people are being urged to provide the promise for themselves and being given leverage to do so.
That old world, which did not feel like an old world to the people around when I was born, is now historical in tone. Before I was born, for the most part, the recording of the times was done on film of black and white. Two great wars that involved most of the world were fought in the first half of the twentieth century. All the memories of the first are in black and white and much of the second is also.
We landed on the moon in 1969 and sent machinery much further into space later on, but it must be remembered man only learned how to fly heavier than air machinery in the beginning of the century. Automobiles which are a ubiquitous sight only came about in the 1900s. The Twentieth Century probably witnessed about a third of the inventions and achievements we take for granted in our daily lives. I was born at the mid-point and the acceleration of progress since that point is almost incredible. Things that became part of the human landscape in the first half of the century were phenomenal and many past great minds foresaw their coming, but if seers were able to describe in exact detail what has come about since my birth, they might have been burned as witches. Who could have predicted something like a pocket computer to wirelessly transmit messages, in a past century, or could even offer a reason for the need to invent such an object?
Before I was born, a millionaire was a rare bird and by dint of his achievement became a historical personage. Today they are "a dime a dozen."
When I sit and daydream, I think I would have liked to be living in the world that existed before I was born. Since that time we have come closer to the possibility of actually going back there. We have cloned animals and may soon clone humans, now if we can conquer the time travel problem that would be the neatest trick of all.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
MDJB's Picos
mdjb's picos
In his native tongue he could toss off bon mots con los mejores, yet he sounded windy and dull in anything outside of English. Por eso.
by mdjb on 8:08am, 7 Jan 2010
Beau couldn't make a move without Dolly until the day he pulled the plug and she went brr-rapping around the room like a balloon losing air
by mdjb on 9:54am, 16 Dec 2009
And Who died and left you in charge? Jesus asked Peter on one of those latter days. He was attempting irony, but The Rock missed the call.
by mdjb on 9:33am, 29 Nov 2009
He was always taking others to task for doing things He would never do not realizing they could not do everything His way without being Him.
by mdjb on 9:31am, 29 Nov 2009
Although he angrily demanded she return only the expensive engagement ring, she sent him the cheapest postcard from Niagara Falls instead.
by mdjb on 1:41pm, 5 Nov 2009
All the stories in the world are here in my pen. I only hope I don't run out of ink too soon after I start writing them.
by mdjb on 9:38am, 3 Nov 2009
When I felt a spurt of writer's block coming on, I recalled my own approaching senility, and couldn't figure out how I was supposed to...
by mdjb on 1:59pm, 13 Oct 2009
Marred by past relationships, he took her on. She left him when he pointed out her only fault, but not before telling him his.
by mdjb on 7:06pm, 11 Oct 2009
In his native tongue he could toss off bon mots con los mejores, yet he sounded windy and dull in anything outside of English. Por eso.
by mdjb on 8:08am, 7 Jan 2010
Beau couldn't make a move without Dolly until the day he pulled the plug and she went brr-rapping around the room like a balloon losing air
by mdjb on 9:54am, 16 Dec 2009
And Who died and left you in charge? Jesus asked Peter on one of those latter days. He was attempting irony, but The Rock missed the call.
by mdjb on 9:33am, 29 Nov 2009
He was always taking others to task for doing things He would never do not realizing they could not do everything His way without being Him.
by mdjb on 9:31am, 29 Nov 2009
Although he angrily demanded she return only the expensive engagement ring, she sent him the cheapest postcard from Niagara Falls instead.
by mdjb on 1:41pm, 5 Nov 2009
All the stories in the world are here in my pen. I only hope I don't run out of ink too soon after I start writing them.
by mdjb on 9:38am, 3 Nov 2009
When I felt a spurt of writer's block coming on, I recalled my own approaching senility, and couldn't figure out how I was supposed to...
by mdjb on 1:59pm, 13 Oct 2009
Marred by past relationships, he took her on. She left him when he pointed out her only fault, but not before telling him his.
by mdjb on 7:06pm, 11 Oct 2009
Monday, January 4, 2010
Published in Gloom Cupboard
Gloom Cupboard, Prose # 113
Miss Morningside; Learning Linen; Impossible Things Before Breakfast; Each Day I Die; Lydia
My Comment:
Rizzy Rodham: Brief, but packed with warm feeling. I finished feeling this was a person I’d like to know, and the ghost seems like the nicest one I’ve ever read about. The way she quickly says, No, but then proves the reverse is just perfect. I want to read more of Rizzy’s work.
Leigha Butler: As I have personally felt the presence, or the lack of same, but a deep need for it to be otherwise, of missing loved ones, this tale touched me deeply. There is that period where we just seem to give up taking care of ourselves. It’s almost sadder when we accept the reality of the situation than suffering through our longing, and this story captures those moments well.
As to my own piece: I quote Alice (from Through the Looking Glass) “There’s no use trying,” she said, “one can’t believe impossible things.”
“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why sometimes I believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast!”
Lonnie James: Enjoyed the way the author made it clear something was out of the ordinary right near the beginning of the tale, and then took some time to develop the patient’s “personality” so that we could see, yes, he had one, programmed in or otherwise. Original take on a familiar theme in modern science that gave it freshness, and made it thought-provoking.
Jeanette Cheezum: This tale neatly expresses the dichotomy between the right and wrong ways to relieve stress. And who deserves punishment for choosing the “wrong” ways. Jeanette, as always, surprises with her awareness and observatory powers.
I am proud to be in the company of this fine group of writers. Gloom Cupboard is tops!
Miss Morningside; Learning Linen; Impossible Things Before Breakfast; Each Day I Die; Lydia
My Comment:
Rizzy Rodham: Brief, but packed with warm feeling. I finished feeling this was a person I’d like to know, and the ghost seems like the nicest one I’ve ever read about. The way she quickly says, No, but then proves the reverse is just perfect. I want to read more of Rizzy’s work.
Leigha Butler: As I have personally felt the presence, or the lack of same, but a deep need for it to be otherwise, of missing loved ones, this tale touched me deeply. There is that period where we just seem to give up taking care of ourselves. It’s almost sadder when we accept the reality of the situation than suffering through our longing, and this story captures those moments well.
As to my own piece: I quote Alice (from Through the Looking Glass) “There’s no use trying,” she said, “one can’t believe impossible things.”
“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why sometimes I believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast!”
Lonnie James: Enjoyed the way the author made it clear something was out of the ordinary right near the beginning of the tale, and then took some time to develop the patient’s “personality” so that we could see, yes, he had one, programmed in or otherwise. Original take on a familiar theme in modern science that gave it freshness, and made it thought-provoking.
Jeanette Cheezum: This tale neatly expresses the dichotomy between the right and wrong ways to relieve stress. And who deserves punishment for choosing the “wrong” ways. Jeanette, as always, surprises with her awareness and observatory powers.
I am proud to be in the company of this fine group of writers. Gloom Cupboard is tops!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Story Virus v5
This is basically a series of flash stories. I was tagged by my good friend the writer CJT on her wordvamp blog to help continue a project with some great writers, and given the list of previous posts so I could bring it forward. I will add to the story, then tag more people for them to keep it moving. It has gotten interesting, and I hope my taggees can find some time to help it along.
The chain begins here:
I, Spotchy
Then continues at:
Cormac Writes
Then:
Lost in the BoZone
Then:
David Barber’s Fiction World
Then:
Writing The Hard Way
Then:
Not From Here, Are You
Then:
I Can’t Believe It’s Not Better!
And finally:
CJT's wordvamp, before coming to me.
Here is my addition to the story:
The Team, comprising Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, and Blitzen, or Rudolph's Boys for short, were sitting, red-nosed and bleary-eyed, round a flattened tree stump that served as a card table. There were empty booze bottles lying all over the place, and bowls that might have once held snacks, but now were overflowing with upchuck sat uninvitingly to the side.
"Kris ain't here," said Donder. "Who's asking for him? Oh, it's you Blanco. What the hell, happened to you? You look like you ate some bad fish."
"Where's Kringle? He said he'd get you guys ready to go on a mission to save the world, starting with the Universe Mall."
"Who does he think he is, Doc Savage? We got but one job a year, and we don't feel like donning those frigging reindeer outfits to go saving the world without time and a half for overtime."
"Listen, Donner," said Gary, "Can't you guys...?"
"That's Donder, dicktard. Why does everybody get that wrong?"
"Sorry, I heard it in a song or something," the detective said. "Can't you guys get into the spirit of the season just a coupla days early, and help us out?"
"What's up?" asked Blitzen, and the others gave him a look that said, Don't involve us in anything too taxing.
"Is this all you lamefaces do all the time, sitting around throwing back the hootch?" Blanco asked. As his color was deepening he felt the whole season was falling away to the dogs.
"How do you think we fuel up for the big night?" Dasher said, and that raised laughter from the rest of the team.
At that, Rudolph came out of the back of the barn, wiping his hands like he'd just come from a restroom. "What's up, fellas?" he asked. "Who're these guys?"
"Ummn, you'd better go wake up the Fat Man," said Blitzen, "Looks like we got another job this year. These guys want us to help 'em save the world."
"Scrotum," shouted Rudolph, who suffered from intermittent Tourette's syndrome, "Balls! Ass! Titties," and his nose began glowing redder than a stop sign at a school crossing. "Waddaya want us to do?"
"Don't you think we should wake up Kris..." Blitzen started to ask.
"Nah, shit! Blueballs! Jack-off! We can handle this, and be back in time for the big giveaway. Damn!" He kept rubbing his hands, but now he looked as if he anticipated big adventure.
"I'm not so sure you understand the nature of..." Gary began.
"Just lay out the plan," Rudolph interrupted, "Christ! Mess! We're more than ready for some action and mayhem. Motherfu..." he stopped, as everyone turned to see Kris Kringle, himself, waddling out from the back while zipping up his fly.
"You guys know who's in charge here. Didn't I tell y'all to wake me when these two arrived? Christ, where would this season be without me?"
Now I tag the following:
mkooch
Green Monkey Tales
Bukowki's Basement
Notes from the Überground
The Way It Is
The chain begins here:
I, Spotchy
Then continues at:
Cormac Writes
Then:
Lost in the BoZone
Then:
David Barber’s Fiction World
Then:
Writing The Hard Way
Then:
Not From Here, Are You
Then:
I Can’t Believe It’s Not Better!
And finally:
CJT's wordvamp, before coming to me.
Here is my addition to the story:
The Team, comprising Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, and Blitzen, or Rudolph's Boys for short, were sitting, red-nosed and bleary-eyed, round a flattened tree stump that served as a card table. There were empty booze bottles lying all over the place, and bowls that might have once held snacks, but now were overflowing with upchuck sat uninvitingly to the side.
"Kris ain't here," said Donder. "Who's asking for him? Oh, it's you Blanco. What the hell, happened to you? You look like you ate some bad fish."
"Where's Kringle? He said he'd get you guys ready to go on a mission to save the world, starting with the Universe Mall."
"Who does he think he is, Doc Savage? We got but one job a year, and we don't feel like donning those frigging reindeer outfits to go saving the world without time and a half for overtime."
"Listen, Donner," said Gary, "Can't you guys...?"
"That's Donder, dicktard. Why does everybody get that wrong?"
"Sorry, I heard it in a song or something," the detective said. "Can't you guys get into the spirit of the season just a coupla days early, and help us out?"
"What's up?" asked Blitzen, and the others gave him a look that said, Don't involve us in anything too taxing.
"Is this all you lamefaces do all the time, sitting around throwing back the hootch?" Blanco asked. As his color was deepening he felt the whole season was falling away to the dogs.
"How do you think we fuel up for the big night?" Dasher said, and that raised laughter from the rest of the team.
At that, Rudolph came out of the back of the barn, wiping his hands like he'd just come from a restroom. "What's up, fellas?" he asked. "Who're these guys?"
"Ummn, you'd better go wake up the Fat Man," said Blitzen, "Looks like we got another job this year. These guys want us to help 'em save the world."
"Scrotum," shouted Rudolph, who suffered from intermittent Tourette's syndrome, "Balls! Ass! Titties," and his nose began glowing redder than a stop sign at a school crossing. "Waddaya want us to do?"
"Don't you think we should wake up Kris..." Blitzen started to ask.
"Nah, shit! Blueballs! Jack-off! We can handle this, and be back in time for the big giveaway. Damn!" He kept rubbing his hands, but now he looked as if he anticipated big adventure.
"I'm not so sure you understand the nature of..." Gary began.
"Just lay out the plan," Rudolph interrupted, "Christ! Mess! We're more than ready for some action and mayhem. Motherfu..." he stopped, as everyone turned to see Kris Kringle, himself, waddling out from the back while zipping up his fly.
"You guys know who's in charge here. Didn't I tell y'all to wake me when these two arrived? Christ, where would this season be without me?"
Now I tag the following:
mkooch
Green Monkey Tales
Bukowki's Basement
Notes from the Überground
The Way It Is
Sunday, November 29, 2009
other stories and observations
Trophy at Fictionaut
...anything but love... at Fictionaut
Mack's Kids at Out of Ruins
Qwerty at Six Sentences
Outlook at Six Sentences
Men and Women at Six Sentences
Six Verses Before the Chorus at Six Sentences
Misinterpretation at Pen 10 Scribes
...anything but love... at Fictionaut
Mack's Kids at Out of Ruins
Qwerty at Six Sentences
Outlook at Six Sentences
Men and Women at Six Sentences
Six Verses Before the Chorus at Six Sentences
Misinterpretation at Pen 10 Scribes
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Memoirist
October '95, I think it was Friday the 13th, we had a cocktail party. Wanted to get both families together. Figured it would be a lark to invite Malachy, who was a personality. If he would come. Nora asked him to bring his brother Frank, a darker light, because she wanted the balance right.
They came and the party was a success. All evening long, Malachy regaled us with personal achievements. Frank quietly impressed with tales of overcoming hardships. He never mentioned he was writing a memoir, only that he was about to retire after many years of teaching.
At one point there was a toast to Nora's mother, who had been hospitable when first Frank the lad, then later Malachy, had returned to America.
I joined in, though this was only a story to me, and I felt inadequate under Malachy's gleam.
The next year, on publication of Frank's book, saw a shift in their status. Suddenly, the quiet one was the star.
Nora and I went to every booksigning and reading within our range.
One evening, I'm sure it was before the Pulitzer, I had to work late. Nora went to Barnes & Noble and saved me a place. When I arrived, they had already closed off the public access. When Frank arrived, I was allowed with a couple of other latecomers to ride down in the elevator with him and his agent. I nodded but there was no sign of recognition. As we exited, someone led him to a table and handed him a glass of wine. I joined Nora and her young cousin Stephen in the seated crowd.
After a sparkling reading, he signed many copies of his book. We straggled until there were only a few people left.
Nora placed a book in front of Frank and asked him to address it to Stephen. The agent spoke up. "Please, no personal requests. Only autographs at this time." I looked around the room. There were only nine people still in attendance.
Nora said, "That was a wonderful reading, Frank. I wish you much success."
He looked up and for a moment it seemed he had trouble connecting the words he had heard with their source.
Then he said, "Nora? Is it little Nora? Jaysus, don't do that to me. You scared me half to death. A voice out of my past."
"I'm sorry," she said. I was holding her elbow and I could feel her tensing.
"How many years has it been?" Frank asked.
It was then that I realized he had crossed over. Twenty minutes earlier the room had been filled with close to two hundred people, and Frank had treated them to bits and pieces of his dark history, opening his soul as it were, and he hadn't seen, I mean really seen, any of the faces in front of him.
They came and the party was a success. All evening long, Malachy regaled us with personal achievements. Frank quietly impressed with tales of overcoming hardships. He never mentioned he was writing a memoir, only that he was about to retire after many years of teaching.
At one point there was a toast to Nora's mother, who had been hospitable when first Frank the lad, then later Malachy, had returned to America.
I joined in, though this was only a story to me, and I felt inadequate under Malachy's gleam.
The next year, on publication of Frank's book, saw a shift in their status. Suddenly, the quiet one was the star.
Nora and I went to every booksigning and reading within our range.
One evening, I'm sure it was before the Pulitzer, I had to work late. Nora went to Barnes & Noble and saved me a place. When I arrived, they had already closed off the public access. When Frank arrived, I was allowed with a couple of other latecomers to ride down in the elevator with him and his agent. I nodded but there was no sign of recognition. As we exited, someone led him to a table and handed him a glass of wine. I joined Nora and her young cousin Stephen in the seated crowd.
After a sparkling reading, he signed many copies of his book. We straggled until there were only a few people left.
Nora placed a book in front of Frank and asked him to address it to Stephen. The agent spoke up. "Please, no personal requests. Only autographs at this time." I looked around the room. There were only nine people still in attendance.
Nora said, "That was a wonderful reading, Frank. I wish you much success."
He looked up and for a moment it seemed he had trouble connecting the words he had heard with their source.
Then he said, "Nora? Is it little Nora? Jaysus, don't do that to me. You scared me half to death. A voice out of my past."
"I'm sorry," she said. I was holding her elbow and I could feel her tensing.
"How many years has it been?" Frank asked.
It was then that I realized he had crossed over. Twenty minutes earlier the room had been filled with close to two hundred people, and Frank had treated them to bits and pieces of his dark history, opening his soul as it were, and he hadn't seen, I mean really seen, any of the faces in front of him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)