My newest novel, Talisgate, is LIVE!

It’s autumn 1976 in Bradenton, Florida. Troy Cooper is no ordinary eleven-year-old boy. He’s smart. Just ask him. He’ll tell you. His best friend is the ever-faithful, pragmatic, and unflappable Molly McPherson, who lives one street over. Together, they’ve been rummaging around in the old, abandoned Muldoon place for a long time. They’re about to find something in that dilapidated house, something that will change their lives, and forever change their view of the world.

Armed with a magical talisman and guided by a mysterious stranger named Sojourner, Troy and Molly confront evil, both human and supernatural, while traveling to multiple worlds. Along the way, Troy finds out he still has a lot to learn, while Molly proves stronger, smarter, and more resourceful than Troy ever imagined.

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Talisgate - A new novel, coming soon!

 

Talisgate - Coming Soon!

 I am currently in the initial editing phase of my newest novel, Talisgate. Watch this space for announcements and more information.

Meet Sojourner

 This is a chapter from my upcoming novel, Talisgate. Troy Cooper and Molly McPherson have just met a strange, thin, mysterious man. Chapter 20 of the book covers the first significant conversation with Sojourner, but it doesn't completely reveal who (or what) he is. You'll have to wait for the rest of the book to be completed before you find that out. I hope this sample piques your interest. Keep in mind this is in rough draft form. Changes and corrections are inevitable.

Chapter 20

“Who are you?” I demanded, trying not to sound as nervous as I was and shuffling to get between Molly and the stranger. “Where did you come from? How did you get in here?”

“What do you want to know first?” the man replied. He slowly and casually leaned back against the wall, crossing one foot over the other and lightly touching the brim of his hat. 

“Tell me who you are,” I said, gritting my teeth and striking my best no-nonsense pose. I had a lot of practice at this. It was my go-to posture when I felt I needed to repel the bullying attempts of a bigger, less sophisticated schoolmate. My arms were as straight as arrows, tight to my sides. My fists were clenched so tightly I could actually feel my knuckles turning white.

“I am a sojourner. Yes. Sojourner. That is what I am called.” The man said this in such a way that I thought he must not be used to anyone calling him anything. It seemed like a foreign concept to him.

I pressed. “Sojourner? Is that your name or your job?”

Before he could answer, Molly piped up. “Did you say you are a soldier? It sounded like you said, ‘soldier-er’.”

“No, silly,” the man chuckled. “Sojourner. Say it like this. Repeat after me. First, say ‘so’.”

“So,” Molly complied.

“Right,” the man continued. “Now say, ‘ger’ like the first part of ‘geranium’.”

“Ger.”

“Perfect! Now say ‘ner’ like… well, I don’t know any words that start with ‘ner’ so just say ‘ner’ and let that be it.”

“How about ‘nervous’, like I am right now,” I said.

Molly ignored me. “Ner.”

 “Right-o,” Sojourner said. “Now, put them all together and you get ‘Sojourner’, and that’s me!”

“Sojourner,” Molly said, nodding slightly with self-satisfaction. She seemed oddly at peace with this weirdo, but I still wanted to know more about him. I mean, he just kind of appeared out of nowhere. I didn’t even hear him come in.

I lowered my brow and crossed my arms. With my best attempt at sounding tough, I asked, “Name or occupation?”

The stranger cocked his head sideways a bit and slid the fingers of his left hand underneath his hat, giving his scalp a gentle scratching. Sounding genuinely perplexed by my idea of the simplest question anyone could be asked, he said, “Whatever do you mean?”  

“Is your name Sojourner or are you employed by someone as a sojourner?” I was dimly aware of Molly asking what the heck a sojourner was, but I mentally pushed the question away and kept my gaze fixed upon the strange, skinny man in the hat. 

“I certainly do sojourn. I am a person who sojourns. Employed by someone? Ah, yes. I suppose you could call it employed and I suppose you could call it someone, but I still don’t understand your question.”

I was getting frustrated. “Listen,” I said. “Are there other people like you? People who sojourn, as you say, where you come from?”

“Where I come from? Come from? From? You ask strange questions indeed. But yes, there are others like me. Well, they are somewhat like me in that they sojourn like me.” The stranger continued to look confused. I got the sense that he was trying to answer my question, but it was like I was speaking in terms he couldn’t comprehend. 

I tried another approach. “OK,” I continued. “There are others who do as you do. When you meet one of them, how do you greet each other?”

“Oh, why didn’t you ask that to begin with?” His face brightened. 

I could feel Molly tapping me on the shoulder. She still wanted to know what sojourning was. I absently brushed her hand away. “I guess I just didn’t,” I answered. “Go on.”

“Well,” the man went on, flashing a grin and looking much more at ease now that he felt he could fully take part in the conversation. “I would say something like, ‘Greetings, Sojourner!’”

“And what would he say?” I prodded.

“He? Might be a she, you know.”  

“Whatever. How would he or she respond?”

“Fair greetings in return, Sojourner!” A beaming smile covered the lower portion of the man’s face when he said this. He was so proud that he had the right answer. 

I crushed his hubris by snapping back, “That tells me nothing! You both just call each other ‘sojourner’? That’s like everyone going around calling each other ‘man’ or ‘woman’. Don’t you have names?”

“Names? Heavens, no. Names are for people and pets and streets and buildings and such. A sojourner needs no name.” This last statement seemed to be a point of pride for him. He narrowed his eyelids and tilted his head slightly back, elevating the angle of his nose. 

“People? So, you’re not a person?” The stranger just blinked at this question and broke eye contact with me. This was apparently a touchy subject. I decided to get back to my current line of questioning. “How do you tell each other apart?” I asked.

“We know ourselves. That is enough,” he replied and offered no more. 

“Well, we’re going to have to call you something if we’re going to talk to you, and I have a bunch of talking to do. I will speak to you as if your name is Sojourner, OK?”

“It will result in none of the epidermis being removed from my posterior regions,” Sojourner said, fluttering the fingers of both hands in the air near his head, just outside the perimeter of his hat’s ample brim. “Suit yourself.”

“What?” I spat.

“It’s an old saying here in this culture, no? It refers to something being of no trouble or causing no inconvenience. I’m sure of it. I’m certain I’ve heard it here before.”

I thought about what he had said and mulled it over. “Oh, you mean it’s no skin off your back?”

“That’s what I said,” he replied.

“No, it isn’t. You said something similar, but you used a lot more words and made it hard to understand.”

“I only want to be clear,” the sojourner offered. “Clarity is important.”

“Too much clarity darkens,” I said, sounding as grave and important as I could.

“What does that mean?” the man asked. Molly was rolling her eyes. I could feel them. She knows me.

“It means,” I said, “that by over-explaining things, you made your point difficult to understand. Too much clarity darkens. That’s a quote from Blaise Pascal.”

Sojourner’s eyes brightened. “Did you say ‘Blaise Pascal’? France? Seventeenth century?”

“Y-yeah. Blaise Pascal.” Sojourner’s burst of enthusiasm rattled me.

“Oh, yes! Bright fellow! I loved him. I remember him well.” Sojourner turned his gaze upward, as if picturing a scene from his memory. After a brief pause, he looked at me with a veil of sadness lightly covering his face. His eyes drooped along with the corners of his mouth. “He’s gone from everywhere now, you know.”

“What are you talking about?” I shot back. “If Pascal were still alive, he would be over three hundred years old. So yeah, he’s gone. Are you trying to tell me you met Pascal personally? You’re that old?”

Molly forced her way into the conversation and kept me from pursuing my line of questioning. “Look. I’m fine calling you whatever you want, and I’m not as impressed as Troy that you know about his all-time historic hero, but can one of you please tell me what a sojourner is?”

Sojourner opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him to the punch. “A sojourner is someone who doesn’t stay in one place very long. It’s kind of like a traveler without a home.” I glanced over at the nodding Sojourner.

“That’s essentially accurate,” he said. “Of course, there’s more to why I’m here and more to what my purpose actually is, but as far as a dictionary definition, that will do. It doesn’t really do me justice, but it’s the closest thing to a one-word description.”

“OK, so now you’ve hit on it. That’s exactly what I want to know,” I said, punctuating each word with a jab of my index finger in the stranger's direction. I didn’t touch him, but I was feeling particularly brave at the moment and wanted to establish my ground. I’m not sure where my courage was coming from, unless it was adrenaline. This guy had really startled me with his sudden appearance, and I was riled up—at least as riled up as an eleven-year-old boy can get. “Why are you here? What gives you the right to barge in here and scare the snot out of me and Molly? You’d better not try anything. I’m tougher than I look and I’m no stranger to a fight.” I bowed out my chest and tried my best to look threatening. I glared at Sojourner and, through teeth clenched so hard I could hear their surfaces grinding against each other, I said, “What do you want with me?”

Taking a deep breath and trying very hard not to laugh at my belligerent display, Sojourner simply said, “It’s not really about you, Troy. I’m here because of Molly.”

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Legacy

I wrote this little story in response to an online prompt. The prompt said that you were an adult dragon who comes upon a human toddler that has been abandoned in the forest. Write about what happens next. Here's what spilled out of me.

=========================

I really wish they would stop doing this. They’ve been doing it for years now. It’s getting old. I’m half inclined to just let this one hang there. But in the end, I know I won’t. I never do. 

Years ago, someone, probably a goblin, told the humans in Port Mullek that they needed to appease me with an offering from time to time or else I would rain fire down on their town and kill them all. I suspect goblins for two reasons. First, they always try to get to the offering before I see it, so they can take it for themselves. Second, I know it’s a big joke to them to spread rumors about fire breathing. Humans are afraid of us enough as it is. Add the threat of flaming breath to the equation and they feel obligated to hire foreign armies to come wipe us out. They’ve just about done it, too. Of late, there’s been a lot less of that kind of thing because the towns are poor, and kings don’t like to lose a bunch of perfectly good soldiers fighting some dragon in a faraway land in exchange for a few bushels of grain or a couple of broken-down donkeys. 

Of course, I don’t have fire. It’s not something we are born with. As a matter of fact, no one knows if we can do it at all. None ever have to my knowledge. Oh sure. There are the old legends. My great-great-grandfather used to tell me stories about the mighty Krovonik, also known as the Inferno Worm, who would reduce entire towns to ashes in a single breath. I know. Hard to believe. It might be true, but my guess is it’s been highly exaggerated over the centuries. I know I’ve never seen a dragon breathe fire. I’m pretty sure great-great-grandfather never did either. It’s just something to fuel story time for the young. 

Back to the bag. Yes, it’s a bag, hanging from a tree branch about twenty feet off the ground, right in my line of sight. It’s wiggling, as always. It’s got some kind of cryptic writing on it, as always. The humans always paint weird symbols on the bags. I don’t know why. It’s probably part of the goblins’ stupid lies. They think they are communicating with me. They aren’t. The symbols are meaningless. Surely, they know dragons have mastered the common tongue, as well as dozens of other languages and dialects. They could just speak to me like they do one another, but they rarely try. Most of the time, they just scream and fall all over each other trying to get away from me. Their screams drown out anything I might try to say to them like, “Hey stupid. What’s wrong with you? Stop leaving little humans in bags for me. I don’t want them.” 

Yes, that’s what I always find in the bags. Little humans. They’re not exactly babies, but they are small. Times I have let them out of the bag, they get up and try to run away, so they’re old enough to walk. Baby humans can’t even crawl for several months. They have to be about a year or more along before they can try to walk. 

I guess the goblins told the humans that dragons like to eat small human children. That’s not true. Dragons won’t kill anything that can talk, unless they are being attacked or seriously threatened by the something in question. We have ethics. Mostly, we get all we need from elk, deer, and the occasional wild pig. We’ve certainly killed humans, mostly knights and other mercenaries, sent to exterminate us, but we don’t eat them. I’ve killed my share of goblins as well, but they were all asking for it, gouging at me with their nasty spears or trying to hack my legs with their crude swords. But there’s nothing a young human child could do to provoke me to kill it, and I certainly would not eat a dead one should I stumble upon it. That’s one thing the goblins must be telling the truth about when they try to get the villagers to give me their children. Dragons only eat live prey. We’re not vultures. 

Generally, I open the bags out of curiosity and then just wrap the kid back up and drop it off just outside the town, close enough that the villagers will find it before the goblins do and far enough away to keep the more zealous townsfolk from getting brave and charging at me with spears and axes. I don’t know what happens to the bags after I leave them. I guess the villagers assume I refused their offering for some reason. They probably think I keep the ones the goblins get to first, so that’s enough to keep them at it. 

So, this little bag is just hanging there, its contents wriggling and squeaking. I sigh and trudge heavily toward it, my exasperation on display for no one. I reach up and snap the branch off the tree. I’ve learned that’s safer for the occupant than ripping the bag open with a claw or trying to untie it. They don’t do well with twenty-foot falls. I put the bag down on the ground and slice the knot holding it closed with the tip of a claw. I wonder what the deal will be with this one. 

I say “what the deal will be” because it’s always something. Usually, it’s a birthmark, an unusual hair color, eyes that are too close together, too far apart, or an uncommon hue. I guess they’re looking for some kind of sign that would indicate the sacrifice would be worthy of my attention. Honestly, I have no idea what they are trying to do with this exercise. If only I could find out what the stupid goblins were saying to them. I hate goblins. Did I say that already?

The mouth of the sack sighs open as the rope falls away. There’s more wriggling as the creature inside sees light and starts to move toward it. I wait, half annoyed and half curious. 

Squinting in the light and raising a limb to shield its eyes, the occupant emerges. I cannot believe what I am seeing. I’ve never seen anything like this, certainly not among humans. I can’t be certain it even is completely human, but it looks mostly like one. The face is mostly human, except for the eyes. The eyes are large and golden. The pupils are not round, but instead they are horizontal slits, kind of like my own. Yellow hair, concentrated down the center of the skull, is silky and flowing, leading to a ridge running down the entire length of the child’s back and onto its tail. Wait! Tail? Humans don’t have tails. This little one does. Again, not sure if this even is human. The skin on its face, chest, stomach, arms, and legs is mostly the soft, pinkish stuff the rest of the villagers have, but the back side of the child is covered with iridescent scales, not unlike the ones that adorn my entire body. 

What is this? 

I don’t have any time to ponder my own question. In a flash, the child assumes a determined gaze, narrowing its pupils, lowering its brow, and leaping to my left foreleg, the one I had used to open the bag. Before I can react, it’s clambered up my leg, across my shoulder, and onto the back of my head. The speed of its movements is truly impressive. I’ve got to get this thing off me. Who knows what it will do?

***

I have got to stop eating those wooly mountain boars. They give me the worst nightmares. Sheesh, I feel really awful. Why is the sun so high in the sky? Have I slept that long?

“Four days,” a voice answers.

I spin around, shaking my stiff bones loose from their slumber. I shout out various warnings, insults, and unrepeatable slurs. I’m sure goblins have ambushed me. 

“I’m not a goblin,” the voice assures. 

Wait a minute. How does this thing, this voice, know I’m thinking about goblins?

“Because I’m part of you. Don’t you understand? Actually, it’s more than that. I am you.”

I am very far from understanding, and I loudly proclaim that fact to this unseen entity. I’m just about to panic, but a soothing wave of warmth flows through me. I’m actually kind of sleepy feeling. How can that be? I’ve just woken up. 

“Shhh,” the voice whispers. “Relax. Let me fill you in.”

“I am you. Well, that’s sort of right. I’m part of you, but it’s that and more than that at the same time. Oh, dear. Now I’m rambling. Let me start over. There is much about our ancestry you do not know. Many thousands of years ago, our kind was much different. We ruled this world without peer and without challenge for millennia. It was a time of glory. Something happened, however. Something terrible. It’s a long story for another time but suffice it to say it interrupted our natural way of living. It changed us.”

I’m feeling groggy and relaxed, but this voice is not making a lot of sense. Why is it saying, “us”? I don’t see another dragon here. There was that little creature in the bag. But that was a dream. At least, I think it was. It cannot be real. The voice snaps at me.

“Pay attention!” 

I stop my pondering to listen. I feel like I need to ask more questions, but I am compelled by this thing, whatever it is, to just listen. 

“Yes, I said, ‘us.’ And yes, I know what you are thinking and why you are thinking it. Our minds are one because we are one. The ancient race existed not only of mating pairs of dragons who gave live birth, but also creatures that hatched from eggs. Yes, eggs. I know you have heard of some females laying eggs, but no one ever understood why. Actually, they just forgot why. They think it’s some kind of throwback to a time when we used to raise young from eggs, since the eggs never hatch. They just solidify into stone and are discarded. Well, most of them. Not me.

“I came from one of those eggs. Your mother’s egg, to be precise. I was left in our parents’ den when they were driven out by goblin and human mercenaries. You were too young to remember, but I know you understand mother and father were lost. Our grandparents, great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents raised you, but they didn’t give the egg a second thought. It was just a dead stone in the back of the den. An oddity not worth going back for. 

“Time passed. Eggs like mine wait. They wait until the other part of being matures to the point they can join it. At least, that’s the way it’s supposed to work. Almost all eggs just turn to stone and die, but not me. I awoke and hatched. I knew immediately I had to find you, but I did not know where I was. I could feel you, but you felt far away. I came out of the den, which was just a shallow cave in a hillside, and was immediately spotted and bagged by a group of humans, who were out hunting pheasants that day. They crammed me into a nasty pheasant bag and hauled me back to their village. The humans there did not know I could understand their speech, but I could. They were very excited to find me. They thought for sure I would be the sacrifice the great dragon would want. It was quickly decided they should take me out to the edge of the forest and hang me from a tree. You know the rest, but you awoke thinking it was a dream. It isn’t.”

I stir from my fog and ask tentatively what this thing is exactly. I’m still pretty confused, and it’s not making a lot of sense to me what this voice is telling me.

“I already told you. I am you. I am a part of you. When you let me out of the bag, I instinctively merged my body with yours. Your head probably feels a little strange. It’s larger and heavier now that I am blended into it. So, again, I am you. I am the part of you that you and every other dragon living today has been missing their whole lives. Specifically, I am your Kindling.”

A thought awakens deep within me. More than a thought. A realization. A revelation. Knowledge. Joy. Completeness. Suddenly, I feel energized, free from the slumber that held me inert. I leap from the ground, spread my wings and flap into the sky. I climb higher and higher, rolling my body and finally leveling off onto a path heading straight over the town. Faster and faster I fly, feeling the strength and power of my being, finally complete, a feeling no dragon has had for thousands of years. 

As I reach the edge of the village, I stall my flight, poised high in the air, giving as many townsfolk as possible a chance to notice me hovering high above their city gates. I throw my head back and open my throat in a mighty roar, enough to shake the villagers below in their boots. And now that I have their attention, I call upon my new, complete self, no longer a voice within me, but truly a part of me. I reach deep inside and summon the Kindling within. My nostrils flare and release a scarlet, blue, and golden flame that fills the sky above the town. I can only imagine the newfound terror and, hopefully, respect this display has yielded. I’m not going to hang around to find out. It’s time to put some goblins in their place. 

Stephen

I was six years old in the fall of 1971. I remember the first day of first grade in Mrs. Cartmel’s class at Sullivan Elementary School like it was yesterday. Well, I remember parts of it that clearly. Kindergarten didn’t exist at that time, or at least it didn’t exist for me. Despite my lack of formal education, I could already read, and I had a decent grasp of rudimentary math. This advantage was courtesy of the presence of two older sisters, Donna and Lisa. They found much joy in pretending to be teachers tutoring their baby brother in knowledge mined from the vast caverns of wisdom that made up their extensive elementary school experiences. I owe them a tremendous debt of gratitude for that head start. Elementary school didn’t really challenge me at all because of the sturdy foundation they provided. 

Even though my sisters had already armed me with most of what I would be presented with in first grade, I didn’t know that, so I was nervous. All the kids were strangers. The teacher, who seemed really nice, was also a stranger. The room was big and loud. The smell of chalk dust mingled with that distinctive old building aroma hung thick in the air. I didn’t know what to expect. 

I certainly did not expect Stephen.

I don’t recall Stephen’s last name; however, the memory of that little boy has remained ingrained in my mind and influenced the man I have become over the course of more than fifty years. Amazing, right? Yeah. I know. Let me share some stuff about Stephen. I don’t know a lot, because I was six, remember? Six-year-olds in 1971, just like six-year-olds now, had a short attention span and a limited scope of interests. For me, it was Hot Wheels, baseball, and Robert Conrad as James West in “The Wild, Wild West” on television. Not much else was going on in my little blonde, burr-cut head. 

Stephen arrived a little late to class. Everyone else had gotten settled in. Mothers, my own included, had accompanied each child and made over them in all sorts of ways, the way mothers do. One by one, they reluctantly left their children to Mrs. Cartmel, looking over their shoulders as they departed. Finally, one last mother appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Cartmel met her there. This mother seemed even more nervous that the others. She had a kind of forced smile that didn’t seem all that happy. It was like a mask meant to disguise worry smoldering underneath. Behind her stood a little boy. He was tethered to his mother by her iron grip on his hand, but he was spinning left and right as he attempted to take in everything around him. He was obviously very excited to be at school. 

He was also completely bald. 

I had never seen a real bald kid before. Sure, I thought it was a little odd that Charlie Brown appeared pretty much bald in the funny papers, but he was a cartoon. Rules were different for cartoons. Real boys had hair on their heads. I did, even though it was buzzed down to about a quarter of an inch of yellow stubble, looking like a harvested wheat field. As Stephen made his way into the classroom, kids began staring at him. I couldn’t help it. I stared as well. Stephen didn’t notice. He had a desk reserved right at the front of the room, all the way to the left, near the door. He practically dragged his mother over to it and climbed into the attached chair, beaming with pride and anticipation. This kid was ready to learn. 

Looking back on this day now, my heart breaks for Stephen’s mother. Even as a little kid, I was aware of the obvious, almost physical pain it caused her to leave the classroom that day. She tried to be brave, but her eyes and her body language spoke of palpable anguish. I know she must have cried for a long time outside in the hallway once she was out of Stephen’s line of sight. 

I was bewildered, as were all my classmates. My desk was near the middle of the room, about halfway down the row. Stephen was at least three rows away from me. I saw a couple of kids sitting behind and beside him lean in and say something to him. I imagine they were asking about his hair situation. That’s what little kids do. They notice things like that and innocently want to ask why. I couldn’t hear the conversations, but I could see Stephen’s interactions. Every comment, every kid, was met with a beautiful smile and a cheerful response. I don’t know what he was saying, but he was happy to be talking to his classmates. 

That night, at home, I found out why Stephen was bald. He had leukemia. Treatments for the disease caused his hair to fall out. My mother told me. Apparently, Mrs. Cartmel had communicated Stephen’s situation with all the parents of children in her class. The apparent aim was to allow parents to handle the subject at home, where they could explain what that might mean for Stephen. My mother did a good job with this, probably better than most, but my mother was pretty amazing that way. That’s a longer story for another time, but just know that she was a terrific mom and a great human being. 

Mom explained Stephen had an illness that you could not catch from him, like a cold or chickenpox. It was OK to be around him. She stressed Stephen had no choice in his plight, and that he would need friends who would treat him just like any other kid, without drawing attention to his lack of hair, or the fact that he would likely miss a lot of school days because of the difficulty of dealing with leukemia and the associated treatments. 

My mother was also honest with me. She told me that Stephen’s parents probably worried a lot about him because leukemia was a serious disease that could take Stephen’s life. I distinctly remember the feeling of absurdity this discussion aroused in me. It made absolutely no sense. Old people got sick and died. My grandfather, Mom’s dad, had died only two years prior. He had a heart attack. He was old, though. Stuff like that happened to old people all the time, but six-year-olds didn’t die. They just didn’t. But Mom never lied to me. She almost cried while trying to explain Stephen’s illness. I knew it was real. It still didn’t make sense, but it was real. 

I resolved to make sure I followed my mother’s instructions regarding Stephen. I talked with him. I played with him at recess. I joked with him. We talked about Hot Wheels, baseball, and “The Wild, Wild West.” I got to know him. I learned Stephen was extremely intelligent and immediately able to understand and master any topic in the classroom. He was articulate and had a vocabulary that was much larger than any of the other kids in the class. He looked pale and fragile, but he had energy and life inside him that seemed to defy his obvious physical condition. He was out sick a lot, but he never fell behind and always came back eager to get back into the day-to-day routine of class. 

I didn’t always understand Stephen back then. I understand a lot better now. 

The last time I saw Stephen was in the spring of 1974, at the end of third grade. He had been homeschooled for the entire year. I had not seen him in what seemed like forever. His attendance was spotty during first and second grade, but third grade saw him unable to come to school with any regularity. It was better for him to just learn from home, or I suppose it was. It’s hard to understand that, given how Stephen just lit up when he was around other kids, but I don’t know all the details about the medical horrors he was going through.

Stephen appeared, out of the blue, at the end-of-year academic awards celebration. Starting with third grade, the school had Honor Roll awards. There was First Honor Roll and Second Honor Roll. I don’t recall the rules, but you basically needed to have high marks to make the cut. If you kept it up all year long, you got a trophy at the end of the year. That’s what the celebration was about. 

I was sitting in a metal folding chair, waiting for the event to start, waiting for my shiny blue, white, and gold trophy, when Stephen walked in and plopped down in the chair next to me. I was stunned. My gaping stare was met with Stephen’s golden smile. He looked terrible, but he looked great. His eyes were sunk into his face, but they shone with Stephen’s ever-present glow. His skin was pale, paler than I remembered, but his lips stretched nearly ear to ear. 

I remember wanting to hug him. I wanted to grab him and pull him close and tell him I had been worried about him. I didn’t do that, partly because it wasn’t something eight-year-old boys did and partly because I was still governed by Mom’s instructions to treat Stephen like I would any other kid, not drawing attention to his problems, allowing him to just be a kid among kids. I did, however, pat him on the back and tell him I had missed him. I will never, ever forget what happened next. 

Two boys sitting behind us were giggling. Obviously, they had not shared a classroom with Stephen in first or second grade, like I had. One of them tapped Stephen on the shoulder and said, “Hey, why’d you cut all your hair off?”

I was never a bully. I never picked fights in school. I rarely engaged in any kind of pushing or shoving or fighting at all. I nearly went over my seat to throttle the kid who said that, but without saying a word, Stephen stopped me with what I can only describe as the grace of being Stephen. 

Smiling broadly at the boy behind him, he said, “Oh, I didn’t cut it. It fell out.”

It’s hard to punch a kid who has just been replied to like that. The kid said, “Oh,” and just sat back in his chair. I didn’t go after him, but I gave him a look. I turned my attention back to Stephen. 

“I didn’t expect you would be here, Stephen,” I said. “I didn’t think you would be able to make it.”

Stephen looked straight into my soul with those incredible, defiant eyes and said, “Wild horses could not keep me from coming here tonight to get my trophy.” 

The rest of that event is completely lost in my memory. Nothing after that moment meant anything at all. I don’t remember going up to get my trophy. I don’t remember going home. I don’t remember Mom and Dad making a big deal about it and placing it proudly on top of the behemoth upright piano in the living room. I know all that stuff happened. It’s just that none of it mattered. 

Stephen left this world that summer. He died peacefully at home. Maybe facing something like a horrible disease makes kids mature faster than they would (or should) otherwise, but I can tell you this. Stephen was mature far beyond his years. Maybe that’s because Stephen had something to share with me and the other kids in Mrs. Cartmel’s class. Maybe his response to the kid behind him at the awards ceremony two years later was something that kid would need as he grew to adulthood.

Maybe all of that worked together for a greater good, something no one close to Stephen could possibly understand when it happened. I was just a schoolmate, and I can’t understand it even now. Stephen was smart. Stephen was gentle. Stephen was good. The world was a better place with him in it. Maybe it’s a better place just because he passed through it. I know I am a better man for having known Stephen. I’m stronger. I’m more resilient. I look at challenges with a better attitude. I’m just better. I owe Stephen a lot.

Somehow, I hope he knows that. 

Tech and War - A View from 1952's Player Piano

I read a lot. (You should, too.) Right now, I'm reading Kurt Vonnegut's first novel, Player Piano. This book is 70 years old, yet it feels so relevant today. I'm an IT person. I have been for nearly half the lifetime of the aforementioned book. I live in technology. I am a promoter of technology. I put food on the table by bending technology to my will in order to serve industry. (Wow! That's a pretty grandiose description of "IT Manager", huh?) Anyway, I say that to say that I don't believe tech, in and of itself, is a bad thing. However, tech can certainly be applied in bad (or even evil) ways. It also can forever change how we think about fundamental facets of human existence, including warfare. Check out this passage from the 1952 book and think about how we plan for, and carry out, military exercises in the twenty-first century. Remember; this was 1952. 

"There had been plenty of death, plenty of pain, all right, and plenty of tooth-grinding stoicism and nerve. But men had been called upon chiefly to endure by the side of the machines, the terrible engines that fought with their own kind for the right to gorge themselves on men. Horatio on the bridge had become a radio-guided rocket with an atomic warhead and a proximity fuse. Roland and Oliver had become a pair of jet-driven computers hurtling toward each other far faster than the flight of a man’s scream."

If you don't know those references (Horatio on the bridge and Roland and Oliver), take the time to look them up. It will help you understand the poetry in Vonnegut's writing. 

Ice

The ice is thinner here. 

I don’t remember being on the shoreline, but I know I started out there. When I took my first few wobbly steps onto the ice, I didn’t think much about it breaking. No one did. It was so thick there, and a downy blanket of snow covered the surface. Sure, it was a little slippery, but there wasn’t much chance of anything bad happening. 

Except it did sometimes. 

Even though it seemed impossible, some fell through close to the shoreline. One slipped through right next to me. I heard the cracks. I didn’t believe them. I saw his face. He wasn’t afraid, but looking back, I think he heard more in the crackling surface beneath his feet than I did. I looked away for a moment. When I turned back to the place he had been standing, he was gone.

Mother was always a little further out than me. She could always see me. She wasn’t that far away. I could tell she was scanning the ice that lay ahead of me. She was always telling me to step with care, to shift right or shift left, to watch out for cracks, and to make sure of my footing before taking another step. She stood near Father, who was always trying to find the safest path forward, ever inching farther out away from shore. 

Mammaw and Granddaddy were out past Mother and Father. Their steps were more measured, as though they knew there were thin spots around them. All the while, they kept encouraging Mother and Father to step with confidence. They shouted their support to me as well. It was harder to hear them than it was to hear Mother and Father. I didn’t always understand what they were trying to say, but they never took their eyes from those of us closer to land until, one by one, they slipped beneath the surface. 

The ice slowly opened around Mother, long before it should have. Sure, she was farther out than I was, but I didn’t expect the ice to be so thin there. It didn’t seem that way at first. There were a few cracks around her feet here and there, but she was still standing just fine. It took a long time for anyone to realize that although the cracks were small, they were silently advancing all around Mother, weakening her position. She cautiously stepped onward, further from shore, but the spidery cracks advanced with her, slowly overcoming and encompassing her. Father did all he could, but the cracks were too numerous for him to patch, even if he had a way to patch them. He just had to be near her and love her. He could at least do that, and he did. He never took his eyes off her, even as the crumbling ice kept her from seeing him. Everyone had to just watch as she sank, finally disappearing into the water below. 

My sisters were just a few steps ahead of me. I tried to walk in the pathways they had trod, thinking that if the ice was safe for them, it would be for me. 

That was not a reasonable plan.

Large, fast-moving fissures suddenly appeared around the feet of one of my sisters. No one saw them coming. No one expected them. Not Mother. Not Father. Not my sisters. Not me. The cracks were ugly. They tore at the surface with angry pops and cracks. It was deafening. My sister didn’t panic, but she tried to leap from the area where the cracks were spreading to somewhere more solid. She managed to do that. Everyone thought she was safe. She wasn’t. The cracks followed her. Eventually, they surrounded her, and the ice gave way. I watched as she sank beneath the surface. I was too far away to try to pull her back. None of us could reach her. She didn’t cry out in fear or alarm. As the water rose around her, she seemed to be at peace. It was as if she knew the mystery of what lay beneath the ice, and it was somehow a source of solace rather than terror. 

Now I am far beyond the place where my sister fell. The ice is thinner here. 

Father’s fall through the ice shook me. He had no fear about his next step. The ice gave him no worries. It was what it was. It was the ice he was meant to traverse. He always tried to help everyone he met to step safely in ways that would bring them joy and satisfaction. He was always satisfied with the steps he took. He never looked back on his own path, but he always looked behind to help me choose the next place to plant a step. When he fell, it was like everything I ever leaned on to make sure I was OK had suddenly been taken away. I know Father would scold me for thinking that way. Faith was his buttress. It should be mine. That was a hard lesson to take to heart when I had Father out in front of me. He was seen. It was easy to believe. Suddenly, I had to rely on the unseen.

I can see the place where Mother fell. I don’t like to look at it. Not only does it represent a time of great pain for me, but it also is a source of fear and dread. What if the spidery cracks that surrounded her suddenly appear around me?

The place where Father fell is farther out, but I can see it. I don’t like it. There’s a lot of thin ice around that place and I seem to be getting closer to it every day. I can’t stop. My march is forced. No one can walk back toward the shoreline. No one can stay where they are. We must move forward. No one fully understands that, but no one can deny it. You can pretend you aren’t moving, but you do it anyway. You can fantasize about walking backward, but in the end, you can’t. If you don’t walk, you slip—always forward. Better to choose your path than have it chosen for you. So, I step. 

Stepping can be hard. The ice is thinner here. 

Sometimes, I see shapes beneath the ice. At least, I think I do. Maybe it’s my imagination. Sometimes, the ice appears to be more transparent. Most of the time, it’s completely opaque, but there are times I think I can make out something going on down there. A lot of times, it’s when someone ahead of me or behind me says something to me that generates wonder, rather than dread, about what could be under the surface. You would think shadowy shapes swimming under my feet would terrify me, but they don’t. Somehow, they comfort me. Somehow, they make the water seem less frigid. I know it doesn’t make logical sense to think this way, but sometimes I think that maybe the water is warm. Maybe it’s not an icy grave. Maybe there’s something more. Father’s voice joins Mother’s and my sister’s and those of my grandparents and shouts in my head, “Of course there is!”

It’s hard to trust the voices. I know it’s wrong not to, but it’s so cold here. The wind rips across my face, forcing tears from my eyes. I see and hear cracks opening up around me, more frequently as each year passes, taking friends, family, and strangers alike under the surface. They don’t come back. No one ever does. That makes trusting even more difficult. 

Then there’s the guilt. I remember Father. I remember how his focus was on his family. He filled his days watching the ice for cracks and directing our paths. I remember his example. I have a family. I have a wife who is walking right beside me. I have children who are several steps behind, but still in sight. I can clearly see thin and cracking ice in their path. I have an obligation to all of them. My wife sees the cracks. She is more vigilant than I am, and she does a better job at ignoring the cracks at her own feet in order to keep me and her children from falling through. I lean on her while trying to watch her feet, but I feel inadequate. I sometimes fail to notice her peril due to peril I perceive to be my own. That’s selfish, and it’s definitely not the example I was given to follow. 

The ice is thinner here. 

I know that someday, I will take my last step on the surface of the ice and plunge below. Everyone does, eventually. Everyone will, eventually. Trepidation grips me in an icy clutch more terrible than the battering winds. When will that last step happen? Will I know I am taking it, unable to halt my progress? How many will I have to see fall around me before that happens? What if I take a step I shouldn’t? What if I don’t take a step I should? Even worse, what if I fail to direct a step taken by a family member? What if I suggest a step that leads them to thinner and thinner ice?

Paralysis. The ice is thinner here. 

Father’s voice returns, “That’s God’s business.” Now it’s not the frigid wind that pries loose the tears. It’s a memory of faith. It’s a lesson taught, but not fully learned. It’s a life lived, but not fully appreciated. I fall to my knees under the burden of my own failure to understand the most important thing of all. Trust. Do your best. Trust God to do the rest. All humans fail. It is a part of our nature. No humans can see past the ice. It is a limitation of our place in the universe. The ice is cold. It clouds our vision so that we cannot see what is on the other side. The unknown is always scary. The key to it all is to understand that it’s not really unknown; it’s just unknown to those of us walking on it. We walk. We help others walk. We tread as far as we can, hoping that we are taking the steps we should. When the ice breaks, clarity comes. 

Comfort. The ice is thinner here. 

Talisgate - Chapter 1

I am working on my third novel, entitled Talisgate. Here, for your reading pleasure (I hope) is the first chapter.

***

My name is Troy Cooper. I’m eleven years old and I live in Bradenton, Florida. I’ve got a story to tell you that you probably won’t believe. That’s OK. Most people never believe anything I say anyway. The way I figure it that means it doesn’t matter what I talk about. No one really listens. So, who cares if I’m always truthful? Mom says that just makes the problem worse because people hear me saying I don’t care if they believe me or not, so they just assume I’m always lying. That kind of argument just makes me care a little bit less about what other people think. If they think I’m lying all the time, then fine. It’s no loss of mine if they miss out on the truth when I lay it all out for them. When I first started talking about the stuff I’m about to tell you, nobody around here believed it even though some folks saw part of it with their own eyes. People believe what they want to believe. Anything that doesn’t fit what they think the world should look like just gets thrown away as a mistake, a misunderstanding, confusion, or a lie. Call me a liar if you like. I don’t care. I’m past all of that. I’ve seen things and been through stuff that most people can’t even imagine. I know the truth. If you want to hear it, then listen up. 

I guess I need to back up a bit from where the story gets interesting to tell you a little about myself. It might help you understand why I did some of the things I did and where I’m coming from with all of this. Like I said, you’re not going to believe it. I guess that means I might be wasting my time here, but I feel like I need to tell somebody about it. I guess I’ll tell you even though you probably think I’m a liar already. 

I’m a smart kid. No, I’m not bragging. It’s true. I read everything I can get my hands on and I remember most of it. I remember most of what I see and hear, too. That’s how I can tell you this story straight from memory and know I’ve got it all right. Reading is the best, though. If I read it and enjoy it, it’s locked away for good. I’ve been reading novels since the second grade and I go through a dozen or more thick ones every year. All that reading has given me a big vocabulary–bigger than most grown-ups. Sometimes adults think I’m being a smart-aleck when I speak in terms that fly over their heads, but I’m not. I’m just trying to communicate. It’s not my fault I’m smarter than most people. They should try to catch up. I’m not going back for them. I also like to write. You already know that. I’m writing this down for you now, right? 

I’m tough, too. I have to be. I’m in the eighth grade. I know. Eleven years old usually puts you in the sixth grade, but I’ve skipped a couple of grades along the way. (I told you I was smart.) I kept getting in trouble in the early grades because my teachers couldn’t keep me occupied. I would fly through my work and then spend all my spare time in class thinking of new and exciting ways to torment my fellow classmates and teachers. They got tired of it. Parents complained. I complained. 

During one of my many trips to the school office I told Mr. Lady, the school principal, that I was bored with his dumb old school and he could expel me for all I cared. After a lot of counseling time with my parents, Mr. Lady decided that I was worth keeping in the school and that the best thing would be for me to skip a grade. He didn’t fool me for a second. I think he hated me for all the trouble I was causing. He just wanted to keep me in the school because I absolutely roasted all those worthless standardized tests the state and county felt compelled to foist upon elementary school students. I brought the average scores of the whole school up a notch. Mr. Lady did not want to lose that benefit by kicking me out of school or even encouraging my parents to try putting me in a private school. 

That all happened when I was in the first grade. I got moved to the second grade during the first quarter of that school year. That means that my novel reading I spoke about before began at an age when most kids are in first grade, not second. Second grade turned out to be just as unchallenging as first grade, so they had me skip third grade and go straight to fourth. After that I paced myself. I didn’t want to skip any more grades. Some of the other kids resented me for my talents and took out that resentment in the form of beatings. The more out of synch my age and current grade level became the worse that kind of thing got. That’s what made me tough. I learned how to fight when I had to. More importantly, I learned how to avoid fights when I could. The key was to do as much damage to the other kid as possible when cornered so that the next bully would think twice before picking on me. If I got trapped by a bully and was forced to fight, I fought viciously and dirty. Kicks to the crotch and fingers to the eye were not only justifiable but among my favorite moves in battle. I got black eyes and split lips on a few occasions, but over time the attacks subsided. I wasn’t worth the trouble. I was a mean little smart-aleck that most kids just avoided. At least that’s the reputation I built. I’m not really mean and I’m not really a smart-aleck, but I don’t have to fight to prove anything to anyone anymore. 

Now that I’m in middle school, I’ve kind of dialed back on my attitude a little. Middle school is tough, but it’s tough on everybody. I’m finding out that it’s better to build up a bunch of allies than to make a lot of enemies. 

I don’t have a lot of what you would call close friends. I only have one real friend. That’s Molly McPherson. Molly is in the sixth grade, but she’s my same age. We don’t have any classes together at school. I hardly ever see her there. She lives in my neighborhood and has lived there for as long as I can remember. She lives on the street behind my house. Our houses don’t line up exactly. By that I mean they’re not back to back. There are a few houses in between, but it’s easy enough to get from my house to hers without having to go in the street. When we were younger and not allowed to walk or ride our bikes in the road, that was important. 

I met Molly in pre-school. That was before the grade-skipping stuff started. We were four years old. I’m not sure why, but we kind of latched onto each other right away and became best friends. Molly is really cool. She never gave me any grief about how much I loved to read as a little kid. She never got jealous when I got moved ahead of her in school. She was just always my friend. She still is. It’s not like a boyfriend-girlfriend kind of thing. We really are just best friends. I can tell Molly anything. If I ask her to keep a secret, she will. If I get upset and cry in front of her, she doesn’t make fun of me. If I’m worried or scared about something, she always knows the right thing to say. I trust Molly completely. I trust her more than anyone. She’s always there for me. She’s always on my side. Like I said, Molly is really cool. 

Molly’s life at home has never been as easy to deal with as mine. Her parents are divorced. She lives with her mother and step-dad, Eddie Crawford. Eddie has never actually been mean to me when I’ve been over at Molly’s house, but he doesn’t go out of his way to be very nice either. I get the feeling he just tolerates me as an occasional annoyance to be ignored in the hope that it will go away–kind of like that mosquito you hear buzzing around in your bedroom just about the time you are drifting off to sleep. You don’t want to let it go because it will probably feast on your blood during the night, but you’re too sleepy to get up and launch a major hunting expedition to dispatch the critter. So, you just close your eyes and try to pretend it isn’t there. 

I know it might sound stupid to think that Eddie thinks of me like that, but I believe he does. I think he considers Molly the same way. I never see him talk to her or even acknowledge her presence when she’s in the same room with him. I think he puts up with her as a part of the package that came with her mother. Molly doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. It’s just her, her mom and Eddie. I feel kind of sorry for Molly when it comes to family stuff. I mean, my family has always been pretty cool. They at least talk to me, and my parents have managed to keep their marriage together. When I think about how it is at Molly’s house, it makes me appreciate what I have at my home. I know. That sounds sappy, but it’s true. 

There are other kids I hang around with. Some of them are in this story. I’ll tell you about them when we get to them. None of them are anywhere close to the kind of friend Molly is. They’re not bad kids. They’re just not Molly. 

I have an older brother. His name is Andrew. He’s 16. I used to tease him by saying I was going to skip enough grades in school to pass him up. He didn’t like that very much. My left upper-arm was pretty bruised and sore for a few days the last time I brought it up. I got the message. 

Andrew is a good student, but he has to work for his grades. It has never come as easy for him as it has for me. Looking back, I guess I really shouldn’t have given him a hard time like that. Andrew will still be in high school next year when I will be a freshman. He’ll be a senior. It can be advantageous for a freshman to have a brother who is a senior–especially when you are an undersized pipsqueak like I will be when I get there two years too early. I need to work on keeping him interested in my well-being. 

Mom and Dad are OK I guess. They don’t have a lot to do with this story, but they are pretty nice considering they’re parents. They’re not mean. I know they love me. Mom can be overprotective. She treats me like I’m five half the time. Dad works too much. He’s not home a lot for dinner. His work keeps him late at the office more nights than not. He’s a good guy. He’s just too busy. That’s really all you need to know about them for now. 

I like living in Bradenton. I don’t really have anything much to compare it to. It’s the only place I’ve ever lived, but I know I like it. I love to ride my bike and there’s no flatter place in the world than Bradenton. You can ride for hours and hours and never have to climb a hill. Wind and rain can be a problem. It rains a lot in the summer and wind in your face is no fun when you are riding a bike, but overall, it’s a paradise for a kid with a bike. The winters are really mild. I can ride my bike pretty much any day of the year. It gets cold sometimes in January and February, but not for a lot of days in a row. 

The only bad thing about winter is the invasion of the Snowbirds. Snowbirds are people (mostly retired) that live up north in the summer and down here in the winter. It can get super crowded at restaurants and stores when those folks pour in. Mom complains that they make grocery shopping a nightmare. Dad always says we should be happy that they pay so many taxes while they are here that they keep us from having a state income tax. I don’t know about any of that. I just know that the lines at the Western Sizzlin’ are huge in the winter. 

The other thing I like about living here is that there are people here from all over the place. I am a rare thing. I was born here. Most people who live here come from somewhere else. That means you get to meet a lot of people from a lot of different places. I think that’s cool. I already told you I don’t have a lot of close friends, but I talk to people easily. Mom says I’ve never met a stranger. I’ll talk to just about anyone. That can be a problem when you are a kid. It makes my mother worry a lot. 

One of the people who are not from here is Molly. She was born in Scotland. It wasn’t long after she came along that her parents split up. It must have been bad. They moved here when Molly was just a toddler, so she remembers nothing about living in Scotland, but she goes back there sometimes in the summer for a week or so to visit her grandparents. They’ve visited over here a few times as well. I love to talk to them. They have an accent that never fails to amuse me. I get a hoot out of them saying “house”. It comes out like “hoose”. Molly’s grandpa might say something like, “Eddie, you really have a nice hoose here.” Hysterical. 

Now that we’re talking about a house, I guess I should tell you about the old Muldoon place. You will want to know about that house if you are going to read the rest of this story. It’s about a mile or so from where Molly and I live. No one has lived there for as long as I can remember. I think it’s been abandoned for longer than I’ve been alive. The yard is all overgrown and the fence running around the front is broken down completely. The only real part of what was once a fence that’s left is a big old stone arbor right in the middle. I guess the fence once attached to it and I can only imagine that there used to be a gate of some kind in it. Now it’s just a grey, weather-beaten archway with overgrown stepping stones beyond it leading up to the door of the house. 

The house itself is a mess. It’s not like the other houses in my neighborhood. Most of them are stucco and have kind of a Florida look to them. You know the kind–Spanish arches, barrel tiles on the roof–that type of stuff. The Muldoon house has siding on it. A lot of it has fallen off over the years and it’s lying around in what used to be mulch beds before the entire yard transformed itself into a giant weed farm. There’s no paint left on the house anywhere. It kind of has a grayish hue all over that adds to the overall creepiness of the place. Several of the windows are broken and the front door is missing altogether. In the back there is a dilapidated in-ground swimming pool with a big horizontal crack running along one side all the way from one end to the other. It fills up part way when the summer rains come. It gets pretty gross. The water is all green and filled with slimy algae all the time. Mosquitoes love it. 

There apparently used to be a screened-in cover over the pool area, but that’s all broken down and lying in pieces in the backyard. In the back corner is a doghouse. It looks like someone made it to match the house. It has remnants of the same siding on it and the roof shingles match. Over the door of the doghouse is a wooden nameplate. It’s all worn and hard to make out, but I traced it by putting a piece of paper over it and rubbing it with a pencil. Once I did that, I figured out it said “Sandy” on it. 

I’ve been to that house many times. Mom keeps telling me to stay away from it, but it’s just so tempting. Molly and I have foraged around that place dozens of times playing hide and seek and imagining we were archeologists digging up lost civilizations. 

To Mom’s credit, it probably is dangerous. It’s a one-story house so there are no stairs to fall down, but there are plenty of other ways to get hurt there. The floor is on a concrete slab so there’s no fear of falling through it, but the roof is sagging, and it would be bad to fall into that old pool. Besides, the whole property looks like a perfect hangout for snakes of every kind imaginable. I definitely do not like snakes. Molly is always teasing me whenever we go to the Muldoon house by pretending to see snakes about every five minutes while we are there. She thinks that’s hilarious–never gets tired of it. Sheesh. 

I know I should have obeyed Mom and stayed away from that place, but if we hadn’t kept going there I wouldn’t have this story to tell. It’s a doozy. I told you that you would not believe it when you read it. I probably wouldn’t believe it either if a stranger just walked up and told it to me. Believe it or not, here it is. 

The Price

The following is a small piece I wrote in an attempt to give birth to a character for one of my books. She never panned out, but she still haunts me, years after I penned her story. I'll share it here with the hope that she taps you on the shoulder now and again to remind you that integrity comes at a price. It's a steep fee. The return on the investment may be fleeting. In the end, you may not find happiness, but knowing you have lived a life true to yourself is reward enough. Right?

***

She was always caught between doing what was right and what was profitable. There had been many opportunities to get wealthy, obtain power, wield influence, and make the way generally easier, but they had always been at odds with her personal integrity. It was a price she refused to pay. The stress induced by her struggles had accumulated and manifested itself as lines, wrinkles, grey hair, and a fair amount of resentment. Others had prospered at the expense of those around them while she fell behind. In her idealistic youth she had taken comfort in the fact that she could always say that she had moved ahead on her own merits. She was sure that in the end she would be on top. Now the end had arrived, and she was not on top. She was actually very near the bottom. 

It was a bright, sunny morning that greeted her one Saturday in October. The autumn chill hung lightly in the air. It should have energized her, but she had not noticed. Nature’s benevolent greeting had gone unheeded. She walked past her bedroom window and went into her small, tidy bathroom. She winced with each stiff step across the cold tile and cursed the ravages of age. On her way to the toilet she paused at the sink when her reflection cast by the chrome-framed mirror caught her peripheral vision. At least ten percent of the silver had fallen from the back of the glass over the course of countless mornings she had consulted it to arrange her hair or adjust her makeup. As the glittering flakes fell from the mirror, they collected in her ever-graying mane. She didn’t want to, but she turned to face herself in glass. Who was this woman? Her skin was once creamy and smooth with no noticeable imperfections. Her eyes were once bright and seemed to carry a smile all their own apart from the rest of her face. Plump and full, her lips could catch the attention of any man without even a hint of gloss or lipstick. 

For a long time, she had held age at bay. Her beauty was resilient and the confidence it gave her lasted well into her fifties and to a certain extent her sixties as well. Then it all seemed to catch up.  It was sudden, or so it seemed. She blamed it on the mounting stress of her work. She started her career as a journalist for a newspaper in a large city. Over time, she had become known as a beacon of truth that never shied away from political thin ice. The truth was the truth and would always stand. This was her motto and it made her a trusted source for all things newsworthy. As her popularity among the local population soared, she became increasingly in demand for her insight and opinions regarding people and events that were shaping her community and the world. This led to an opportunity for a radio talk show and eventually the television news anchor desk at the top station in the city. In addition to her anchor duties, she would also be asked to do investigative reporting into local businesses and politicians. This is where the trouble started.

Bribery, threats, slanderous attacks, and personal confrontations with the city’s elite began to take their toll. The mantle of truth-bearer became heavier and heavier. It became harder and harder to maintain integrity in the face of relentless attacks and temptations. She managed to stick to her guns, but the cost was high. Health – both mental and physical – deteriorated to a point of criticality that tore at her appearance. Worry, mental strain, and constantly being in a mode of defense eroded her previously ever-present smile – first into a thin line and finally a grim frown of despair. Her eyes lost their sparkle and took on more of a teary, weeping appearance with prominent crows’ feet and drooping lids. Her once glowing skin became ashen and crisscrossed with bluish veins and cross-hatched lines. 

The almost alien face with all its wear and tear glared back at her from the bathroom mirror. In it she saw something. It was a spark of life. It was the last vestige of fire from her youth that drove her to stand up for what she believed in now and to count the cost later. Out from under the layers of fatigue, anger, bitterness, and dissatisfaction it challenged her. It was the dying embers of a life that refused to be snuffed out without a fight. It stirred her. She would not quit now. She finished her trip to the toilet, hastily brushed her teeth and hair, and threw on some clothes. (It didn’t matter which ones.) Stepping into her shoes on the way to the door, she confidently strode across the living room of her apartment. She grabbed the doorknob in her hand and gave it a determined twist. Boldly – almost defiantly – she threw the door open to reveal the outside world to her recharged mind and body. The cool air brushed against her face and swirled around her feet. Her knee began to ache, and she went back to bed.