Excerpts

 

 

From Disavowed—

 

The memory of his last day at the office tortured him.  Not a single day went by when he didn't relive it, changing it ever so slightly so that it came out all right.  Regardless of how he ended it in his mind, reality never changed.  It was almost a ritual now, all the scenes flying through his consciousness at once, no matter what he was trying to do, no matter how he tried to otherwise occupy his thoughts.  The yelling, the prodding, hell bent for truth.  The scream.  The fall.  The accusations.  A career destroyed.

            

What took milliseconds in Mike's mind actually took place over a series of weeks.  To him it seemed simultaneously to have been a lifetime ago, and yet all too recent and vivid.  The thoughts nagged him, but he couldn't make them go away.  He opened a beer and plopped onto the weary sagging springs of an old, overstuffed chair.  He unfastened the ribbon binding Stearns' file and spread the pages out across his legs.  He stared intently at the pages but he saw not a word.  Mike shook his head, trying to exorcise his demons, but the nightmarish images flooded back.  Had it really been that many months ago?

 

 

 

 From “Church Stories” in Ramblings—

 

 First Baptist pastor Steve has a voice resonate and Southern. It sounds as if he comes from a part of the South so deep and rural that even the Methodists handle snakes. He is a gifted man of God and a talented speaker.

 

 Sweat beaded on his forehead as he pounded the pulpit and pronounced the name of our savior with an elongated “I.” “Jesus Christ died on the cross for you,” he shouted. “And He’s gone to prepare the way. The Bible says in my house there are many mansions.” Steve’s voice reached a crescendo. It enveloped us all and shook our bones as he proclaimed to the gathered faithful, “For two-thousand years God has been preparing a place for YOU.”

 

 Since we were doing some remodeling, I saw no problem when I leaned over to my bride seated next to her mother and father, both deep-water Baptists, and said straight-faced in a loud whisper, “Sounds like he’s got the same contractor we do.”

 

 

From Death Match—

 

I’ve learned quite a bit about my condition in the last seven days and I’ve memorized two new words to go along with advanced and fatal. They are “radiation” and “chemotherapy.” I’m told they are my hope, my only hope actually.

 

They “might” make me live another five years. Who knows what “might” happen in five years’ time, the doctor asks me. By then there “might” be new treatments or new drugs. There “might” even be a cure, he tells me with a nod of his head and a weak smile.

 

But behind his pale blue eyes I see that he “might” be telling me this because it’s his job to keep me positive. But there doesn’t seem to be a lot of “might” about it. He thinks I’m going to die. I think he’s probably right, but I don’t have any tears left to cry. I did that all week, curled up in my bed. So did my mom. So did my dad. And so did my grandfather even with all the strength he has.

 

We’ve prayed. Even Preacher Mike came over. Mom says I’m on prayer lists in three states in every direction, but in the last seven days, no miracle has come for me. So it comes back down to two words: radiation and chemotherapy.

 

Just thinking about it makes me want to vomit. From what the doc says, I’m going to be doing plenty of that. But that’s part of the rest of the story.

 

 

 

 

 

Sam Morton