Theme: I'm dead
Initial thoughts: it's rarely done well, the character writing from the Beyond. Naturally, I wanted to try this out. It offers some VERY interesting perspective and ideas for approaching communication - mainly, from the speak to the reader. A lot of ways to handle this, and while this may or may not work for some folks, I decided on first person point of view. Normally, I HATE reading first-person, and writing it is difficult at best for me. so, I thought this might be a great time to have a whack at it.
I
suppose I should begin with the obvious: I’m dead. It makes me feel rather Dickensian to start
this way, but really, it’s just the truth.
How could I write this if I’m passed on?
That’s a strange circumstance, really, and I’m not sure I understand it
myself, but I’ll try and do it justice.
You can judge for yourself at the end of whether or not I succeeded, but
if you’ll sit here patiently with me a while, I think I might be able to make
it worth your time.
How did
I die? The how isn’t as important as I
once thought. You see, I had this
vision: going out with a blaze of glory, having done some great deed, and there
would be people mourning over me the way they did Eva Peron, an entire nation mourning
the loss of a great person. Only – I
wouldn’t be a politician. It would be
some great tragedy, drawing attention with my last breath to a great wrong in
society, and thus, be forever written in the annals of history. That was my dream, but that never
happened. No, the how was a simple
gunshot. The question of where is easy:
a sleazy run-down motel in the middle of nowhere – the kind of place you use
only as a last resort because the alternative is sleeping under the stars in a
desert filled with snakes, coyotes, and whatever other nocturnal things prowl
through the dry and dusty landscape at night.
And then, even when you do stay in this travesty of a lodging, you sleep
on top of the blankets.
Why? Ahhh, there’s the real
question, and it brings me to how and why I’m able to write this in the
post-mortem. I’m sure if you asked the
paranormalists out there, I was killed unjustly, and I have unfished business
with those responsible for my untimely demise.
Still others might claim that my unfinished things aren’t with my
killers, but with the people in my life that I never got around to telling how
much I loved them, or needed them, or outright despised in a few
circumstances. In the end it boils down
to a single question: why me? I asked it a lot in my lifetime, and if I had
the answers then that I know now, I probably wouldn’t have asked the
question.
That’s
a strange thing they don’t tell you about the afterlife: you get to see
everything from an entirely new perspective, and somehow, it all makes
sense. It’s like being the observer of a
chess game, where you see so many opportunities for either side, but if you
were sitting down in front of the game, you would see nothing. But, I digress.
Oh – I
almost forgot the RULES. I’m not allowed
to tell you about the afterlife. I can’t
tell you if there’s a Heaven and a Hell, or if that stuff is real or not. All I can tell you is that this is not the
end: we keep going on, as is evidenced
by my writing to you in the hereafter. I
make no promises of good or bad, torture or pleasure. None at all.
Hey, they aren’t my rules. The
next rule: I can’t take messages to anyone.
We have a system for that, and I’m not part of that team. Lastly: no, I can’t tell you why we’re here –
they won’t tell me, as I’m still new around here. Trust me, I asked. I was told, “You’ll know, one day.” I have absolutely no idea what that means.
So
there I was, getting shot in a desert motel room. I’d come a long way that day, driving down a
two-lane macadam highway that looked like the last time it saw any service was
thirty years ago. I was tired, and it
was dark. It was even starting to get
that chilly cold everyone warns you about but you never think is real. Yup, that’s real. Truth be told – and why not? – I was running
away from my life. I up and left the
cushy life I’d known, and was headed out into the wild nowhere, to land who
knows where and do who knows what. I had
a couple months’ savings on which I planned to live while seeing America the
way it was meant to be seen, you know – the wide open road and no
schedule. And most importantly, I would
be leaving behind my old life.
I guess
you could say my passion for living was gone.
I wasn’t suicidal or anything, I just wanted to get “it” back. I needed to rediscover that thing that made
my heart beat faster. Somewhere, I’d
lost it, and it was killing me. My
answer was to hit the open road and find that reason for living. It worked.
Theme 2: Thankfulness.
Initial Ideas: It's Thanksgiving week, so of course, this theme had to come up. It occurred to me that a lot of folks have their holiday traditions, and some of them make sense to us, and some of them don't, but we keep doing them. I wanted to get in the head of someone who isn't having the best of holidays, and ends up discovering something about himself.
He
dreaded this moment all year. Here they
were, gathered around the dinner table, the feast was prepared, and everyone
was to say quickly the thing they were most grateful for, aloud. It was a simple thing, something the family
did every year. Normal enough, and Paul
knew that in countless other homes across the country, families just like his
would be carrying on the same tradition.
That didn’t make it better.
“Family,” said his grandfather, always the first to go. The old man always said the same thing.
“Bastard,” he thought to himself. “Come
up with something new for once!”
It was easy for him to say, of course,
and harder to do. He felt like this
every year, and it always came to him as a surprise. Some years, he would try prepping, but just
when he thought he had a good “ultimate thankful thing” someone else would
inevitably take it just before he could say it, and he was caught looking like
an idiot and uttering something that sounded stupid to him. Most times, he would up repeating “Family”
just because it was convenient. He
wondered if anyone else was feeling the same thing.
“Health
and safety,” said his father.
“It figures,” he thought. “That
is so like him. Always practical, always
– wait!”
He
listened. One by one, he watched
something new happen, something he’d never noticed before. He stopped focusing on the “what” people were
saying, and began listening instead to “who” it was that was saying what.
His
grandfather, a small tear in his eye, just happy to have his family there
surrounding him. The old man closed his
eyes for a moment, and Paul saw him make a motion, the kind a person makes when
someone they know comes up behind them and gives them a gentle hug – the kind
his grandmother used to bestow before she passed away three years ago.
Paul
looked at his father, next, and saw the relief in his eyes that all his family,
his wife and children, were simply there, and they were healthy and safe, and
they were all there, able to enjoy each other’s company.
His
mother was next, and as she beamed at his father, Paul heard her softly say,
“Love.”
“She means it! She really means it!”
His nephew was next, and little James piped up, excitedly, “Transformers!” and he held up his little toy robot. Everyone laughed.
His nephew was next, and little James piped up, excitedly, “Transformers!” and he held up his little toy robot. Everyone laughed.
“But he’s honest!” thought Paul.
And so
it went around the table. It hit him as
he watched each person rattle off what was most important to them, and in his
head he realized that it was more than a simple question. They were showing each other who they truly
were. He panicked for a moment, and
closed his eyes, reflecting on that one question he realized he never asked,
let alone answered.
“Who am I?” He repeated it over and over until, after
what seemed like forever, it was his brother’s turn. He opened his eyes as he
listened to his younger brother.
“Another day to celebrate life with all of you.”
He
knew, now. He knew who he was, and what
he needed to say. Everyone else looked
at him expectantly, and time slowed.
“Paul?”
asked his mother. “What are you thankful
for, dear?”
He
looked around at the faces all watching him, and his voice sounded foreign and
familiar at the same time as he uttered only one word. “Magic.”
The
room was quiet for a moment.
“What
do you mean?” asked his father.
“I’m
thankful for magic, Dad. The kind of
magic that each of us carries, that lets us change the world for the better.”
“The kind of magic I can do,” he said to
himself.
And now, here's a guest appearance by author KM. I can't tell you the theme for this one - it will become visible, but it's worth the read!! Thanks for sharing!!!!!
Waking on the soft ground, I just lay there for a few
minutes trying to get my bearings. Then I remember the running, the dodging of
the trees and the bright glow from the full moon that was out last night.
Turning my head slowly to the side to look to my left all I see is the river burbling
by, the sparkle from the sun hitting it is quite brilliant. Turning my head the
other way I hear the pine needles crunch under my head and see the wall of the
small cliff I must have tumbled down last night. Listening close I don’t hear
anything that could signal that they are close by waiting to spring the minute
I proved not to be dead. So I move one of my hands, numbs from a night out in
the woods, but moving and form the lack of serious pain, not broken either. I test
my other limbs the same way. Small movements that would tell my medically
trained mind if there was something seriously wrong. So far so good.
Now
for the big test, to sit up and see of back and my skull or ok. Slowly I roll
to my side and lift my torso to a sitting position. All good there, hips are
ok, spine feels bruised, my head starts to throb with the change of position
but that is to be expected after so many hours of non-movement. I reach around
to the back of my head and bring it back sticky with dried blood, ok so I must
have hit my head on something hard as I rolled down the small cliff, that
explains a lot too. But from all signs I am ok, nothing seriously wrong, so why
did they just leave me here, an unconscious female would have been prime target
for them to attack and finish me off.
Finally
getting to my feet with a help of a large stick I found nearby I try to
continue to move slowly, the stick a weapon as well as a steadying tool. Making
my way past the last remaining trees I kneel down by the river to drink my fill
of the cold, clear water, the sound louder in my ears now and I am hoping that
I am truly alone now. Strange to be thinking alone is a good thing, but now
that I know they are real, I feel it is better to move slowly and quietly till
I get back to town.
I
never thought they were real, and I am not sure how I let Thomas talk me into
going into the woods where they supposedly lived. They were supposed to be
extinct, but there were rumors of a small colony in the woods right outside of
town. No one had ever seen one, they were once very strong and intelligent,
with the ability to create machines and computers like us. But then a sickness
that never affected us started killing them off, deforming the young and
weakening the once healthy. The legend goes that they tried to create cures by
experimenting on the animals of the world, trying to figure out what was
happening to them. I guess these stories could be true but who knows. These
stories go back thousands of years., they always fascinated me and once I got
through medical school my imagination I started to wonder if they really could
be out there, of course Thomas knew about my curiosity and loved to tease me
about it. This time it went too far though. I wonder where he went when they
attacked, did they get him, or is he lying out there in the woods still trying
to get back to town too.
When
I get back to town I will get the police to come back out with me and see what
we can find, I can’t tell them the truth of what I saw, or ran from, they would
never believe me, I will just tell them that we got lost and them separated. I
am following the river, knowing that it runs on both side of the town so either
way I go I will run back into one of the bridges that will take me in. I stop
suddenly, I have a distinct feeling I am being watched. I am sure of it, slowly
turning around I stumble and fall to the river, getting soaked . My fur is
drenched and I can feel the water numbing my tail to the bone as I sit on the
gravel bottom. There are dozens of them and they are stranger then even my
imagination could have mustered. Wearing nothing at all, the one that I assume
is the leader takes a few more steps toward me and leans his hand out to help
me get out of the water. Shaking and unsure whether to take the proffered
furless hand, my curiosity takes control of my fear and I grasp it. Strong and
callused he easily pulls me out of the water and when he releases me he nods
his head as if to ask if I am ok. Nodding back he smiles as me and waves his
people to retreat.
Today
I learned that the myth that a creature called human did exist, but still does
and they are not the brutal monstrous creatures all our childhood stories tell
us they are.
Thanks for reading,
Me
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