F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

fpdorchak

Rainy Nights and Christmas Lights

by

Know Exactly Where I am. (Image by By Juliancolton [CC BY-SA 4.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Know Exactly Where I am. (Image by By Juliancolton [CC BY-SA 4.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)
There is a restaurant in Manitou Springs, Colorado, called The Stagecoach Inn. It was an actual stagecoach inn in the 1800s. On the outside of the building are strings of lights. One beautiful rainy night my wife, me, and some of her family had gone to eat here, and as my wife and I held each other outside, she said “…rainy nights…and Christmas lights….”

You don’t say something like that within earshot of a writer and expect to get off lightly…especially by one who trucks in death, dreams, and the hereafter.

As I read it for the first time in years for this posting, it brought tears to my eyes. It is another of my favorites.

This story has never been published.

 

Rainy Nights and Christmas Lights

© F. P. Dorchak, 1993

 

Rainy nights and Christmas lights. That’s all I can think of. All I want to think of.

I only just stumbled into this…inn…moments ago, seeking relief from the bitter cold of an angry blizzard. It’s dark, but I don’t know the time because I no longer have my watch and it’s very desolate—not just for my own heart, but for the souls outside as well.

No one wanted to be out on a night like this and God only knew how long I stumbled about out there, dazed and disoriented. The weather, frigid and snowy for most of the day had turned more brutal, forcing all life in from the streets. I, too, searched for a place to take me in, but nobody would have me, everyone hurrying home for their own families. Was I a leper? It was only this inn that took me, and I had to barter my soul just to gain entrance.

Her name is Laura, and I love her like no other. I love her more than life itself.

Sure, we had our differences like everyone else, but nothing, nothing changed my deep unfaltering devotion for her. Not even the times she said she was leaving….

But now I sit before a raging fireplace in a darkened room, utterly alone. It’s cold, and the chill I feel cuts to my marrow. Just now I think I see a waiter or waitress behind me, but turning find no one.

I look about the room and see that it is small, by some standards, large by others…and has not quite a dozen tables, including those in the alcove to the far end. Each table has unlit candles and neatly placed silverware atop it. The shadows I see are disturbing and gnaw at me. It is all so vaguely familiar, this place, and I feel I should know it, but I…I feel disoriented.

Deep memories stir within, but nothing surfaces.

I am just as helpless as when—

Death.

I love her, oh dear God, how I love her!

Why is it that I alone survive?

Why should I have this cursed privilege! What I would gladly give to have her back! Why did not both of us perish—it is so much better that way, you know, to be together in death than alone in life!

Oh, how I curse God and all that is life! I curse the devil for the torture! I curse everything, except—

Rainy nights and Christmas lights.

That’s what she said, my Laura, the one with the beautiful hair and loving smile.

The one I was to marry…to begin a new life with.

Suddenly I rush to the front door and pull it open.

The wind, she wails and batters me back and I hear glass shatter as the door slams behind me into the wall. It is hideously cold, yet I don’t feel it. All I feel is the pain in my heart.

I do recognize the inn.

Rainy nights and Christmas lights.

Christmas lights….

There are Christmas lights strung out across this building, and as I stand there I know where I am. Know exactly where I am. This is the inn my love and I frequented when…when we were whole…but, worse than that, it is the place where my beloved Laura was so brutally ripped away from me!

I scream into the wind, to the innkeeper who admitted me. Here—you have my soul, why not also take my heart!—oh, why even to be created, only to die! Why is life nothing but torment! Why are we to love, only to lose?

Again I look to the lights.

Still, strangely, they are lit; out of place. I peer through the blinding, heavy snow, but see no others; no movement.

I am all there is.

There is nothing beyond the snow-covered flagstone steps I know are before me. Nothing exists beyond myself and this haunted inn. The lights. I remember

 

Standing out on this porch one rainy, summer night…my Laura wrapped around me…her breath warm against my neck. We gaze lovingly at each other stretching out the moment to eternity.

“Rainy nights,” she bubbles.

“What?” I ask.

“Rainy nights…and Christmas lights!” she blurts triumphantly, radiantly.

I adore her smile and know, right there, why it is I love her.

“Rainy nights, and Christmas lights,” she says again, still beaming.

“That is so beautiful!” I proclaim, and hug her tightly.

“Hold me,” she whispers sweetly into my ears and mine alone, “hold me and don’t ever let me go.”

I knew I’d marry her someday.

 

But the tears now freeze to my face and the wind rips me apart.

Take this too, Devil, take all there is I have left!

My voice is nearly gone and I tear into my clothes to get at my heart—that eternally pumping and vile thing! Fingers unfeeling, I cut into my skin and bring forth blood, but it, too, freezes, and I realize I am truly—truly—doomed—unable to even take my own life!

I slump forward to the snowy porch and bury my hands and face. Rainy nights.

And Christmas lights.

 

So I am resigned to the fate of this dispossessed inn. It seems fitting that I should be held here, a place my love and I so enjoyed. It is so fitting to be forced to relive those moments, those memories…the moment…of her death.

Her death.

 

We had finished dining, leaving the building for a stroll. Ever the adventurous soul, she had leapt upon the ledge of a stone which guarded the creek below. I remember how the water was still visible, unfrozen.

And…the rocks.

I had hoped she wouldn’t fall and rushed to her—

 

“May I take your order, sir?”

Startled, I spill my coffee and send the porcelain cup skittering across the room to shatter somewhere. I look up and see, in the dark and standing entirely motionless, a waitress of ageless beauty. I could barely breathe, yet spare a word.

“W-what? Who-who are you?”

“Your order, sir, do you care to order?”

She placed a menu before me. I stared at it for an eternity…then lifted my head to look out the windows. All I see is the storm, which has increased its intensity, if that be possible. I also notice that I have gripped the edges of my table in a mighty hold, knuckles most assuredly bone-white.

The fire crackles.

“I-I already ate,” I said.

“As you wish,” she says, most politely, and withdraws the menu.

“B-but I could use some more coffee,” I continue. All she did was turn…and smile. I could have sworn she spoke, but I did not, for the life of me, see her lips move.

I’m sure you could, she said.

I know it was dark, and I know I am not in the most stable of minds, but I know what I experienced. She spoke…but did not move her lips.

I blink. She is gone.

I need my woman and I need her now! Forever! I cannot and will not live this way!

The pain is unendurable!

How does one survive?

How can others live through what I continue to grieve over? Nothing means anything to me anymore! As much as I don’t want to dwell on my beloved’s death, I feel compelled—it was our last few moments together…the last time we kissed, held each other…gazed into each other’s eyes or felt the warmth of each other’s touch.

I so desperately want to die and be among the dead with her!

I attempt yet again to get at my heart, my wrists, with knives…forks…broken glasses…but am without strength. Instead, I collapse upon my table and heave great tears into the wood….

I remember my arms reaching out to her.

One moment she stood atop the wall…pirouetting beautifully and telling me how much she loved me and would never, ever leave me—and the next—the next moment I reach out for her and clutch only air…huge fists full of it…and watch helplessly as she tumbles over the side like newly falling snow…drifting down, down…ever downward…

(Christmas lights…)

in her grasp. I watch until I can bear it no longer….

 

“Your coffee, sir.”

I bolt upright. A busboy is pouring fresh coffee into a new cup. His back is to the fire and he seems aglow. His smile is genuine, but he, like the shadows, scares me.

“Where—”

“Nowhere, sir,” he says, and fades from view back into the shadows, his Cheshire smile the last to go. I look to the coffee poured and it remains, small curls of ghostly white steam disappearing into the dark. I touch the cup and find it warm. Solid.

“I don’t want coffee! I want Laura!”

I pound the table. Again.

And again.

I drift off.

 

Time has again passed, and, as I have already told you, I know not how much, but it is still evil and blinding without, dark and foreboding within. I watch the spoils of snow as it batters against the windows of the alcove, and there are times I feel the building shudder, or think so.

Maybe it is just me.

The fire is still alight, though I have yet to touch it.

Where did that gentleman who admitted me go off to?

The shadows close in on me. Something is different.

Rainy nights, and Christmas Lights.

She had grabbed Christmas lights….

That’s all I want back. I want that summer night again, I want her back! I will gladly mortgage my soul again to have her! Anything, I just want that moment to remain, to never change. I want to spend that moment in eternity with my Laura. She is all I live for…all I want to die for….

Yet cannot die.

This I know for some strange reason, but I shall try one more time. I look to the fire and spy a poker. Going to it, I raise it and touch it to my chest; feel its dull accusation. Stoking my emotions, I raise the weapon with mighty intent—but alas, it misses its mark and strikes the wall above the hearth instead. I anchor the handle end into a wall, the point placed firmly over my heart…and ram myself forward…but it slides harmlessly off. I attempt yet one more blow, but it is again deflected, this time pulled from my hands as if by some unseen force.

I pound my fists into the wall.

Laura! Why has this happened?

I want so much to die and join you—I no longer wish to bear this tragedy!

I collapse at my table and once more try to dream

Of rainy nights and Christmas lights.

But hear a door open.

Something is different….

I hear footsteps and look up.

A figure is in the doorway. Stands still.

“Who…are you?” I ask. “I can take this no longer! Please, take me, I am yours!”

I cry, my blood long since cold, my senses frayed. I hope the figure to be Death’s messenger, finally come for me.

“I know,” the figure says, and it is a soft, pleasant voice.

I rocket to my feet, chair spilling out behind me.

I know that voice!

“Laura?”

Unstable, I grip the table for support. Again, I ask, “Laura—i-is that…you?”

“Yes,” she answers, moving out from the shadows. “I am here, my dear.”

It is her, there is no mistake! As sure as I live, it is her!

“But—but you had died!”

She smiles ever so lovingly as she approaches.

“No, my love, it was not me who died. I had grabbed a string of the Christmas lights…and when you saved me from falling by diving for me…you fell yourself. Don’t you remember?”

My throat is suddenly dry. I collapse to my knees.

“But—that would make you—”

“—dead? Yes, I am indeed.”

Still she smiles, unaffected by her words.

My heart pounds, rises to my throat.

I choke.

I love her so much!

I touch her and find her as cold as I am.

“H-how?”

“Does it really matter?” she asks casually, “I am here.”

Standing before me, she reaches down and I grasp her hand. She pulls me to my feet and I notice she places an empty prescription bottle on the table.

I say nothing.

“Tell me how much you love me,” she says, drawing in close to me.

I see the concern on her face…feel the tears on mine and cry, “I love you with all my heart and soul and will always—ever—be there for you!”

“And I, you, my darling. I love you more than life itself!”

And so I know.

 

We sit at our table…together at last…and gaze into the fire. Our hands are tight and true, our hearts one. The blizzard still rages, but I no longer care. As we look to each other, we are no longer cold.

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The Reincarnation of F. P. Dorchak

by

Bull Run, Virginia, Battlefield Cannon (© F. P. Dorchak, April 22, 1990)
Bull Run, Virginia, Battlefield Cannon (© F. P. Dorchak, April 22, 1990)

I believe in reincarnation…or, more specifically, in the living of simultaneous lives that appear to us in this physical existence as reincarnational.

This belief has led to more than a story or two. The strongest past life is my Civil War existence. This is the one that seems to come up the most. Has the strongest effect on me. It led to the short story “Etched In Stone” (to be posted Feb 26, 2016, on my other blog site). I feel I was part of a Zouave regiment, perhaps the 5th New York. Another life that greatly impacts me is my Titanic life. I feel I died while in the steerage section of that ship. That lead to “The Death of Me.” Existences as a WWII tail gunner and a Ronin/Samurai lead to the short story “Tail Gunner” and a character, “Kioshu,” in The Uninvited. The curious thing about the WWII tail gunner existence is that I also feel I may have been an American ground troop in that war as well. Not only do images of B-17s rattle my bones, but many scenes with ground troops stir my soul quite a bit, too. So, I figure I must’ve had dual counterparts in WWII. But there’s more “military”…

Someone once told me they “saw” me as a Roman soldier. And a chiropractor I used to go to had muscle tested me and came up with 14 past lives…including yet another military life: a WWI life, which was interesting, because I’d never really felt that existence. He might have been confusing it with my WWII lives and his own “filters”…but, in any case, it was interesting (muscle testing can be influenced by the one doing the testing). Yet another World War counterpart. Clearly I’ve dabbled in the military end of things a bit. And I’m quite over it, to tell you the truth. Enough with war.

Another life I haven’t looked into much was one as a witch. A “kid witch.” In early 1984, a woman (a witch) told me she thought I’d been a kid-witch of 12 or 13 years old and had been pressed to death. She also told me that she’d been the cause of my death. I later found this in a letter I’d written to the late Jane Roberts and Rob Butts in 1984. In it I’d written that this present-day witch:

“…keeps seeing me as a coven member, and I tell her that she’s probably just seeing a probable self of me. She also says that we knew each other in a ‘past life.’ That I was a little kid-witch, about 13, and she was the death of me. Interestingly, [while with her one day] I saw an image of a young kid, about 12 – 13, being pressed to death–an agonized face. I told her this after she told me what I told you.”

Curiously, I could find no instances of a teenager being pressed to death over the Internet, so who knows what we’re really picking up on…or maybe it was done “in private”…you know, once you get past believing in any of this….

Interestingly, as a teenager I did have a weird thing happen to me that relates to the above: one day while looking for something in the Lake Clear, N.Y. garage, I had pulled some upright sheets of plywood toward me, away from the garage wall (the wall closest to the house). As I did so, I felt the plywood (this is how I thought of it then) seemingly take on a life of their own and fall into me. I pressed with all my might and was utterly helpless…and it raised a fear in me I had not experienced at that time. The entire “pile” knocked me over onto the gravel floor, all 10 or 15 or however many sheets there were, on top of me. Those suckers were heavy! It was the first time I’d felt so utterly helpless…and it felt so damned weird. I managed to get out from under them no worse for the wear, but that moment remains etched in my mind. I thought back to that later, after the witch told me the above. Also as a kid, I’d read up on the history of witchcraft, but it never really held much interest to me after reading about it…though I did get into it as an interest (not a practitioner) for a while, reading several books on it….

While visiting Maui, in 1998, with my wife, I had the following experience (taken from my diary):

“Nov 14, 1998, 1:36 p.m.

Note: While driving around, had a particularly spiritual experience, like the Manassas one, north of where we were staying [in Maui]. Laura and I drove north, to just inside that one-laned road, and we both felt that this drive felt “weird”! It was overcast, and late in the afternoon, but it was more than that. I again felt like I was straddling two worlds, and I got to thinking: oh boy, am I treading on ground I treaded before? Had Laura and I been alive in another life, past or future, here? Maybe had I been a spiritual kahuna? Had I died here in some ritual or war? It was verrrrrrrry weird….”

As much as I very much loved visiting Maui…I have absolutely no desire to  permanently live there (though am perfectly willing to go back as many times as possible!). Whatever the reason…it seems to stem from the above “weirdness” and finally made total “sense” to me.

Another interesting one is seeing images of me walking in monk-like robes over sand in a far-away (barren) land. I wonder if it’s Australia. I haven’t gotten much from this imagery.

There have been a couple of other possible lives I’ve glimpsed, but none of them are as strong and emotional as the ones mentioned above.

Now…as fascinated as I am by the lives I feel I’ve lived/am living in other realities, I don’t focus my energies so much on finding out all I can about them (i.e., “reliving” them) as in acknowledging them, listening to them when I need to, but focusing my conscious thoughts and efforts to my current existence. Those lives…those consciousnesses are elsewhere…being focused upon by the me that is there…and I need to focus on the me that is here…but acknowledging that my other selves do still exit elsewhere and are every bit as important and real as the me I am, here, writing this. Some of those lives I really don’t want to revisit anyway.

If you keep focusing on the past (or “elsewhere”), you’re never really living in the present.

I feel the important thing about learning about our past lives is that we have them and acknowledge them when we become aware of them. Send them positive energy. I feel in doing this we can enhance their lives…change them, even. Remember I believe in simultaneous lives…not so much past lives. All our lives are ongoing…and this being my belief, I feel we can all help each other out. Make our collective lives better…which therefore helps out our individual “present” lives as well. It’s all energy…and all energy is connected. As we help ourselves out…we’re also helping out everyone else.

So, while it’s cool and interesting to learn about the other lives we live…we still need to focus on our present-day lives (“Over Now,” by Alice in Chains has been playing just now, and “Say Goodbye” just popped up from Theory of a Deadman…). I feel that’s also why many of us cannot remember much about our other lives. Or why we only get bits and pieces. I feel we have built-in filters. We only get what we can “handle”…or only enough “bleed throughs” to remind us who “we are”…but not enough to cause us to focus so heavily on these other lives so as to ignore our current focus. The purpose of having a life is to live it. Live and focus on the things in front of us. That, in turn, helps us all in our overall experience of Life and growth of our soul.

And each of you all have this ability. I bet you’ve all had some weird imagery or experience you can’t readily categorize that fits into the realm of reincarnation or simultaneous lives but have dismissed it as fantasy.

Well, don’t.

Acknowledge it…send it positive, constructive energy when you get such images…and move on. It’s okay if you do ignore it/them…they happened/are happening whether or not you believe it/them…or acknowledge them (you know, given you believe in this stuff…). But they pop into your consciousness for a reason. So, why not give them their due? No one else has to know! It’s just between you and…you. And it doesn’t even matter if you’re misinterpreting what you’re “getting.” Just acknowledge the thought…the idea…it.

So this post is not just about the reincarnation of F. P. Dorchak…it’s also about the reincarnation of you.

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The Ice Gods

by

There Is No Turning Back. (Image by Ernest Frederic Neve, 1861 [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons)
The Ice Gods, They Call Me…. (Image by Ernest Frederic Neve, 1861 [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons)

I am fascinated by desolation. Don’t know why.

Throw in ice and snow and I’m fascinated by that desolation even more.

H. P. Lovecraft’s At The Mountains of Madness is one of my favorite stories of his, so I’m sure there’s some influence there…though, as I remember it, there is little similarity between the two….

I grew up in snow and cold. Maybe I’m still trying to thaw out those harsh Adirondack winters from my marrow, but snowscaped desolation utterly fascinates me.

Are we really alone in all that desolation?

This story has never been published.

The Ice Gods

© F. P. Dorchak, 1992

 

Alone.

Cold.

I am surrounded by white.

Where am I?

It’s so cold….

I remember pain. I remember…I don’t quite know what I remember…but I can’t move. My arms, they hurt. White hurt. I hear howling—a lonely, empty howling. The wind.

I’m so alone.

Eyes. I must try to open my eyes…I have to get to the top.

I move…hear crunching….

 

I’ve opened my eyes, and wished I hadn’t.

I’m lying on the side of a wind-swept and snow-covered mountain. All I can see is blinding white. I move my hands about me—and feel the snow crunch. It sounds like wicked Styrofoam. It’s so cold.

How did I get here? What am I doing here (besides hurting)?

I feel like I’ve been thrown thousands of feet. Craning my neck (and gasping at the snow that hungrily rushes down my back) I see cliffs of white and silver above. I look off to my right, my up-and-behind-me-right, and see a bundle jutting out from the snow. It’s covered in the hellish stuff. I cannot make out what it is.

How I hate white.

 

It’s getting late, or so I fathom from the setting sun as it ducks behind the jagged peaks above. I have to get there…the peaks, I mean…don’t know why, just that I must.

The bundle behind me is a pack…mine I assume, considering I’m the only one I see. I’m scared…but know I can survive. I seem to remember doing this before….

The pack has everything I need—food, flashlights, tools—a fire-starting kit, ice saws, and a tent. As I root around my body I find an ice pick and one snowshoe. I struggle to all fours. A few yards above me I find the other one. But still, not another soul. No explanations. Barely…I get to my feet.

I head upward.

 

It’s grown dark, and…like I’ve said before…I’m scared. But as I sit in my tent against this ice outcropping and watch the fading sun, I look at the deep, lonely blues that eerily crawl across the deserted snowscape. I’m overcome by emotion as I enjoy its unparalleled magnificence. If only I had some way to catch these wondrous images forever! Such raw being. Such intense desolation. I listen to the ice crack and thunder, and it echoes deep within me. Cries out to me….

No, I really mean it—it actually cries out my name….

 

Okay…you think me crazy…ice boulders crying out my name—then you surely won’t believe this.

I left camp at first light and traveled for what seemed a lifetime. I came upon another boulder…and as I did, thought I spied the image of a man upon it…frozen, disfigured. The form lay with its back against the boulder, and what would be its left arm, outstretched…its head twisted sideways. As I came closer I grew fascinated by the image. I could not take my eyes from it. Then other images, mental ones, began to crowd my mind. At first they screamed past too fast to grasp—not unlike the lonely and hollow wind that is my constant companion (for the wind has never let up since I regained consciousness and neither has the blowing snow). I worried about snow blindness, but found—much to my disbelief—goggles. I had kicked them up during my passage through the snowfields. There truly must be ice gods watching o’er me, for surely nothing else here survives….

Save me.

But the images. They are cold and monstrous….I remember something about others…a terrible and brutal accident of some enormity. We were…we were ascending this mountain and something ghastly occurred….

Where is everyone?

Why is it I alone survive?

So I approached this image and found it was more than just light and snow—it was a man—or had been. He was obviously dead. I couldn’t recognize his face for his features were brutally deformed and frozen. Into the rock.

I passed the man and continued upward.

 

I awaken the following morning to find myself in a cold sweat. Not a good thing for one in my position. I recall hatred from my fellow climbers. I’m not sure why just yet. It hadn’t always been like that, the hatred, but had come about suddenly. I think…I think it was something I—I—did.

I feel dread.

It rips through me like this infernal wind.

 

The cracking sounds from the mountain top were much closer last night. Banging at my back door. I recalled images of pain. Faces of torment. And screams. Of a fight with my fellows.

My fingers look funny.

 

Nothing much to tell today, except that I seem to have traveled in circles.

I know this because I again found the frozen man. Only this time he was more frozen. I-I mean to say that—y-you must bear with me, now, for I feel my mind beginning to seize—but I could swear that he had gone into the boulder he was frozen against. Into it, I say! When I first saw him he was against the rock. This time h-he was as if sunken into it, a-at the waist.

I’m not crazy.

Am I?

Then why am I talking to myself?

 

Oh, the d-deep, frigid-b-blue of the snow and ice is s-s-so grand! The thunder of the ice boulders d-deafening!

 

The Ice Gods came to me in my dreams last night.

They told me not to w-worry about my images. They told me I’m lonely and confused in my s-snowbound s-s-solitude. They also told me not to be afraid.

They would g-guide me.

 

I recall…f-fighting with my companions.

One of them had fallen into a crevasse. We were arguing over whether to go after him, because he had gone silent and hadn’t answered our calls. They wanted me to g-go, but I was…afraid. I might not have made it b-back, I reasoned. They didn’t listen.

I have come upon a snowshoe. There’s a foot in it.

The Ice Gods told me to take the foot.

 

I’m near the mountain top.

I still do not know why it is I f-feel I have to make this trek…but I’m driven. No—

P-pulled.

I feel it is the Ice Gods who beckon…and I’m not all that f-frightened anymore. The Ice Gods protect me. They told me my f-fingers were against me, that I should do something about them or I might not make it.

So I took my ice pick to them.

 

The g-ground shudders from the thunder of the splitting ice above. I have trouble s-sleeping. I miss my f-fingers…though I keep them wrapped with me…like the f-foot.

The Ice Gods t-told me—

 

That I’m almost there.

I’m out of f-food, so I used the f-f-foot. At first I hadn’t removed the toenails and h-had a hard time chewing. I learn quickly.

I don’t like t-toenails.

 

A funny thing happened to me tonight, I went to crack my knuckles, and—

 

The crevasse.

The men had wanted me rescue that g-guy…but I refused. He’s probably dead, I reasoned, so why waste the energy? They cursed me. One struck me and threw down a rope, then began to go down himself. He wouldn’t listen to r-reason. Said I had gone snow-blind in the head. I said he’d gone snow-blind in the h-head. We’d only been out there…I don’t know how long, I don’t remember. All I remember is the white.

White pain.

I rub my arms…the pain is all but gone.

It feels g-good to be here. V-very, very g-good.

My toes feel funny now, too, but I’m not going to look at them. I know what the Ice Gods will say and I don’t want to m-miss my t-toes.

 

A terrible thing happened t-today. I came across another body.

Where do they come from?

I didn’t recognize it, either. Its clothing didn’t look familiar. Must not have c-come from my p-party—

Mine?

Was I the leader? Leading an ascent? But I seem to remember already being t-there—and seeing something.

S-something that sent us back.

What s-something?

I feel it has to do with the crevasse. With that man. In it. And the man who had g-gone down for him. The one who’d h-hit me.

I didn’t like that. He wouldn’t listen to reason. He had to stay down there. Had to, I t-told him. But he wouldn’t listen…so I c-cut his rope. The others around me went crazy.

I remember now.

They went crazy and tried to k-kill me. But the Ice Gods, they were my f-friends. They didn’t let the others k-kill me.

Only I saw reason.

 

It all comes back to me, n-now.

I know my reason for the climb. I have to get there.

I don’t have much time.

I n-no longer f-feel my toes and my other fingers are st-st-stiff. The Ice Gods are anxious to see me and I mustn’t d-dis-a-p-p-point them. They’ve helped me so f-f-far.

Tonight I eat my f-fingers. Tomorrow—

Tomorrow I meet the Ice Gods.

The white Ice Gods of thunder.

 

I left my tent, pack, and s-snowshoes behind. They’d only slow me down.

All I need are my c-crampons. It’s all ice now. I have my Ice Gods to g-guide me. T-that’s what t-they d-do….

The going was more d-difficult without my other fingers, and the loss of f-feeling in my t-toes…but I p-pushed. A little p-pain is a good thing, even if n-numb. I’m so high now there’s little o-oxygen. My lungs b-burn.

I recall the f-fight.

The remaining two men’d looked at me in amazement as I c-cut the one loose. We’d heard him scream all the way d-down. Heard him scream at the b-bottom. He hadn’t been alone down there. There was something with him. The others had attacked me with their picks. I blocked some of the swings, and remember the hurt in my arms. I managed to throw one down, but had to fight off the other with my own p-pick. My back to the downed man, I heard a scream, and my opponent dropped his attack, his face b-blank and white as the snow. I took the opportunity to bury my pick deep into his n-neck. He clutched at it as he collapsed. I must have pierced his vocal cords, because he made no n-noise as he went down, except for that f-funny, hissing…g-gurgle. After I saw him to the ground (and put my foot on his shoulder to rip free my pick), I turned around. That was when I s-s-saw them.

You-know-who-them.

 

I’m really n-numb now, but it’s okay….

I’m t-there.

The sight is f-f-fantastic.

Gorgeous.

I thought the frigid b-blue of where I’d been was b-beautiful…but it holds n-nothing to what is before me. The Ice Gods are p-pleased, and so am I.

I have c-come h-h-home.

The others wanted to f-flee. They’d been up here with me and had fled in t-terror. That was why the one fell into the crevasse. Been c-careless. Ran without c-checking his s-steps. S-stupid man. And the others? They’d had to d-die because they had seen what I now s-see. They should have wanted to come b-back…l-like m-me.

This is so unbelievably b-beautiful. Jagged ice c-crystals everywhere, and each one with a body f-frozen within it. All sorts of bodies…from different t-times…d-different p-places. All frozen into ice boulders and c-crystals. All asleep and p-peaceful. All waiting for me to join them.

And I will.

Just as s-soon as I see the setting sun and hear the c-crack of t-thunder….

 

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Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock

by

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock. (Image by Steven Depolo, CC BY 2.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock. (Image by Steven Depolo, CC BY 2.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Years ago my wife and I had come from the county fair, in Calhan, Colorado, and stopped at this road-side diner. It is exactly as I described it in the story, down to the stencil-work and Clay Walker tunes. This is where I was inspired to write this tale…the cool and cozy microcosm of life we experienced in this diner on that hot summer afternoon was so unto itself it was separate from the rest of reality.

And then there was the meatloaf.

Typical restaurant meatloaf is extremely salty to me, but this was the first time I’d ever had meatloaf at a restaurant where it wasn’t—I liked it so much I’d ordered an extra meal to go.

So…meatloaf, microcosms, and messin’ with reality. That’s how I roll.

“Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock” originally appeared in The Black Sheep, issue #64.

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock

© F. P. Dorchak, 2004

 

“Table for two?” the hostess asked somberly, escorting Tom and Lea Colbert to a booth in the very rear of the restaurant. It was a late mid-July afternoon and the air-conditioned interior felt like a life-or-death oasis. The couple nodded thanks, taking their seats as the hostess deposited menus then quickly returned to the front of the restaurant.

“Is it even worth it?” Lea asked her husband.

“How would you rather go? Out in that heat?”

Lea said nothing, mechanically opening her menu. “I don’t think I could even eat anything. Look. Look around. Is anyone else eating?”

Tom opened his menu, and took in the restaurant without making it obvious. She was right. Everyone either skulked, stared blankly into oblivion, or quietly sobbed. There wasn’t much dinner conversation. Several lone individuals, cowboys and cowgirls, simply sat and stared straight ahead into the western-motifed walls. The waitresses (they didn’t seem to call them “servers” out this way) all congregated at the front of the restaurant around the white lattice-work behind the counter, where a hand-burned sign proclaimed “$Cashier$.” Off to the right of that were the restrooms, equally proclaiming “Cowboys” and “Cowgals.” Tom’s gaze fell across to the dinner special written up on a whiteboard. Meatloaf special, it said, mashed potatoes, veggie, diner roll, and a salad. $5.50. Clay Walker played quietly in the background, from overhead speakers. There were pictures of many famous and not-so-famous cowfolk across every wall, ranches and horses, as well as a stencil that traveled the entire length of the room with pictures of cowboy boots, spurs, horses, and that same old, bleached-and-weather-beaten steer skull. Behind his wife, Tom saw quite the elderly couple not talking, partially eaten food sitting on the table between them. Bibles were open before the both of them and each clenched each other’s hands. Inside this small, hole-in-the-wall western diner off the beaten path all the curtains were drawn shut. It was as if nothing existed outside this tiny diorama.

“I’m just not hungry,” Lea said, closing her menu and carefully laying it on the table before her. She leaned over it and buried her face in her hands.

“Well, I’m hungry and meatloaf sounds good. If we’re gonna die, I might as well do it on a full stomach.”

“How can you eat?” Lea lowered her tone to an intense whisper. “How can you eat at a time like this?”

Tom calmly set down his menu.

“I don’t know, honey…all I know is my stomach’s growling and I feel shaky. What difference does it make if I die starving or well fed? If the cook’s cooking, I’m ordering.”

Tom saw tears emerge from his wife’s eyes. He reached across to her, but she continued crying, her shoulders shuddering.

“Honey…honey,” he said, “there’s nothing we can do…we just have to live our last day like any other. What else can we do?”

“I know,” Lea blurted, suddenly realizing the other patrons were eyeing her, including the group of cowboys and cowgirls at the large table up front. The small family to her right. They all stared…knowingly…at her.

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” Lea pulled some napkins from the holder and dabbed her eyes. “You’re right. There’s nothing we can do about it except what we’re doing.” She cleared her throat. Blew her nose.

“Hi, folks,” the waitress said, showing up at their table with glasses of water in each hand. “Are you all right?” the waitress asked Lea.

Lea nodded, composing herself.

“Yes. About as fine as anyone can be, right now, I guess. Thanks for asking.”

The waitress smiled warmly and pulled the pencil from her beehived hair. “All we can do is what we can do,” she said, reaching out to Lea with the hand holding the pencil and resting it for a moment on her shoulder before retracting it. “Now, what can I get you folks to drink?”

“Um, cmmm, I’ll have iced tea,” Lea said.

“Same,” Tom added.

“We have a meatloaf special today. And I must say it’s really good—but I’m supposed to tell you that there’s green peppers in it.” The waitress smoothed away loose strands of hair behind her ears. Her hand trembled just a little. Barely at all. She was a pretty woman, in her forties, with a slim cowgirl’s figure pleasantly stuffed into her Wranglers. Lea started to tear again, when Velma (her name was on her name tag) again reached out to her. “Honey…it’s okay. When the Lord’s ready for us, we just have to answer His call.”

Lea recomposed herself, again wiping her eyes. She smiled blithely.

“Just get us two of your dinner specials, okay?” Tom said. Velma jotted that down and departed.

“How does she know there’s a God? We’ve all seen it, haven’t we? The same dreams? Over and over again. Night after night. It’s been on TV, books have been written about it. Psychologists have analyzed it the world over, but nothing—not one thing—has been done about it. It’s today, and there’s not a damned thing anyone can do!”

“Hon, please try to keep you voice dow—”

“Why? Tell, me, why, Tom? What’s the point? We’re all gonna die—the dreams told us so. The strong ones, they took their own lives—but look at us. We couldn’t even do that—”

“Honey, please,” Tom said. “Everyone else is going through the same thing. There’s no need to get everyone all stirred up. We have to go sometime, don’t we? What difference does it make if we go in our sleep, by old age—or in some apocalyptic Götterdämmerung? Now, we’ve done the best we could with our lives, we’ve atoned…each of us in our own ways…there’s nothing more we can do. We’ve all made our peace, and we’ve had two years to do it. Every one of us. The world over.”

But, here, Tom began to tear, whispering.

“We have to be strong, dammit. For others.”

“But what difference does it make!” Lea again exploded, and this time she shot to her feet. “We all made the jokes at first, didn’t we?” she said looking to her captive audience.Even those who’d been quietly sobbing stopped and looked up.

“All of us…we thought, ‘oh, something must be in the water,’ or something similarly stupid. We joked about it. Then…then we sought religious and philosophical help, because that’s what we do in times of stress, even if we aren’t practicing about it.”

Lea looked everybody in the eye, including Velma and the other waitresses…the cook, who poked his head out from the grill.

“We all made amends with everyone, tried to make up for all the little and not-so-little wrongs we’d done. Helped out those in need of any help. Did our best to be perfect little Humans—but it didn’t seem to make any difference, did it? We still had those goddamned dreams—those nightmares—every night, didn’t we? Don’t we? And today’s the day…the day we alll pay the Piper. And how can all of you just sit there like this? Like stupid…pathetic…little mice, caught in a trap?”

“What else are we going to do?” asked the wife from the small family to her right, huddled together like frightened puppies. Her eyes pleaded, searching for an answer, anything…but Lea had none. She just stared back.

“Mommy…” the woman’s daughter peeled, “I’m scared.”

“Please, ma’am…please,” the mom pleaded.

Tom got up and went to Lea. He put his arm around her and brought her back to her chair. He sat her back down, and she again began to quietly weep. Tom took up a chair beside her and grasped her hands….

 

Tom and Lea just stared at their food. Two meatloaf specials on the table before them now cold. Iced teas also untouched, but leaking condensation down the length of their glasses onto the table.

“Tom…how do we know this isn’t a dream…a lucid one?”

Tom took his time answering, noticing that the late afternoon was quickly turning into early evening. The light outside the windows had changed…became darker, more…solemn.

There just wasn’t enough time.

“I guess we don’t do we? That’s what some of the experts were saying. That we could all just be dreaming this and we’d all wake up to find our world the same as it ever was. Sane, rational, still there…what we remember.”

“I’ve had some pretty real dreams before,” Lea said. “Before all this, I mean. Where I couldn’t tell the dream from reality. People thought I was crazy—”

“Not anymore,” Tom said, snorting.

“No, not anymore, huh. Well, we’ve lived a good life, haven’t we? You and me?”

Tom smiled, reaching out to her/ Twenty years of married love and emotion immediately welled up inside him. “Yes, we have, my love. The best life we could ever live. We always did our best, even before…all this.”

“Yes, we did.”

“We just have to look at it as…time to go.”

The two sat silently for a moment, squeezing each other’s hands before Lea continued.

“But, Tom, I know I’ve asked this before…but, really, what if this is all a dream? I mean it. This is all a dream and we’re gonna wake up, you and me. Say this is my dream and in your sleep, you’re not even dreaming about this—but I am—and we’ll both wake up tomorrow and you’ll not remember your dream, but I’ll remember mine—this dream—and tell you all about it, and nothing’ll be wrong. Nothing. Everything will be as it normally is, I mean, like we’re used to?”

“Honey, that’s been said before, you know that—”

“Yes, but if it is my dream, then it’s all just me, don’t you get it? Or you. Don’t you see? This is my dream and when I wake up, none of this will matter…it will all have just been in my head. No one else’s—the world isn’t going to explode or whatever it is that’s supposed to happen, because it’s all in my head and no one else’s.”

Tom stopped.

Yes, she had brought this up once or twice. As had others. And, yes, books had been published on this premise more than once over the past two years.

But…what if she was right?

What if it was all a dream, her dream—or his dream? What if all this—the dream of the dream—was all…a dream? A lucid one, where he (or she) was just wide awake and aware and that just made it all the more frightening? And Lea just thought it was her dream, because that’s how dreams work…that’s the weirdness of them…he’s dreaming, it’s his point of view, and she’s just a part of his dream…just like sometimes he’s in hers. But if he was (also?) dreaming it, was it really Lea’s dream—or his? How could he be aware in Lea’s dream? It had to be his dream, not Lea’s. And further, if he was aware he was dreaming and the dream was so intense and scary—and he knew this—why not change it?

“You know…you’re right. We don’t really know, do we? It could all be a dream of a nasty dream, and if it is, we can change it, because we’re aware of it.”

Tom stood up. Took in the restaurant. Everyone stared at him. He stared back.

Country music continued to play over the speakers. Somebody he didn’t recognize.

The sky was now totally dark outside (wasn’t it just twilight?). The curtains closed. This was their own little microcosm and it did feel different. Something was suddenly different about the whole affair. Not just the place, but also what supported this place…life itself…was the only way he could describe it. And he was conscious that everyone was still staring at him as if he was going to save the world—which he was, because it was his dream. Lea had said it was hers, but she was just saying that because she was in his dream and that’s how dreams worked. You never really knew—until you did. Then everything just fell into place.

“Okay…okay, everybody…,” Tom announced, arms upraised as he walked away from Lea and their table and into the center of the restaurant, “she’s right. She’s right—can’t you feel it? You’re all in a dream, my dream—all of you.”

The cook and waitresses stopped talking and—holding hands—came out from behind the lattice-work.

“Think about it. How could this be anything else? Nothing like this ever happens in real life—it’s all boring and drab. Dull. Practical. Sometimes even downright brutal—but always, always the prime directive has been that nothing like this ever happens.

“Only in science fiction and fantasy.

“Books and movies.

“This is all dream world stuff.

“Armageddon? The end of the world? The world never ends…sure, it gets nasty, wars come and go…but it never ends. It only did once, if you believe in the Bible, but wasn’t there also something about a promise that God would never do that again? So, if it’s all true…my wife’s correct—this is all a dream, but it’s my dream, and not her’s…and you’re all in that dream. So, if this is the case—”

“Sir, this has all been talked about before,” a cowboy said, pushing back his wide-brimmed hat. “And what about Reve—”

“Of course it’s all been said before—because it’s my dream! But that’s exactly what I’m trying to say! There’s no real time in dreams, everyone knows that—years can end up being mere minutes. Listen to what I’m saying! If this is all in my head and it’s not reality then why do we have to live with it, right? We can change it. Each and every one of us—”

“But, if it’s your dream, then why do we have to do anything?” another asked.

“Don’t you see? Everyone knows dream logic never makes any sense—except in dreams—so go with it. This is my dream, so I’m telling all of you to go along with it! We’re not all going to die because I’m not going to allow that to happen.

“I’m saying, right here, right now that this is my dream and I’m taking control.

“I’m saying we live. All of us. And that we’ll wake up in the morning, refreshed and ready to meet the day in all its beauty and splendor!” he said, spinning around, arms upraised higher, “A day like any other day! Like we’re used to! If it isn’t a dream, then we all die with smiles on our faces, but if it is…if it is, then we change a bad outcome for a good one.”

Everyone continued to stare at him.

“Come on, people! What do we have to lose? Take control!”

The quietness was slowly replaced with handfuls of intimate conversations. Tom watched as people hugged and kissed each other, but more importantly, he saw renewed hope. People, finally, had hope, again, where they hadn’t had any for two years.

He smiled, returning to his wife.

“Why isn’t this my dream?” she asked.

“That’s the beauty of it, hon—it is. But it’s also mine. Whether it’s yours, mine, or the cook’s, it’s still everyone’s dream. The dream is dreaming as well as the dreamer! Credit doesn’t matter. We’re the only thing that matters—the now,” he said, taking hold of both her hands and kissing them, “dream with me, honey. We can do this!”

 

Everyone closed their eyes and many mumbled their desires over and over and over…but all concentrated with their hearts and souls…upon lives they wanted to live.

To live.

A better life. For all.

Beautiful homes, with beautiful yards and beautiful pets and kids.

Beautiful birds. Singing.

Beautiful trees whispering in balmy summer breezes.

No wars, peace everywhere…love and plenty for all….

And Clay Walker continued to belt out his tunes overhead. People dreamed about the way it used to be, only better…simpler problems with simpler solutions. Simpler times….

 

Outside flashed a brilliant, silent explosion that was gone the instant it ignited…and with it, all the world that had been known and loved. All of it…down to the last atom.

All the people…all the animals…all the dirt and trees. All the insects and birds. All the hate and love. All the oceans, the mountains, the stars…

Everything.

And, except for everyone in this one diner, reality…all of existence…simply ceased to b

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Dark Was The Hour

by

Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks - 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons).
Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks – 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons).
In 2004 The Gazette newspaper had put out a call to write stories for their Christmas short story contest. They required certain themes in the stories, like trains and Colorado and snow. This was the first and only time I remember “writing to spec”; it’s not something I like doing. But I did. I submitted. It didn’t place.

But where did the story idea itself come from? There was definitely the train imagery from the Twilight Zone’s “A Stop at Willoughby“…but there had also been some media coverage about Fallujah at the time that also had something to do with it. In any event, I love these kinds of stories, whether it’s Willoughby, “The 7th is Made up of Phantoms,” or my own: “Tail Gunner” and “Etched in Stone” (which will post Feb 26, 2016). They reach into me and just grab me. Make me, well, tear up….

When I wrote “Dark Was The Hour,” I’d contacted a nearby Marine Corps recruiting station and talked to a handful of marines…even got a couple of them to read it. I wanted to use the right terminology, the right descriptions, get the right “feel” to the story. Those marines were: Sergeant Sharp, Corporal Hughes, Private First Class Fox. That’s all the information I have left on them. Again that was in 2004. I often wonder about them…how they’re doing. I remember one of them was actually chomping at the bit to get “over there”; I think it was PFC Fox. I hope they’re all still alive and well.

This story was published in the December 2007 issue of Apollo’s Lyre.

 

Dark Was The Hour

© F. P. Dorchak, 2004

 

A slight chill radiated inward from the window as Frank Bishop stared out through his accusatory reflection into the snowy night. He rocked back and forth as the train gently cradled him through the high Colorado mountain passages with its comforting ratcheting sounds and motion. He inhaled the scent of leather and polished wood—nostalgia.

Fallujah sucked was the nicest way he could put it and the fact that he’d left parts of himself back there didn’t help matters.

“Ticket, please?” the Conductor asked.

Frank jumped, shooting a hand to his side.

Of course he no longer carried his Beretta nine mil and of course this man wasn’t a threat.

He gave the conductor his ticket.

“Thank you, sir,” the Conductor said. “Next stop, Idaho Springs!” The Conductor smiled an odd little smile Frank found unnerving and left. Frank closed his eyes, allowing the lulling metallic Ta-tun–Ta-tun, Ta-tun–Ta-tun of the train to

Fallujah.

A name he hoped he’d never—ever—have to speak or hear again.

But he still heard the

 

Explosions. All around him. His ears rung, his eyes swam, and his head pounded from the slight concussion. Lieutenant Bishop popped his head back up over the battered cinder block wall. Small-arms fire came quick and well-directed. He ducked back down.

“Sir! We really need to—”

“I know!” Bishop shouted back to the platoon sergeant. He wiped sweat from his eyes with bruised and battered hands caked in dried blood and powder burns. The cacophony and smell of rocket-propelled grenades, spent mortar rounds, and death filled the air. The Fog of War.

“I’ll head off to the left—there,” the lieutenant said, pointing, “and you guys nail ‘em with everything we—”

“Sir, you know you’re—”

“What do you want me to do? Leave him there? You can see him as well as I can! I’m not leaving him behind.”

The Marine sergeant passed on the word to the rest of the platoon.

Bishop took a deep breath, looked to his men, then

 

ran his hands through his hair. It’d been a while since he’d been on this train. The last time had been when he’d been nine—was that right? His folks had taken them all on a Christmas ride between home—Idaho Springs—and Denver. Just before the car crash that had claimed them.

Had he made that up—or was that the concussion talking? His head still felt fuzzy. All that shelling…all that….

God, it felt so good to do nothing. To just sit back and relax. Look out at the dark snow-covered landscape like some Hitchcockian movie. His dad had really loved Hitch.

A reflection in the window passed quickly behind him, and

 

Bishop spun around, his still smoking and spent M-16A4 useless at his feet. Nine mil already in hand, he pulled his KA-BAR combat knife up before him and in one swiftly efficient movement took out the hostile who’d lunged for him. Another was close behind, but Bishop dispatched him just as efficiently. Breathing heavily, he quickly secured the room, sheathed the knife, and grabbed the dying marine’s wrist. He looked to the wrist.

Something was wrong.

No time to think about it, he turned to leave when there was a tremendous flash of heat and noise and something ungodly kicked him in the very seat of his soul and launched him bodily into a wall. The next thing Bishop knew, he was

 

crying. Something wasn’t right. Why was he crying? He was going home, home for good. He was no use to the Corps any more. Had served his country. Had his decorations, which he couldn’t look at without considering the lives lost—and saved. He was going home to his parents and girl. Their black lab, Boomer. Going to make a new life, if that was at all possible these days.

But what about those left behind?

Who was gonna keep an eye on them? Keep them safe? His buddies. Hector—how was Hector? Had he made it? Hector Gonzalez

 

laid down a searing blast of cover fire around the lieutenant’s position. The lieutenant was still in there. Gonzalez had no choice. He couldn’t leave him. Additional hostiles were quickly overrunning their position.

Gonzalez hand-signaled the platoon to cover him.

Gear rattling, Gonzalez tucked in around the wall then made his way through the rubble. Once he got to the open twenty yards through which he had to sprint, he glanced back to his platoon. They kept up his cover fire. Gonzalez sprinted across the space and slammed his body against a wall. Just up ahead was Bishop. He wasn’t leaving him, not after all he’d done at his own expense. No way. He’d stayed behind to allow the rest of them exit…when the blast had come. Gonzalez cursed himself for allowing the lieutenant to order them off like that. All he could think of was

 

“I’m not supposed to be here, am I?” Bishop asked the Conductor.

“Of course you are, Son,” the Conductor reassured. “You’re going home. For Christmas. The best one ever.”

“But…”

The Conductor smiled.

 

Gonzalez had made it to the lieutenant. He was a mess. All he could tell for certain was that he was missing…parts. It’d hadn’t yet registered just what, in all the still-settling smoke and rubble, but he wasn’t…whole….

“Christmas…,” the lieutenant whispered, “Jea-nna….” His face was thrashed and bloodied.

“Lieutenant?” Gonzalez asked, but there was no more.

Gonzalez grabbed the lieutenant’s wrist and quickly pulled him from the rubble as more fire opened up on their position. He turned to leave, but lost his hold. He tried to regrip the lieutenant’s wrist, but only grabbed

Air.

Gone.

The lieutenant was

Gone.

Gonzalez spun around.

No body, no lieutenant. Only acrid ordnance stink and rubble.

“But he was—he was just—where’d”

 

he stood in the well of the exit stoop as the train came to its screeching halt.

“Have a great Christmas, Lieutenant!” the Conductor encouraged, smiling. He saluted Bishop.

Bishop turned and looked up to the conductor. Bishop was bloodied and covered in soot and grime and war in his desert cammies and gear. He still held his nine mil in one hand, KA-BAR in the other. He looked to the nine mil. Outside.

It snowed heavily.

He cast a momentary, dour smile back up to the Conductor, then carefully placed his weapons up at the Conductor’s feet. He stared at the instruments of personal destruction one last time…rubbed a wrist and worked his jaw…when a larger smile crossed his face. He uttered a single chuckle.

He looked back out into the dark, snowy Colorado winter before him.

It was always darkest before the light.

Bishop inhaled deeply of the cold, sweet, aromatic pine of the evergreen forest mixed in with train exhaust. Saw Christmas lights through the heavy snowfall he swore he could now actually hear—heard Christmas music?—when a hand reached in to him from outside the train.

“Welcome home, Son,” his father greeted.

Bishop again inhaled deeply, smiled…and stepped off the train.

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Merry Christmas To All!

by

Merry Xmas! (Image by [no machine-readable author provided. Alsandro assumed (based on copyright claims] GFDL http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html or CC-BY-SA-3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/], via Wikimedia Commons)
Merry Xmas! (Image by [no machine-readable author provided. Alsandro assumed (based on copyright claims] GFDL http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html or CC-BY-SA-3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)
I really love this time of year!

I love all the trappings, the fun, the feelings-of-love that run rampant come the Christmas timeframe.

Yeah, and I also like the lights, the ornaments, and all the “pretty colors”!

I’m not a traditionally religious guy. In fact, I’m not religious at all. My beliefs are my own, but I love all the fun that goes into this time of year…the giving of gifts…the receiving of them (oh, come on—you know you like getting as well as receiving! There’s nothing wrong in admitting that!)…the getting together. Reaching out to family, friends, and the world. To see how others “view” me in the fun and excitement of receiving well-thought-out gifts from others (yes, and I do the same when I get gifts for others…we all talk freely about giving…but no one talks about the receiving)!

I love the Christmas lights, the merriment, the decorated trees—I actually love wrapping gifts! It’s fun “hiding” something that I hope people are going to like…and looking forward to seeing them tear into it when given to them!

I do it rarely, but I also like holiday baking…and I just did some yesterday, making some Slovak apricot and poppyseed rolls. Love those things. Haven’t made them in a couple years…though I clearly need more practice….

I know we all celebrate in our own ways…many talk about the “reason for the season” and all, and that is their right. Many like to go to church…and that is their right. I do not like going to church one bit…if I go (aside from funerals or weddings and that kind of thing) it’s purely for family reasons. I allow each their own belief systems…and I allow all the joy of their expression!

So, please…allow everyone else around you who doesn’t believe as you do the joy of their expression. We all enjoy and celebrate Christmas for our own reasons…don’t trounce upon them or look down upon them like some poor, lost souls. Because many of us are not poor, lost souls. We’re just as excited and joyous in our own beliefs as you are of yours. Greet us with the smiles with which we greet you…give us the respect with which we afford you.

So to all, I wish you a Merry Christmas—enjoy it as you want to, but do enjoy it!