March 26, 2007
The Story of Mr. Sheffield, Part I.
"So whaddya think, doc?"
I sat nervously biting my fingernails. The doctor, no doubt making use of his training, sat austere, and calmly reviewed my file. His white coat stood in stark contrast to the black mood which enveloped my mind.
When a car rattles for a mile or two, some people take notice. When a car pings and knocks for a month, a few more are likely to observe it. But when a car smokes and knocks, only a fool ignores it.
With shame I admit I acted the fool. For too long I ignored the warning signs that told of the breakdown of this human machine.
"Your case is quite singular, Mr. Sheffield."
The doctor's voice sounded distant through the clouds of confusion that darkened my reason.
"I have never," he continued, "seen an actual case like yours. Oh don't get me wrong. During my training we studied textbook cases which described symptoms that were similar to yours. Our professors told us, in theory, what we should do if ever a patient of ours should have just such an affliction. And yet," He paused, chuckled mirthlessly, and then continued. "And yet, I must confess their theories seem trivial froth when I see an actual case of what was, before, purely theoretical."
I laughed nervously.
"Which brings me back to my original question, doc: Whaddya think?"
"I think," he said, closing my file with somewhat more of a finality than I would have liked. "I think..."
But this was as far as he got. He leaned back in his great, squeaky leather chair, pulled the rectangular glasses off his face, and rubbed the bridged of his nose, slowly. After a few minutes, a sigh escaped him.
That single, solitary answered my questions far better than words ever could.
I smiled, weakly, physically straining with the effort.
"There's no hope then, eh?"
His eyes were still closed. With a grim, sorrowful expression etched in his face, he sadly shook his head from side to side.
For a few minutes we sat in silence. Outside his office, the afternoon sun persistently strove to pierce the gloom that enveloped his office and my mind. I could see the birds, but couldn't hear them, twittering, full of glee, in the branches of a dogwood that was rooted near his window.
A single, bitter tear rolled down my ashen cheek. Opening his eyes, the doctor looked at me and offered a compassionate smile.
"You could," he said, but I stopped him.
"No. I couldn't. And even if I could, I wouldn't." He nodded, knowingly. "I'm not dead yet." I said with more persuasion than I actually felt. "I'm not dead yet." I repeated again.
He nodded. "That's true, Mr. Sheffield. That's very true."
"There may yet be hope." I cried suddenly, in paroxysm of euphoria. My eyes shone with emotion. "I've heard...I've heard that in France scientists have developed a new, albeit untested," I admitted...he stopped me short with a look.
"Mr. Sheffield, I have practiced medicine for nearly thirty years. There has never been--heed me, Mr. Sheffield--there has never been a single case to unfolded as you now hope."
I frowned slightly as he continued.
"You would do well to make the best use of the time that is remaining to you. The only cure for you is that from which no man ever returns."
Continued...
Posted by Carl at 01:55 AM | TrackBack
January 02, 2007
"Christian Countries: A Pelican Fairy-tale."
Once upon a time there were three old men who sat around and did nothing but pretend they were smarter than each other. One was a writer who could not write. The other, a sallow faced fellow, was a teacher who could not teach. The third was the smartest of them all, for he was only a rube.
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Posted by Carl at 02:01 AM | TrackBack
December 31, 2006
"The Taxidermist," chp.1, draft one.
The clouds moved rapidly across the evening sky, and as Paul Roberts closed the door to his Lexus, he could not have been happier. For months and months he had planned this meeting. On disposable cellphones alone he had spent well over three-thousand dollars. It would not, after all, be acceptable for a man in his position to be caught in such a violent act. Other people could well stand the trouble, but rich men know there is a way around any obstacle.
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Posted by Carl at 12:58 AM | TrackBack
December 29, 2006
"Apartment 5b"
A few beams of light manage to penetrate this darkened room. Everywhere I look, shadows cling to the vulgar objects of this vulgar man. Their soft, demonic fingers seem to take pleasure in caressing the filth which covers the floor.
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Posted by Carl at 01:54 AM | TrackBack
June 19, 2006
The Friendless Man.
In the corner of a darkened room, a disheveled, untidy man sits hunched over a small wooden table. His hair, grown quite long, shows numerous patches of gray. What had once been a shock of hair on his chin is now but the longest portion of a full, and slightly reddish beard. His eyes are not visible, but we who write this have seen them. They are dull and lackluster. There is no fire of youth; no light bespeaking the fiery intellect which, once, he had supposed was his. Instead, the dull and impassive eyes crouch back in their sockets like an animal, cornered.
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Posted by Carl at 12:35 AM | TrackBack
June 10, 2006
On Winning and Losing.
I don’t mind losing; not all that much. I mean, there are things—such as winning—that I would rather do, but I don’t fancy myself to be a 'sore loser.' My friends may have a different opinion. I don’t know. But I trust the general objective honesty with which I am able to look at my circumstances and, again, I reiterate: I don’t mind losing.
What is difficult to bear is when one loses for an extended period of time. That, my friend, is hard to bear. When you have played the cards that were dealt you; when you have done all that you could conceivably do; when life continuously gives you Kings—and expects you to fold—why, that is quite difficult to endure.
That there are numerous other annoyances which can exacerbate the situation, this I don’t deny. Your friends may taunt you while you’re down. (Obviously this prompts one to think of the cliché: ‘with friends like these…’) But, speaking as philosophically as I know how, even this taunting I can put up with; and the reason is simple.
If God controls everything—as he does; and if He determines the outcome of a game of chance—and He positively does; then, like David and Shimei, the only reasonable thing which a Christian can do is to resign their ‘fate’ to God. (I understand, of course, that this is the only reasonable thing one should do anyway. I simply contend that it is much harder, for me at least, when the chips are down.)
Fine. I’m out of this Friday night game. There are others. And, if God is merciful to me; if He has not lost interest in one who has certainly betrayed Him and certainly deserves no mercy; then, though I lose every time out of seven with pocket Aces, He can still, not only allow me to be in the WSOP, but He can even let me win with a seven-two. (The reader will, I trust, forgive me for the agonizingly tedious extension of this metaphor.)
Carl
Posted by Carl at 12:14 AM | TrackBack
June 08, 2006
The Beautiful Sinner. (r.d.)
The last rays of golden sunshine were filtering through the purple and yellow stained glass windows of the First Baptist Church in Middling, Nebraska. It was nearly time for the evening service to begin, and the parishioners were milling about in the foyer and in the auditorium. They were partaking of that favorite pastime of all humanity: gossip.
In the second row, and on the left side as one faces the platform, there sat an elderly man with the last name of Johnston. His once auburn hair had long since been converted into an opalescent white. Though he was not the very first man to have the honor, he was, in fact, the seventh person elected to a deaconship in this small community church. His Grandfather and Father were the first and second, respectively. In point of fact, his great-grandfather had donated the land and money for the very building in which he now sat with pietistic calm.
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Posted by Carl at 01:52 AM | TrackBack
May 08, 2006
Gymnasium: A fairy-tale.
Once upon a time, long after the cold winds of indifference had ceased to blow through the hallowed halls of our churches, a group of some two-thousand spectators assembled themselves to watch a basketball game, which featured men and women, religious and otherwise, in a magnificent and imposing gymnasium. The gymnasium itself, though its walls were covered with religious symbols and like things, was yet a gymnasium. The custodian, though bearing the title of ‘Minister of Recreation,’ was but a Physical Education Superintendent.
When the gymnasium had been erected, far in the distant past, it was hoped that by appealing to the physical appetites of men said men would then be drawn to become regular visitors, and perhaps members of, this glorified exercise facility. Then, when once they had joined, a spiritual thirst, hitherto unknown by them, would become illuminated, or at least ignited, by the avenue of extreme cardiovascular exercise. It being postulated, we suppose, that men who have increased the flow of blood through its various arteries and capillaries, have, therefore, an increased capacity for comprehending various spiritual truths towards which their thinking was, in times past, alienated.
The question which remains is this; for, it is true, our fairy-tale is at an end. Will men and women who become more active be drawn towards Christ? Or, contrariwise, will they simply be healthier as they march toward hell? We do not propose an answer. We simply pose the question.
Posted by Carl at 12:03 AM | TrackBack
April 28, 2006
Short Two.
My death was quite an unwelcome surprise. I had intended, I suppose, to live for some time, as yet indeterminate. But as with all things in life, one must accept the particular circumstances which are thrust upon them. Now I would not say that I was meticulous in my observance of religion while alive. Believing pastors and priests to be boobs more worthy of pity than ire, I never forced myself to take the slightest notice of what they uttered. It should be observed, however, that, in spite of this, I was preeminently known for my philanthropy. Not once during my lifetime did I pass near the rusty, old cup of a beggar—his sad eyes imploring me for some pittance—without faithfully performing my duty by pontificating upon the pleasure to be gained through industry. I never failed to defend the whole of society against the criminally minded by refraining from confiscating what otherwise would have been stolen. You may imagine then, dear reader, my surprise at being led to my eternal home by the Devil himself.
“But I don’t…well, I didn’t believe in you.” I stated somewhat hesitantly.
“I know,” he replied with reverence. “Not many do.”
Posted by Carl at 01:02 AM | TrackBack
Short One.
In horror Jim Wallace listened as the jury proclaimed two words he was loath to hear them utter. “Not guilty.” His attorney turned toward him and rendered an expression intended to communicate melancholy. Save for his beady eyes and greedy expression, Jim might have been convinced. In vain did Jim protest this blatant miscarriage of justice! All his frenzied exclamations nearly landed him, temporarily, in jail. The presiding judge, enveloped in luxuriant and expensive black robes graciously supplied at the expense of the citizens of Knobby Pine, looked sternly at this “Mr. Wallace,” and demanded that he conduct himself with a propriety befitting the occasion. For himself, he (the judge) was willing to concede that Mr. Wallace had murdered a government official. And, it is true, if the trial had been conducted without the aid of a jury, he (Mr. Wallace) was assured that the outcome would have been different. But, the judge stated solemnly, the law being what it was, there was nothing for it but an absconded ignominy. And, his personal beliefs regarding the guilt of the accused notwithstanding, Mr. Wallace was a free man.
“But, pleasin’ yer hon’r, hows a man in my sitiation to survive?”
During the trial Mr. Wallace had argued that, if once he could be convicted of murder, it would be “smooth sailin’” for the rest of his life. When the jury had declined to observe this statement, inattentive as they were from their utter boredom with and incompetence to judge of so simple an act as murder, the judge had, himself, questioned the prisoner; a thing contrary to all legal precedent. Mr. Wallace had answered with rustic simplicity.
“Well, yer hon’r, I ain’t never hurt so much as a fly. But that dang’d tax man said I owed near ev’rthing I’ve earned last year. I hads tuh kill ‘im, so’s I could hav’ a roof over my head!”
The judge had frowned.
“And how many witnesses did you say there were…”
Jim Wallace had paled visibly under this particular question. In fact, he had refused to answer it pleading that, in keeping with the fifth amendment, he would not incriminate himself. The judge had looked at the jury with a roguish grin and winked. Thus it was that a verdict of not guilty had been rendered.
But Jim Wallace was not to be robbed of his rights so precipitously. And, seizing the pistol of a nearby officer shot his attorney, in plain view of the jury, right through the head. The judge was in a fury. The jury was plainly disturbed. Two women who were present fainted. As three officers threw him to the floor, his face banging none to gently on the hardwood, Jim Wallace solaced himself with a fond belief that taxes were seldom extracted from incarcerated men. In point of fact, much like a perverse deity gleefully bestowing presents upon naughty children, the taxes he had so long provided would now provide for his retirement. He was so contented by this thought that he took no notice of the blood pouring from his nostrils while he was led away.
Posted by Carl at 12:57 AM | TrackBack
March 27, 2006
Chapter Ten...The Conclusion.
“The old man held in his hands a small, clay cup. He watched tendrils of steam dissipate into the surrounding air. “It’s gonna rain.” He said abruptly.
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Posted by Carl at 03:56 PM | TrackBack
Chapter Nine.
“As I leaned with my left arm upon the shore, I looked apprehensively at the men surrounding me. Water dripped down from my disheveled hair. I was nearly overcome with fatigue from just trying to survive. And yet, not one of the Brotherhood stooped to help draw me from the swirling waters. The taciturnity was palpable. It seemed there was nothing for it but to crawl out by my own power. With the unbelievable pain shooting through every nerve in my body, I clambered on the shore and collapsed in a heap.
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Posted by Carl at 03:53 PM | TrackBack
Chapter Eight.
“I was drowning in vast ocean of water. I struggled, crying out for someone, anyone to save me.
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Posted by Carl at 12:35 AM | TrackBack
Chapter Seven.
“I stood tremulous in the coolness of the morning. The air around me was noticeably humid; but together with the breeze it had a rather pleasing effect. My forehead was damp; though not from the air, for I was sweating profusely. With my left hand I clung to a small assassin’s knife. On the back of my right arm an exact replica of the blade was scorched permanently into my skin. But…I had passed the first test. Could I endure the second? I did not see how it could be any worse. In this conjecture I was quite mistaken.
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Posted by Carl at 12:32 AM | TrackBack
March 21, 2006
Chapter Six.
“Nimrod quickly strode over to where I was standing and, pressing his face so near to mine that our noses touched, his demeanor altered and he barked out an order.
“Kneel before your master!”
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Posted by Carl at 12:31 AM | TrackBack
March 20, 2006
Chapter Five.
The first rays of the sun had not yet made it over the tip of the horizon, but already it promised to be a beautiful day. The cloudless sky, a beautiful bluish-red, was tinged with orange and gold and seemed infinite. The old man yawned as he scratched his disheveled hair, and made his way into the kitchen. His wife had left early that morning and, as he made himself a small luncheon, he glanced at the wrinkled manuscript on the counter. He shook his head with sorrow. What a miserable life the author had led. What must be the conclusion of such a sad existence? That question, of course, is what prompted him to recommence this strange tale.
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Posted by Carl at 08:07 PM | TrackBack
March 19, 2006
Chapter Four.
A slight smearing had obliterated part of the manuscript. Water had washed away some of the writing, and there were only a few scattered words visible. Midway down the seventh page, and in mid-sentence, the story continued.
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Posted by Carl at 12:26 AM | TrackBack
March 16, 2006
Chapter Three.
“It was not more than two months,” the manuscript continued, “after I had killed my mother that my life changed dramatically. For a few years already I had made my living by petty theft. I would pick pockets, steal from street vendors, and the like, but I was barely scraping by. One day, after a mediocre day of thievery, when I arrived home there was a small knife firmly planted in the threshold of my front door. Beneath it, a tattered paper with numerous stains, and folded in half, bore my name on the front. I was so irritated that someone had stabbed a knife into my door that I scarcely thought of the nature of the letter or the kind of knife. Then I opened the note. Inside there were five words. “We want you to join.” There was no signature, no mention of where I should meet these unknowns; in short, there was no clue about this mysterious letter at all. But a clue was superfluous.
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Posted by Carl at 04:59 PM | TrackBack
March 13, 2006
Chapter Two.
“In utter despair of life, I write these words. I cherish little hope that anyone shall ever find this record, but, with that stubbornness which has been my habit, I record this history nonetheless. Perhaps someday, if the human race survives, this record will be found.”
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Posted by Carl at 04:10 PM | TrackBack
March 12, 2006
Chapter One.
It was, perhaps, the most beautiful spring morning that could be conceived of by any artist. The trees, with their lush foliage, were gently swaying in a scarcely detectable breeze; so subtle was its movement. The sun was nearly at its zenith, and the soft, white clouds were almost stationary in the brilliant, azure sky. Gone were any indications of that great storm which had, but a mere fifty years ago, destroyed the country here described. Everywhere the eye turned there was grass and tress, and bushes beyond number. A small vineyard, about fifty yards from a towering boulder on the edge of a clearing, had near it numerous cattle. Indifferent to the beauty of the morning, they were grazing contentedly on the verdure which surrounded them.
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Posted by Carl at 02:15 AM
Not just yet.
I had decided to stop blogging. Instead I shall merely post little stories that I am working on.
Carl
Posted by Carl at 02:13 AM
March 07, 2006
And...done. (Sorry, no comments allowed on this one.)
To my faithful reader, I applaud you. To the myriads who despise me, I pity you. To the two persons who have linked to my blog, I thank you.
Maybe I shall try another sometime. This has, after all, been fun.
Closing thoughts.
Thank you Josiah and Coptix. Your graciousness is unspeakable; ironically enough.
(Delete this post and site at your discretion.)
Adieu.
The 'Grub Street' Plumber.
Posted by Carl at 11:47 PM