HOME | POLITICS | SPORTS | LIFE | SCI/TECH | OPEDS | HELPFUL TIPS
|
Jan. 25, 2007 It Was So Cold It was so cold I feared for my soul. It was so cold that Eskimos gave up. The temperature just plummeted and the wind chill got scary mean crazy like that. Women cried. Men covered their faces, and were unable to go on. Buildings froze, and then buckled in torment, and were now piles of bricks. It was so cold. The sun blinked, and said, “What is this, this deep freeze? I am powerful,” but the sun was not powerful enough, and went away in shame, a once sturdy and magnificent sight. Animals huddled deep under beds, and closed their eyes to it all. Bridges broke. An ice storm was there, and it weighed the trees, and then they broke. It was a forsaken time, and a forsaken place. Some people tried to start fires, to stay warm. Others prayed the rosary. There was no help in sight. Then the oceans froze, from the top through to the bottom, and all the life within stayed put, like some dreadful monument to death’s prowess and prominent hand of cards. Wicked people tried to loot, because the wicked will always remain wicked. But their hands froze on the stolen items, and their hands then fell off, as they looked upon them in the snow. No amount of salt could stop the ice from being what it was. No amount of fire could seem to quell the pain of the cold. Soon power stations and energy grids and everything of that sort were defunct. Stars fell from the sky, like the sad birds that were traveling downwards to die. Gauche ladies tried to horde their wares, and froze with blank spiritless stares. Mean men and sullen folks from the cities slid down roads of doom, breaking now, like so many Popsicle sticks or children’s toys. There was something though…there was an old man, and he had a special drink. He seemed to know some secret. He shared the drink with virtuous souls. “Just a drop will do,” he said. And when people took the drop, they felt warmth, and life. Soon the world was dark, and it stayed that way for seven days. But the sun did come back, and though most things were ruined and most people dead, the old man and a select few survived. They began to slowly, ever so slowly and patiently rebuild. It was not so much the shacks and other things that they rebuilt, though they did attend to those things, but the small community, the network amongst themselves. They knew they were lucky to be there. They worked by day, and sang songs at night. Weeks went past, and then months. Soon they were able to mark a year. In a few more years, it had really warmed up, and the past was well into the past, where it belonged. Sometimes they thought of what had happened, and cringed, but mostly they looked forward. They cultivated themselves and what was around them. They made feasts, knitted their own clothing, and told stories about the moon and the sun, about rivers and lakes, about birds and lions, and about times of upheaval and about times of renewal. Love Letter of a Dead Soldier The letter was given to his beloved, a twenty-three year old woman, and days later, in the deep and still night, she paced a wrap around porch some, before going inside to read it. She sat, and unfolded the letter. She began to read: Dearest Sophia- It is late here, and it is not with details of the day that I want to write you. It would be better to speak to you about what were better times. It rained when we met, and we sat and talked for hours, as crowds passed by. I remember that you were a good listener, and always remained so. If was a funny thing, Sophia, to have love find us unawares like that. It was not our choice, but the choice of something greater. You don’t believe in religion my dear, but maybe one day you will. I remember that we walked far into the autumn streets, and looked at all the houses, and that they were rich houses. Do you remember that Sophia. That is when we would pretend to pick out the house we would like. You wore yellow shoes, and a raincoat. You talked about your father, and how he had left you. You pretended to be brave, and that it didn’t matter much, and though you were brave, it mattered. That is why you talked about it always Sophia. Whether I become killed in the war or not, is not the important idea. The important idea is that you somehow find a way to accept your pain about your father, no matter how long it takes or how difficult it is. It is all right to be wounded. Well my darling, do you remember when you had strange dreams, or when I read to you? Do you remember that there was energy, and that the world didn’t matter? Sophia, it is important to remember. You will change and grow, and already have my dear, and perhaps marry another, especially if I am dead. This is as it should be, but you don’t have to forget that we often walked and walked by those houses, far and far and far up the hills, and that the night held us in its hand then. Everyone else seemed so crass and obvious. The world didn’t know the things we knew. Sophia, you were so beautiful, no matter what you did. I know your some of your origins are unknown. I have thought about sometimes, and you should consider if there are more questions you can ask. Perhaps to your mother, as she is still young and vibrant. You look to have Indian in you. It was so obvious that I never did notice it, and in part I missed that because you have no affiliations with anything Indian. Well Sophia, I might not return. Remember that I loved you and you me. Remember that we were once in love, and somehow, for some reason, if it happened once, it’s like that part, the love part, stays around forever. Where it stays I’ve no idea, but it is like something completed that nothing can deny, not future events, or the passage of time, or anything. That is how I shall leave you dear Sophia. Take care, and good evening. – Francis * * * And with that, she folded up the letter, and put it back in its envelope. She stood up and put it in her pocket. Then she climbed the stairs and got ready for sleep, though she didn’t know whether she’d be able to actually sleep. Upstairs she opened a window, and looked outside. The summer night seemed thick, immense, and indifferent. ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
||||||
|
|
|||||||
|
