Coming 2012

  Published by:

  Alison Winfree Pickrell

“Each of them was born with a divine restlessness—a discontent—that is intended to send them on a search for the One Truth. So many of them get sidetracked. Some, like those in this room with me, wind up eddying in a shallow pool, pushed to a side line to wait out their days. Unless someone intervenes. —— Aris                                         

         Read  Excerpt
Text Box: One Why do I spend so much time in graveyards? No matter where I travel, I am drawn to these acres of quiet stones—some still glistening white and smooth, others crumbling into moss-covered piles of rubble, coarse with the wear of time. Each stone marks the end of a single life. Those who are able to leave this life are fortunate—their journey is over. Time is their enemy; Death is their friend. Sometimes I will join a graveside service, inserting myself among the silent or weeping people who stand with heads bowed, hands clasped. I stare intently at the pastors who speak words of comfort and life and seem to help the grievers, but not all, come to some degree of peace. I have even followed mourners to their homes, peering into their windows, trying to fathom what I am seeing and hearing. My name is Aris. I’ve always known I’m special. Even unique. But doesn’t everyone believe in their heart of hearts that they are destined for greatness? I’ve been traveling a long time. I’ve circled the globe many times. Up ahead I can see the small town I’ve been carried to. Another in a long line of towns and cities and countries. I never know where I’ll be taken next. I don’t feel weary even though I’ve come so far. There’s no rest for me. I’ve been brought here to see certain people. If I close my eyes, I can picture the faces I’ve already visited. One face after another, strung out for miles. All different but all the same. Now I’ll be adding more. This new town is not a large metropolis. How much longer will I be doing this? I feel an urgency I didn’t have in years gone by. I move to the crest of a green hill that slopes gently down to outlying houses and buildings. The sign says Medlin, a pleasant name for a town. It is early spring. I can see the forsythia and daffodils in several yards. I wait to be taken where I am meant to go. I have no choice in the matter. These decisions are not mine to make. As I am resting here above Medlin, I sense a movement beside me. A rush of explosive air, overtaking and passing, then turning back to confront me. I know who it is. Dram has found me once again. He has been following me for as long as I can remember. He is dark, quick, always moving, persuading, threatening, nudging, tripping, laughing. Dram turns to face me, his body winking and casting dark light around him as he hangs before me. Suddenly he stiffens, arms to his sides, and falls forward to land facedown, touching the ground for an instant before launching upward to watch my reaction. He lets out a burst of what could be laughter, but is only a mockery of what he hears from humans. I refuse to look at him. I think he can see me as I see him. I could close my eyes and lift myself far away, but that is not what I have been instructed to do. All I can do is turn away. He takes great delight in mimicking anything he knows means something to me. Like seeing a man falling face downward to his death. I have seen this repeatedly. I am always behind the person. I see the bullet come, see the sharp recoil as it strikes. Then in a flash I am in front to watch them fall: a businessman in Berlin, shot at the top of an escalator; a woman in Africa—shot with many others on a

Web Site Sponsored by:
Text Box: Home