The world has seen its fair share of conflict. As the decades have passed by, a clash of ideas and values between different groups of people has always existed. Single acts of hostility based on misguided principles have caused immense world wars; conflict from opposing religious ideals has created much bloodshed and cruel, inhumane acts; and values with their own underhanded agendas or justice driven goals, have brought out the worst and best of humanity. In the late 1800’s, when African Americans were working up hill to find their rightful place in American society, another such conflict was causing commotion within the states. This fight of values between the Southern defiance of the south and the radical republicans of the north would continue for many decades. It was a sort of tug-a-war that would finally end, resolving the oppression of African Americans.
In 1892 Homer Plessey, an African American, boarded a train on the white section of one of the cars. During this time, Jim Crow laws made it impossible for black people to enjoy the luxury of white-run institutions. African Americans were, instead, separated from the white southerners. The environment they were consequently placed in proved less extravagant and, most of the time, below human standards.
Instead of hiding his identity, Plessey proudly proclaimed his ethnicity, drawing attention to the authorities in the train. After much arguing, the white powers threw him out because he would not comply with their segregation rules. This greatly angered Plessey and, by a monumental move, he attempted to fight the injustice he had experienced that day.
Plessey plead before the Federal Court that he had been treated unconstitutionally. This case became known as Plessey v. Fergusson. After a long hard fight Plessey’s plea was regretfully turned down.
Though Plessey did not win the case, he did gain the “equal but separate” clause. Black people would still be segregated from white people, but America had to ensure that black institutions were just as good as white institutions. Though the “equal but separate” clause promised equal treatment to black people, it became just another form of racial discrimination. The black were ultimately treated just as unfairly as they had before.
This discrimination lasted for fifty years until another landmark case, Brown v. Board of Education. In this 1956 court ruling, the “Equal but Separate” clause was deemed unconstitutional and racist. As a result, segregation within schools was demolished and black children were allowed to attend white institutions for the first time.
As great as this breakthrough seemed, it stirred up a hornets nest in the south resulting in the “Southern Manifesto” document written to the president. In this letter, the southerners accused the supreme court of abusing its judicial powers. The American government had its checks and balances. Not one of the three powers within the United States had supreme rule. The president answered to congress and the courts, congress answered to the president and to laws passed by the courts, and the courts answered to legislature and to the executive power.
According to southerners; by overruling segregation in American schools, the judicial branch had directly contradicted previous segregation laws passed by congress. The south also believed that the courts ruling undermined the constitution and encroached on the rights of the states and the people. The constitution had never mentioned anything about education and the 14th amendment did not seem to limit a states preferred educational method whether it segregated black people or not.
In general, the south was not happy with “Brown v. Board of Education” and it was willing to fight the court ruling. In one such case, the actions of a certain school called for the intervention of the President.
The Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas, fought adamantly against desegregation in America forming mobs to stop black people from going to their school. They held the core beliefs of the south and would not willingly allow black children to mingle with white children.
President Dwight D. Eisenhower was very angry with the schools retaliation to desegregation. He believed that laws, not men, were supreme within the United States. By ignoring the court order, this High school was directly contradicting that belief. In response, the president addressed the nation, countering the south’s actions by appealing to order and unity within America.
At the heart of their actions, the south was promoting chaos within the American nation. Through their mobs, they were trashing the ideals of government and were essentially saying that their pride as white Americans was more important than values and principles created by government.
Eisenhower saw these actions as not only a detriment to inner-national peace and unity, but also as a detriment to the United State’s international goals. Other nations would look at these racist acts against government rule and see a nation that was violating moral and ethical values. The president wanted to rule a nation that upheld human rights and that exemplified, to other nations, the core beliefs every government should have. He did not want to be apart of a hypocritical country that spoke for peace and equality among nations when it could not uphold peace or equality within its own boundaries.
Following his address to America, Eisenhower intervened in Arkansas by sending troops. These men would stop the mobs that had gathered against the courts ruling and would make sure that the school upheld the desegregation of black and white alike.
Dwight D. Eisenhower, by his very actions, demonstrated what it meant to be a great leader for the American nation. In a time of conflict, he took immediate action to uphold the values and beliefs of the nation he ruled. He promoted peace and equality within the United States and exemplified this same philosophy to the surrounding peoples. As I read Eisenhower’s address to the American people I was struck by how important our government is. If it were not for the ideals that our nation rests upon and for the great leaders like Dwight Eisenhower who upheld these ideals, we would cease to be a great nation. Instead we would sink into the depths of corruption and chaos.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
History Reaction Paper: The Cold War
Throughout the centuries, the world has thrived by the symbiotic relationships of nations. One nation helped another in its time of greatest need sacrificing some of its own resources for the protection and survival of that other nation. One nation preferred global dominance over mutual, unhindered peace, conquering and being conquered. One nation needed recourses and, in an attempt to maintain global peace, formed a relationship of trade and mutual trust with the other nations. Ultimately, the history of the world has been determined by these actions and reactions of peoples. Even some of the smallest decisions of individuals have been influenced by the international circumstances of that particular time.
During the late twentieth century, there was a great tension between two nations, Russia (USSR) and America (US). Both were considered great world powers. They had amassed a large amount of weapons and had even created the devastating atomic bomb.
The tension, however, was not great enough to cause a war. Though there were times when war seemed inevitable, always a period of calm would rebuild a temporary equilibrium between the two knocking heads. After only a short time, however, something else would surface causing the fear and tension to rise once more.
This sort of international fluctuation continued tearing at the nations and eventually provoked an interesting assortment of responses from different politicians.
Henry A. Wallace sympathized with the USSR and felt that Russia’s so called “hostility” was only retaliation to former abuse. In a letter he wrote to President Truman, Wallace related several different historical confrontations between Russia and other nations. He believed that Russia was a mistreated nation being tossed here and there amongst the many different world powers. It only seemed fair to Wallace that Russia should feel the need to build weapons like the atomic bomb and begin to form a large defensive force.
Though Henry A Wallace sympathized with the USSR, he did not condone the use of Atomic warfare. He believed such weaponry could only result in a bruised and battered land. According to him, atomic war would not address the problem of international conflict but would only make it worse.
Hitting at the heart of the issue, Wallace believed that world peace could only be achieved through America’s acceptance of the USSR, a mutual laying-down of certain weapons, and other forms of peaceful compromise. Once people understood that the world could thrive with coexisting, different political thought processes without the use of weapons of mass destruction; then international interaction could become a tranquil, functioning environment.
Wallace was making an important point that, at first, seems reasonable and effective. It would be wonderful if the world consisted of rational thinking, peaceful-minded people. International trade would be such a smoother process and so many devastating wars could be avoided.
But such a mindset would never pass the realm of theory. Humans are imperfect. They are not robots who, when commanded to do certain things, will always obey or listen. In an attempt to show a desire for peace, one nation could very easily lay down its weapons and take away the defenses it built. But another nation, full of humans that desire power and money, may just as easily utilize that opportunity to obliterate its enemy.
I tend to agree with an opposing view of this Cold War standoff between the US and USSR. Clark Clifford believed that Russia and its communist philosophy was a great danger to the United States and needed to be warily watched. The USSR was a large world power. It had men and weapons at its disposal and, as it made seeming compromises with other nations, was growing more powerful and more dangerous.
The Russians rationalized this massive armament and gaining of power by passing the blame to America. According to circulating “Kremlin propaganda” in Russia, Monopoly Capitalism threatened the world with war. In essence, this propaganda labeled America’s Ideology as an intimidation to the western hemisphere. In Clifford’s view, however, the USSR’s retaliation was a far greater threat than the so called dangerous Monopoly Capitalism of America. Russia’s foreign policy essentially prepared it for war against such main capitalist nations as America. This policy allowed for a great increase in its previous military strength which incorporated developing atomic weapons and guided missiles, gaining materials for biological warfare, training a strategic air force, and building submarines of great cruising range.
Clifford saw this threat and knew that it was only a matter of time before Russia used its recourses against America. He was adamantly against America laying down its defenses. The US could not just sit on its thumbs and let dogma like communism continue existing in the world. Ultimately, he knew, the USSR doctrine would either destroy or be destroyed. No amount of peace on America’s part would stop the damage.
I agree that America should have been well prepared for such a force as the USSR. Laying down weapons and living at peace with Russia would have been nice. But such an action was neither pliable nor logical. In a world of real hostility and little mercy where power, money, and paranoia overruled all rational action, being prepared for war and being wary of the enemy was the only way to survive. In theory, Wallace had a great idea, but, in practicality, Clifford had the best course of action.
During the late twentieth century, there was a great tension between two nations, Russia (USSR) and America (US). Both were considered great world powers. They had amassed a large amount of weapons and had even created the devastating atomic bomb.
The tension, however, was not great enough to cause a war. Though there were times when war seemed inevitable, always a period of calm would rebuild a temporary equilibrium between the two knocking heads. After only a short time, however, something else would surface causing the fear and tension to rise once more.
This sort of international fluctuation continued tearing at the nations and eventually provoked an interesting assortment of responses from different politicians.
Henry A. Wallace sympathized with the USSR and felt that Russia’s so called “hostility” was only retaliation to former abuse. In a letter he wrote to President Truman, Wallace related several different historical confrontations between Russia and other nations. He believed that Russia was a mistreated nation being tossed here and there amongst the many different world powers. It only seemed fair to Wallace that Russia should feel the need to build weapons like the atomic bomb and begin to form a large defensive force.
Though Henry A Wallace sympathized with the USSR, he did not condone the use of Atomic warfare. He believed such weaponry could only result in a bruised and battered land. According to him, atomic war would not address the problem of international conflict but would only make it worse.
Hitting at the heart of the issue, Wallace believed that world peace could only be achieved through America’s acceptance of the USSR, a mutual laying-down of certain weapons, and other forms of peaceful compromise. Once people understood that the world could thrive with coexisting, different political thought processes without the use of weapons of mass destruction; then international interaction could become a tranquil, functioning environment.
Wallace was making an important point that, at first, seems reasonable and effective. It would be wonderful if the world consisted of rational thinking, peaceful-minded people. International trade would be such a smoother process and so many devastating wars could be avoided.
But such a mindset would never pass the realm of theory. Humans are imperfect. They are not robots who, when commanded to do certain things, will always obey or listen. In an attempt to show a desire for peace, one nation could very easily lay down its weapons and take away the defenses it built. But another nation, full of humans that desire power and money, may just as easily utilize that opportunity to obliterate its enemy.
I tend to agree with an opposing view of this Cold War standoff between the US and USSR. Clark Clifford believed that Russia and its communist philosophy was a great danger to the United States and needed to be warily watched. The USSR was a large world power. It had men and weapons at its disposal and, as it made seeming compromises with other nations, was growing more powerful and more dangerous.
The Russians rationalized this massive armament and gaining of power by passing the blame to America. According to circulating “Kremlin propaganda” in Russia, Monopoly Capitalism threatened the world with war. In essence, this propaganda labeled America’s Ideology as an intimidation to the western hemisphere. In Clifford’s view, however, the USSR’s retaliation was a far greater threat than the so called dangerous Monopoly Capitalism of America. Russia’s foreign policy essentially prepared it for war against such main capitalist nations as America. This policy allowed for a great increase in its previous military strength which incorporated developing atomic weapons and guided missiles, gaining materials for biological warfare, training a strategic air force, and building submarines of great cruising range.
Clifford saw this threat and knew that it was only a matter of time before Russia used its recourses against America. He was adamantly against America laying down its defenses. The US could not just sit on its thumbs and let dogma like communism continue existing in the world. Ultimately, he knew, the USSR doctrine would either destroy or be destroyed. No amount of peace on America’s part would stop the damage.
I agree that America should have been well prepared for such a force as the USSR. Laying down weapons and living at peace with Russia would have been nice. But such an action was neither pliable nor logical. In a world of real hostility and little mercy where power, money, and paranoia overruled all rational action, being prepared for war and being wary of the enemy was the only way to survive. In theory, Wallace had a great idea, but, in practicality, Clifford had the best course of action.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
History Paper
The Southern defiance was determined to repel any civil rights the African Americans might attain after the Civil War. During this reconstruction period, Southerners increasingly persecuted former slaves. They used many forms of maltreatment including something known as lynching which was a brutal form of rogue governing in the Southern states. If a former slave attempted to do anything outside his rights as a second-class citizen, he would be convicted immediately of a heinous crime, usually rape, and would be burned, hung, or mutilated. It is frustrating to contemplate the African American’s predicament, and I definitely agree with the sentiments of certain journalists who wrote on such circumstances. No matter the justification, what Southerners did toward their fellow man was nothing less than criminal and illogical.
The excuses Southerners used to rationalize their behavior were astounding and
discouraging. According to Mary Church Terrell in her article on lynching, Southerners supposedly lynched African Americans to punish them for such ghastly crimes as rape. The statistics on rape in the United States during that time, however, did not come close to supporting the amount of lynching against former slaves.
Southerners also believed that those black people striving for equality were the very same rapists and murderers afflicting the American land. Mary went on to dispel that theory as well. According to her research, the educated, Northern, former slaves who strove for equality were not criminals. They were good members of society upholding the morals and laws of American society. It was the uneducated, oppressed black people in the south who primarily committed the crimes.
Southerners thirdly mistakenly stereotyped the whole African American race. They attributed the few horrific crimes committed by a very small fraction of the black population to all former slaves in the United States. According to Southerners, even the most moral, intelligent African American was not capable of hating rape or rejecting it as something acceptable.
Mary Church Terrell was right when she accused the Southerners of lying and murder. They were committing crimes in the name of justice. Instead of sharing power with African Americans, they attempted to put the former slaves in a second class position. By their acts of passionate hate, the Southerners destroyed moral and ethical boundaries and became, in essence, the kind of people they hated.
As I read an account of Samuel Petty’s lynching I grimaced at the general acceptance of the crowd. Even the young twelve-year-old children chased after the African American and participated in the gruesome lynching process. The whole town was involved. No one cared whether they were seen. According to a reporter from the Crisis, “no one attempted to hide their identity”. Everyone shamelessly beat, mutated, and burned Samuel Petty. Even the jury on the case was involved in the lynching.
This awful reality was a normal occurrence and acceptable practice during that time. It was a result of years of rationalization and indoctrination. One white male approved of it and passed that approval to his son who then passed it to his son. Because of this process, whole towns, like the one that lynched Samuel Petty, participated in what was essentially murder. No one was blamed or accused, and white families continued their lives.
These atrocious acts were immoral and rightfully frowned upon by such activists as Mary Church Terrell. In so many words, Mary made a great point. It would have been so much better if such indoctrination could have been stopped before it infected another generation. So many lives could have been saved and former slaves could have gained the freedom they rightfully deserved.
The excuses Southerners used to rationalize their behavior were astounding and
discouraging. According to Mary Church Terrell in her article on lynching, Southerners supposedly lynched African Americans to punish them for such ghastly crimes as rape. The statistics on rape in the United States during that time, however, did not come close to supporting the amount of lynching against former slaves.
Southerners also believed that those black people striving for equality were the very same rapists and murderers afflicting the American land. Mary went on to dispel that theory as well. According to her research, the educated, Northern, former slaves who strove for equality were not criminals. They were good members of society upholding the morals and laws of American society. It was the uneducated, oppressed black people in the south who primarily committed the crimes.
Southerners thirdly mistakenly stereotyped the whole African American race. They attributed the few horrific crimes committed by a very small fraction of the black population to all former slaves in the United States. According to Southerners, even the most moral, intelligent African American was not capable of hating rape or rejecting it as something acceptable.
Mary Church Terrell was right when she accused the Southerners of lying and murder. They were committing crimes in the name of justice. Instead of sharing power with African Americans, they attempted to put the former slaves in a second class position. By their acts of passionate hate, the Southerners destroyed moral and ethical boundaries and became, in essence, the kind of people they hated.
As I read an account of Samuel Petty’s lynching I grimaced at the general acceptance of the crowd. Even the young twelve-year-old children chased after the African American and participated in the gruesome lynching process. The whole town was involved. No one cared whether they were seen. According to a reporter from the Crisis, “no one attempted to hide their identity”. Everyone shamelessly beat, mutated, and burned Samuel Petty. Even the jury on the case was involved in the lynching.
This awful reality was a normal occurrence and acceptable practice during that time. It was a result of years of rationalization and indoctrination. One white male approved of it and passed that approval to his son who then passed it to his son. Because of this process, whole towns, like the one that lynched Samuel Petty, participated in what was essentially murder. No one was blamed or accused, and white families continued their lives.
These atrocious acts were immoral and rightfully frowned upon by such activists as Mary Church Terrell. In so many words, Mary made a great point. It would have been so much better if such indoctrination could have been stopped before it infected another generation. So many lives could have been saved and former slaves could have gained the freedom they rightfully deserved.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Chapter 2
Ryland moaned and focused on the room around him. Darkness surrounded every corner. No help there. Where was he? Something didn’t feel right. His ankles were in a great amount of pain and his head was about to explode. For some reason, all the blood had rushed to his head.
Both hands brushing across the wood floor, he realized that he was upside down. As he tried to kick his way out of ropes binding his ankles, he began to sway back and forth. His brown hair hung suspended downward.
What had happened? He was trying to remember the last thing he had seen. He remembered leaving school. He had walked through the ally past the rundown duplexes, through Baker’s Graveyard, and then into the new neighborhood towards the historic homes. He remembered some of the seniors coming up behind him. They had pushed him around a little and thrown his backpack into the bushes. There had been a serious discussion. He had been challenged to do something. What was it: old house; whispers in the dark? He had been terrified.
Then everything came back in a rush. He had been dared to go into the old Victorian home. Sweaty handed and shaking, he had walked into the house. He had heard a voice and had seen a figure. The figure had stepped into the hallway. He remembered feeling a sting on his arm. Then everything had gone black. Now he was hanging upside down helplessly, a perfect target.
All of the sudden uncertainty gave way to fear. The figure was somewhere in the house lurking, maybe even watching Ryland hanging disoriented in the dark. He tried more frantically to get out of the ropes. Swaying even more violently then before, he pushed against the floor to stabilize himself. Unfortunately, his left hand slipped and slid across the wood. He yelped in pain feeling a splinter dig into his flesh.
A floor board creaked in the corner and Ryland suddenly forgot the pain. “Who’s their,” he said. Silence ensued. “Please, say something!” He waited hoping that this was just some stupid, elaborate prank. The dark roomed remained silent and still. If this was a prank, he would never leave his house again. If it was real, well, he might not make it back to his house alive. Hanging in the dark, growing more tired by the minute, he wondered whether other young, helpless losers had been dared to go into this same house. Maybe he was only a high-school statistic, one of the young stupid percent whose gullibility had made him a great target for high-school jocks.
Another floorboard creaked. It groaned loud and long as if someone was leaning hard on the wood. In one last attempt to slip out of the bonds around his ankles, Ryland tried to pull himself up to grab the rope and loosen it. No luck. He fell back into his original hanging position cringing at the sudden sharp pain in his stomach. He remember the first day of high school, he had been given the choice of table tennis or PE. Out of pure practicality, he had picked table tennis. There was no way he could keep up in PE, at least, not with his body type, he remembered thinking. Now sore and unable to pull himself up, he wished he had picked PE.
Another sound from that same corner drew Ryland’s eyes away from where he thought his feet might be. He had a perfect view of that area in the room. Whoever, whatever it was crouching in the dark would not leave with out Ryland’s getting a glimpse. He waited, feeling the pressure growing in his scull. His eyes began to water and his hands began to tingle. Everything ached, he realized. Somehow, he had to do something to get away. Before long he would black out again. Probably for the last time.
Ryland pulled himself up an inch and let himself drop. The rope became tense and gave a little. His heart skipped a beat. He did this again and again. In a matter of minutes, he could feel his hair touching the ground. No doubt, the knot was almost completely undone. As he contemplated whether or not he should drop again, fearing that he might break his neck, the rope gave way altogether. He fell to the ground in a heap.
The sudden impact threw Ryland’s senses out the door. He tried to push himself off the ground but could not find the strength. His fingers slipped on the smooth wood surface and he went crashing down with another resounding THUD! Stars floated above his head. He gasped for breath. Rolling over onto his back he looked up at what was probably the ceiling. The blackness seemed to float around and he could hear his strained breathing.
“You can’t hide,”
The whisper sent shockwaves up Ryland’s spine, and Goosebumps across his arm. As strange as it seemed, the voice did not come from with in the room or, even, within the house. The sound originated inside his head.
“That’s right. I know what you are thinking.”
The voice cackled as it read Ryland’s deepest thoughts. When would the dizziness go away he wondered as he felt the whole house bend in towards him. If he were younger and believed in all of the fairytales, he might have thought the house was alive.
After what seemed like an eternity, Ryland was able to stand up and staggered towards the door way. But as he leaned in towards the wall to steady himself, he missed it altogether and almost fell flat on his face. Was it his imagination or had the wall moved? He moaned. It seemed as if the whole house was against him. Slipping through the opening of the door way he looked to his left. The corridor tapered off into complete darkness. Not an ounce of light revealed what lay beyond. Looking to his right, Ryland could just make out a dim light. The yellow glow illuminated a stair case and a large door. Freedom, he thought.
Was this really as easy as it seemed? Someone had taken the time to kidnap him and tie him up. Now he was going to walk out the door as if he had just come for a visit and was leaving? Ryland had been in high school long enough to realize that life wasn’t that easy. As he had learned to do some many times, he began to ask himself, What is the catch?
The answer was quickly manifest in the form of a scraping noise to Ryland’s left and a voice in his head. “The catch is simple,” the voice said. It seemed to understand his train of thought. He felt a sweat drop slide down his cheek. “Sadly,” the voice taunted, “You can escape, but only from your earthly body.” The scraping noise became louder.
Ryland took that as a hint and sprinted towards the front door. As he ran down the hall he passed a room glowing with light from a lamp. For just that second the whole world seemed to slow down. He looked into the room and could see an older man sitting in a recliner, eyes glued to a television screen. A bottle of beer, waded napkins, old newspapers and half eaten food lay on a table next to him. The floor appeared as dirty as the table. Old cloths covered the carpet. Piles of books lay in one corner of the room. Cardboard boxes lined the walls.
Ryland couldn’t remember seeing the light or the man earlier. But he did remembered the room. It had been covered with objects he had not been able to make out in the dark.
All of the sudden the world seemed to speed up again as he passed the room. Approaching the door, He grasped the door knob, twisting and pulling back as hard as he could. But it would not budge. He became more frantic by the moment and Looked over his shoulder. A figure step out of the shadows of the hallway and into the light. Ryland closed his eyes and tugged again.
“Nice try” the voice said sarcastically. “Now we are back to square one.” Ryland felt a strong arm grip his shoulder. "look into my eyes, so that you can know true fear." The voice was suddenly so much more menacing. Unable to avoide the temptation to look Ryland tilted his head upward but was suddenly stoped by another voice.
“Is anyone there?”
Ryland opened his eyes and noticed a man standing in the light. The same man had been in the lighted room just a second ago. His hair was scraggly and matted in some places. His glasses hung on the tip of his nose and were slightly crooked. His small, tight shirt hardly covered the belly that hung over his pants.
Ryland stood up noticing that his pursuer had vanished. “Sorry to bother you sir,” He said, walking towards the man, hoping for sanctuary from his tormenter. “My name is Ryland; I did not mean to trespass. I had no idea that anyone lived here.” He looked up into the man’s eyes.
The man did not even acknowledge Ryland’s existence. He shrugged his shoulders. “Must have been a cat,” he said turning and walking back into the lighted room.’
Ryland was left alone wondering what was happening to him.
Both hands brushing across the wood floor, he realized that he was upside down. As he tried to kick his way out of ropes binding his ankles, he began to sway back and forth. His brown hair hung suspended downward.
What had happened? He was trying to remember the last thing he had seen. He remembered leaving school. He had walked through the ally past the rundown duplexes, through Baker’s Graveyard, and then into the new neighborhood towards the historic homes. He remembered some of the seniors coming up behind him. They had pushed him around a little and thrown his backpack into the bushes. There had been a serious discussion. He had been challenged to do something. What was it: old house; whispers in the dark? He had been terrified.
Then everything came back in a rush. He had been dared to go into the old Victorian home. Sweaty handed and shaking, he had walked into the house. He had heard a voice and had seen a figure. The figure had stepped into the hallway. He remembered feeling a sting on his arm. Then everything had gone black. Now he was hanging upside down helplessly, a perfect target.
All of the sudden uncertainty gave way to fear. The figure was somewhere in the house lurking, maybe even watching Ryland hanging disoriented in the dark. He tried more frantically to get out of the ropes. Swaying even more violently then before, he pushed against the floor to stabilize himself. Unfortunately, his left hand slipped and slid across the wood. He yelped in pain feeling a splinter dig into his flesh.
A floor board creaked in the corner and Ryland suddenly forgot the pain. “Who’s their,” he said. Silence ensued. “Please, say something!” He waited hoping that this was just some stupid, elaborate prank. The dark roomed remained silent and still. If this was a prank, he would never leave his house again. If it was real, well, he might not make it back to his house alive. Hanging in the dark, growing more tired by the minute, he wondered whether other young, helpless losers had been dared to go into this same house. Maybe he was only a high-school statistic, one of the young stupid percent whose gullibility had made him a great target for high-school jocks.
Another floorboard creaked. It groaned loud and long as if someone was leaning hard on the wood. In one last attempt to slip out of the bonds around his ankles, Ryland tried to pull himself up to grab the rope and loosen it. No luck. He fell back into his original hanging position cringing at the sudden sharp pain in his stomach. He remember the first day of high school, he had been given the choice of table tennis or PE. Out of pure practicality, he had picked table tennis. There was no way he could keep up in PE, at least, not with his body type, he remembered thinking. Now sore and unable to pull himself up, he wished he had picked PE.
Another sound from that same corner drew Ryland’s eyes away from where he thought his feet might be. He had a perfect view of that area in the room. Whoever, whatever it was crouching in the dark would not leave with out Ryland’s getting a glimpse. He waited, feeling the pressure growing in his scull. His eyes began to water and his hands began to tingle. Everything ached, he realized. Somehow, he had to do something to get away. Before long he would black out again. Probably for the last time.
Ryland pulled himself up an inch and let himself drop. The rope became tense and gave a little. His heart skipped a beat. He did this again and again. In a matter of minutes, he could feel his hair touching the ground. No doubt, the knot was almost completely undone. As he contemplated whether or not he should drop again, fearing that he might break his neck, the rope gave way altogether. He fell to the ground in a heap.
The sudden impact threw Ryland’s senses out the door. He tried to push himself off the ground but could not find the strength. His fingers slipped on the smooth wood surface and he went crashing down with another resounding THUD! Stars floated above his head. He gasped for breath. Rolling over onto his back he looked up at what was probably the ceiling. The blackness seemed to float around and he could hear his strained breathing.
“You can’t hide,”
The whisper sent shockwaves up Ryland’s spine, and Goosebumps across his arm. As strange as it seemed, the voice did not come from with in the room or, even, within the house. The sound originated inside his head.
“That’s right. I know what you are thinking.”
The voice cackled as it read Ryland’s deepest thoughts. When would the dizziness go away he wondered as he felt the whole house bend in towards him. If he were younger and believed in all of the fairytales, he might have thought the house was alive.
After what seemed like an eternity, Ryland was able to stand up and staggered towards the door way. But as he leaned in towards the wall to steady himself, he missed it altogether and almost fell flat on his face. Was it his imagination or had the wall moved? He moaned. It seemed as if the whole house was against him. Slipping through the opening of the door way he looked to his left. The corridor tapered off into complete darkness. Not an ounce of light revealed what lay beyond. Looking to his right, Ryland could just make out a dim light. The yellow glow illuminated a stair case and a large door. Freedom, he thought.
Was this really as easy as it seemed? Someone had taken the time to kidnap him and tie him up. Now he was going to walk out the door as if he had just come for a visit and was leaving? Ryland had been in high school long enough to realize that life wasn’t that easy. As he had learned to do some many times, he began to ask himself, What is the catch?
The answer was quickly manifest in the form of a scraping noise to Ryland’s left and a voice in his head. “The catch is simple,” the voice said. It seemed to understand his train of thought. He felt a sweat drop slide down his cheek. “Sadly,” the voice taunted, “You can escape, but only from your earthly body.” The scraping noise became louder.
Ryland took that as a hint and sprinted towards the front door. As he ran down the hall he passed a room glowing with light from a lamp. For just that second the whole world seemed to slow down. He looked into the room and could see an older man sitting in a recliner, eyes glued to a television screen. A bottle of beer, waded napkins, old newspapers and half eaten food lay on a table next to him. The floor appeared as dirty as the table. Old cloths covered the carpet. Piles of books lay in one corner of the room. Cardboard boxes lined the walls.
Ryland couldn’t remember seeing the light or the man earlier. But he did remembered the room. It had been covered with objects he had not been able to make out in the dark.
All of the sudden the world seemed to speed up again as he passed the room. Approaching the door, He grasped the door knob, twisting and pulling back as hard as he could. But it would not budge. He became more frantic by the moment and Looked over his shoulder. A figure step out of the shadows of the hallway and into the light. Ryland closed his eyes and tugged again.
“Nice try” the voice said sarcastically. “Now we are back to square one.” Ryland felt a strong arm grip his shoulder. "look into my eyes, so that you can know true fear." The voice was suddenly so much more menacing. Unable to avoide the temptation to look Ryland tilted his head upward but was suddenly stoped by another voice.
“Is anyone there?”
Ryland opened his eyes and noticed a man standing in the light. The same man had been in the lighted room just a second ago. His hair was scraggly and matted in some places. His glasses hung on the tip of his nose and were slightly crooked. His small, tight shirt hardly covered the belly that hung over his pants.
Ryland stood up noticing that his pursuer had vanished. “Sorry to bother you sir,” He said, walking towards the man, hoping for sanctuary from his tormenter. “My name is Ryland; I did not mean to trespass. I had no idea that anyone lived here.” He looked up into the man’s eyes.
The man did not even acknowledge Ryland’s existence. He shrugged his shoulders. “Must have been a cat,” he said turning and walking back into the lighted room.’
Ryland was left alone wondering what was happening to him.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Chapter 1
“Not much for introductions are you?”
“Nah, I do what needs be done and leave the formalities to you white collar folks.”
“Well, if it suits you fine, I’ll…”
Joe pressed white knuckled fingers against his temple. His head was pounding as fast as his racing heart. The smoky room did not help ease the pain, and the unnoticed television show with its almost inaudible voices was only a blaring obnoxious light in the dark room.
Unable to focus on the T.V. screen or the wall or anything around him, he slapped at the end table. Head bent down, he felt along the scratched wood finally grasping a hold of a bottle. Brown liquid sloshed around within the glass as he flipped it up and gulped almost all of it down. He sighed. It burned. But it dulled the pain.
He rubbed his temple again pushing into the skin. A centralized pain formed just above his eye. It grew in intensity until the dull throbbing of the head ache subsided. The relief was short lived. As he stopped rubbing his forehead, the aching began again. He groaned loudly wishing for a quick painless death, which did not come.
Shadows stretched across the wall behind him, their eeriness a reminder of his past unease. Floor boards seemed to creak overhead where the attic, filled with old artifacts from before the First World War, lay desolate and uninhabited; except for the rats, of course. Joe had heard them scampering around plenty of restless nights.
In the midst of the pain, Joe stood up and stumbled to the first wall he could find. He leaned against the smooth structure finding comfort in its stability.
“I’m a mess,” he said through clenched teeth. He inched his way along the wall and limped into the kitchen wincing as he put weight on his sleeping leg. As he grabbed hold of the refrigerator and opened the door, he squinted at the bright light. It took a moment for his pupils to contract before he could inspect the contents within the fridge. As if to speed him on, his stomach began to growl and his hands began to shake. “Come on, where are you.” He looked around for a moment. “There,” he grabbed a bag of bread, some lunch meat, and a bottle of mayonnaise.
Five minutes later, he plopped back down into the chair and began chewing on his rubbery concoction. Mayonnaise oozed onto his fingers as he tried to tear the bread with his teeth. Grabbing the remote, he turned up the volume.
On the screen, a doctor was inspecting a young man’s arm. The young man’s fingers were swollen and very blue veins showed through his skin. Neither person looked overjoyed. “It looks like we might have to cut off your arm,” the doctor was saying, “You are not getting sufficient oxygen to the muscles,” He began pressing around the swollen hand.
Joe could hardly swallow his food and quickly changed the channel. Dora the Explorer popped up on Qubo. The animated girl was running with Boots across an old rickety bridge. Much better Joe thought, flipping the channel again. He did this again and again until the obvious truth came as an epiphany to him. The Television had nothing vaguely interesting to offer at the moment.
Flipping the T.V. off, he sat in silence and gulped down the last bit of sandwich. He rubbed his still-throbbing head. Food hadn’t help. The migraine was still there. The medicine cabinet had been exhausted of its recourses. Cold wet rags had lost their magical powers, and no amount of distraction could stop the pain. Alone in the dark room, listening to the sounds of inconspicuous forces, he wondered how long his head would pound. And of Course, wondering didn’t help either.
How long had it been since he had breathed. How long had it been since he had felt the warmth of a fire, or smelled wet spring grass? How long had it been since his mind had been free to think normal human thoughts, not plagued by paranoid feelings and dark concepts. A very long time, he guessed. It had to be the house. In his rationalizing, he always came back to the house. Old, creepy, filled with dark secrets he was happy not knowing, the house had an evil history to it. People had died there. Some had been young and innocent. Others had not.
The large Victorian-like home had been around since the early eighteen-hundreds. Wheat, cotton, and tobacco fields had once grown around the house where phone lines and stop signs now stood. Slaves by the hundreds had worked hard within those fields. They had been beaten for the smallest offences, and had huddled in their hovels at night only staying alive by the comfort of family and other loved ones.
During the civil war, deserters had hidden away in the house. Afraid for their safety, they had cringed and waited, hoping their captains would not find them. Some had been fatally wounded and had bled to death. Joe looked down at the hard wood floor. Probably died on this very floor, he thought with a shudder.
Not much later, certain noble, revolutionaries had hidden runaway slaves within the tunnels that lay underneath the house. The structure, abandoned and overlooked by the state during that time, had been a perfect hiding place for the poor slaves. Now its old deteriorating walls, warped floor boards, and rain weathered exterior housed a lonely delusional man and his poor excuse for possessions.
Joe chuckled to himself and cringed again as pain shot through his head and into his neck. He was definitely not the most intriguing thing that had happened to the house. But, He thought, that was a good thing. He was very happy with a safe, uneventful life. All he really wanted was his T.V. and enough lunch meat to last him until the turn of the century.
Thoughts of the past running through his head, he leaned back against the chair and imagined himself in thirty years. He would be well ahead of his mid-life crisis by then. The old house would probably still be standing and he would be their, like a loyal dog, clutching onto the old structure waiting for it to toppled over or completely decayed from the elements.
As his imagination ran through different scenarios, his eyes became heavier and heavier. All of the sudden he was aware of a clock ticking somewhere in the house. The sound was somewhat mesmerizing adding lead weights to his eyelids and dulling his already muggy brain. Minutes ticked by and space and time seemed to fade out of his awareness until his head dropped onto his should. His hand went limp and slid off of the arm rest.
On the edge of awareness and leaning dangerously toward total obliviousness, He heard someone or something whisper into his ear. “Hmmm,” Joe mumbled barely processing the almost inaudible sound.
“Come out. Show yourself and face me like a man,” The voice was so soft that Joe passed it off as part of a dream.
“Who…” he mumbled, but couldn’t finish the sentence. As he dropped off the edge of consciousness, a figure walked out of the shadows and leaned against a doorway. He chuckled softly to himself and watched Joe snoring away in the rocking chair. “Sleep tight,” the voice said, hoarse and menacing. “I have a lot in store for you.” He laughed and slipped back into the darkness, his cackle echoing eerily throughout the house.
“Nah, I do what needs be done and leave the formalities to you white collar folks.”
“Well, if it suits you fine, I’ll…”
Joe pressed white knuckled fingers against his temple. His head was pounding as fast as his racing heart. The smoky room did not help ease the pain, and the unnoticed television show with its almost inaudible voices was only a blaring obnoxious light in the dark room.
Unable to focus on the T.V. screen or the wall or anything around him, he slapped at the end table. Head bent down, he felt along the scratched wood finally grasping a hold of a bottle. Brown liquid sloshed around within the glass as he flipped it up and gulped almost all of it down. He sighed. It burned. But it dulled the pain.
He rubbed his temple again pushing into the skin. A centralized pain formed just above his eye. It grew in intensity until the dull throbbing of the head ache subsided. The relief was short lived. As he stopped rubbing his forehead, the aching began again. He groaned loudly wishing for a quick painless death, which did not come.
Shadows stretched across the wall behind him, their eeriness a reminder of his past unease. Floor boards seemed to creak overhead where the attic, filled with old artifacts from before the First World War, lay desolate and uninhabited; except for the rats, of course. Joe had heard them scampering around plenty of restless nights.
In the midst of the pain, Joe stood up and stumbled to the first wall he could find. He leaned against the smooth structure finding comfort in its stability.
“I’m a mess,” he said through clenched teeth. He inched his way along the wall and limped into the kitchen wincing as he put weight on his sleeping leg. As he grabbed hold of the refrigerator and opened the door, he squinted at the bright light. It took a moment for his pupils to contract before he could inspect the contents within the fridge. As if to speed him on, his stomach began to growl and his hands began to shake. “Come on, where are you.” He looked around for a moment. “There,” he grabbed a bag of bread, some lunch meat, and a bottle of mayonnaise.
Five minutes later, he plopped back down into the chair and began chewing on his rubbery concoction. Mayonnaise oozed onto his fingers as he tried to tear the bread with his teeth. Grabbing the remote, he turned up the volume.
On the screen, a doctor was inspecting a young man’s arm. The young man’s fingers were swollen and very blue veins showed through his skin. Neither person looked overjoyed. “It looks like we might have to cut off your arm,” the doctor was saying, “You are not getting sufficient oxygen to the muscles,” He began pressing around the swollen hand.
Joe could hardly swallow his food and quickly changed the channel. Dora the Explorer popped up on Qubo. The animated girl was running with Boots across an old rickety bridge. Much better Joe thought, flipping the channel again. He did this again and again until the obvious truth came as an epiphany to him. The Television had nothing vaguely interesting to offer at the moment.
Flipping the T.V. off, he sat in silence and gulped down the last bit of sandwich. He rubbed his still-throbbing head. Food hadn’t help. The migraine was still there. The medicine cabinet had been exhausted of its recourses. Cold wet rags had lost their magical powers, and no amount of distraction could stop the pain. Alone in the dark room, listening to the sounds of inconspicuous forces, he wondered how long his head would pound. And of Course, wondering didn’t help either.
How long had it been since he had breathed. How long had it been since he had felt the warmth of a fire, or smelled wet spring grass? How long had it been since his mind had been free to think normal human thoughts, not plagued by paranoid feelings and dark concepts. A very long time, he guessed. It had to be the house. In his rationalizing, he always came back to the house. Old, creepy, filled with dark secrets he was happy not knowing, the house had an evil history to it. People had died there. Some had been young and innocent. Others had not.
The large Victorian-like home had been around since the early eighteen-hundreds. Wheat, cotton, and tobacco fields had once grown around the house where phone lines and stop signs now stood. Slaves by the hundreds had worked hard within those fields. They had been beaten for the smallest offences, and had huddled in their hovels at night only staying alive by the comfort of family and other loved ones.
During the civil war, deserters had hidden away in the house. Afraid for their safety, they had cringed and waited, hoping their captains would not find them. Some had been fatally wounded and had bled to death. Joe looked down at the hard wood floor. Probably died on this very floor, he thought with a shudder.
Not much later, certain noble, revolutionaries had hidden runaway slaves within the tunnels that lay underneath the house. The structure, abandoned and overlooked by the state during that time, had been a perfect hiding place for the poor slaves. Now its old deteriorating walls, warped floor boards, and rain weathered exterior housed a lonely delusional man and his poor excuse for possessions.
Joe chuckled to himself and cringed again as pain shot through his head and into his neck. He was definitely not the most intriguing thing that had happened to the house. But, He thought, that was a good thing. He was very happy with a safe, uneventful life. All he really wanted was his T.V. and enough lunch meat to last him until the turn of the century.
Thoughts of the past running through his head, he leaned back against the chair and imagined himself in thirty years. He would be well ahead of his mid-life crisis by then. The old house would probably still be standing and he would be their, like a loyal dog, clutching onto the old structure waiting for it to toppled over or completely decayed from the elements.
As his imagination ran through different scenarios, his eyes became heavier and heavier. All of the sudden he was aware of a clock ticking somewhere in the house. The sound was somewhat mesmerizing adding lead weights to his eyelids and dulling his already muggy brain. Minutes ticked by and space and time seemed to fade out of his awareness until his head dropped onto his should. His hand went limp and slid off of the arm rest.
On the edge of awareness and leaning dangerously toward total obliviousness, He heard someone or something whisper into his ear. “Hmmm,” Joe mumbled barely processing the almost inaudible sound.
“Come out. Show yourself and face me like a man,” The voice was so soft that Joe passed it off as part of a dream.
“Who…” he mumbled, but couldn’t finish the sentence. As he dropped off the edge of consciousness, a figure walked out of the shadows and leaned against a doorway. He chuckled softly to himself and watched Joe snoring away in the rocking chair. “Sleep tight,” the voice said, hoarse and menacing. “I have a lot in store for you.” He laughed and slipped back into the darkness, his cackle echoing eerily throughout the house.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Prologue
He knelt down and brushed his finger across the wood noticing wetness on the floor. Looking up he saw the source. A wet spot had formed on the ceiling where rain water had gathered and deteriorated the dry wall. The water dripped slowly but persistently, a rhythmic tap echoing through the abandoned hallway.
Ryland was fascinated as he stretched out and popped his back. The smooth green windbreaker rustled loudly in the void. Throwing a hand into his pocket he continued to explore the ancient structure, running his right hand along the carved walls craning his neck to get a glimpse at the writing on the ceiling.
The further he walked past old useless furniture and menacing dark shadows the more uneasy he became. There was stillness about him. Deeper and quieter then ever before, the atmosphere seemed foreboding and Ryland could sense it. Somewhere off in the distance evil lurked waiting for its prey.
A sound echoed around the interior. It had come from one of the dark rooms adjacent to the hallway. A note of skepticism pulsed through Ryland’s mind for a second or two. Just a sound, he laughed nervously to himself, nothing to worry about. He continued more slowly this time forgetting about the fascinating old furniture. His resolve was beginning to wane.
All he had to do was walk through the hallway and out the back door. Easy enough, if it weren’t for the creaking floor boards, random noises, and oddly shaped shadows. Another echo emitted out of the darkness. “Shoot!” Ryland jumped. His heart was racing and he fought to keep control over his imagination.
What had he been thinking? He stepped over a warped floorboard. The senior jocks had dared him to walk into the old structure. “Lot’s of the guys from school do it,” they had said. But their shifting eyes and non-convincing tone spoke otherwise. He was sure they themselves had never stepped foot on the property. He remembered trying to stop his hands from shaking as he had brushed some nervous sweat from his brow. After gaining control of the involuntary movement in his hands and legs, he had nodded at the older boys with fake confidence. Very fake. Ryland smiled grimly to himself. He had been a wreck. And now, ten minutes later, here he was jumping nervously at every little abnormality.
He stood up a little taller as he thought of the scornful smiles on the Jocks’ faces. They probably thought he’d pee his pants. He winced. That wasn’t far from the truth. There had been no accidents yet, but the night wasn’t over. Reserves of anger from years of ridicule and being looked down upon suddenly unleashed. What did those boys know about him? That he was easy to throw into a trash can. That he couldn’t fight back when they stole his money or held him against his locker. They couldn’t possibly make judgments about him and say he was stupid, weird, and terrified of everything. They didn’t know Ryland H Edward II. He’d show them. He would make his dead mother and distant father proud.
“Come out,” He said a little above a whisper. “Show yourself and face me like a man.” His voice was becoming louder and more confident. As he passed one of the dark rooms there was a subtle blur of motion. The movement was so subtle, Ryland hardly noticed it through the security he had found in his anger. “I’ll give you to the count of three,” he dared, taunting the darkness. “One, two, thr…” before he could finish the count, a voice laughed hysterically from another of the rooms followed by the “tip” “tap” of shoes on hard wood. Ryland nearly jumped out of skin, but dared not turn around. Instead, he sucked up against one of the walls and slid to a crouching position hugging his knees to his chest. “Oh, please no, Oh, please no” his said over and over again. A cold chill ran through his body and he thought he heard someone whisper something close by.
Maybe if he closed his eyes, the laughing creature wouldn’t notice him he thought. The five-year-old mentality, though useless, was somewhat comforting.
After what seemed like an eternity, Ryland opened his eyes. As he stared down at the old weathered floorboards afraid to look up, the foot steps came closer. Louder and louder, they approached him until…silence. The same unbearable, deep silence hung over the abandoned house like stillness before the storm. Something waited, Ryland knew. It was poised ready to pounce any second on the young boy.
Not quite paralyzed by fear, he lifted his head focusing on one of the empty door ways. The footsteps had been coming from that general direction. His eyes began to refocus in the dark. For a few breathless seconds he could only make out dark blotches and a few shapes. Then as the shapes became distinguishable objects, he noticed it. Something protruded slightly from the door way. He was sure it hadn’t been there before. At first it looked like a box lying on the floor. But as his eyes gathered in more light particles he recognized, in horror, what he was looking at.
There was whisper, a chuckle, and then another foot step as a large black boot penetrated the empty space of the door way landing only six feet from Ryland’s cowering body. “Welcome, Ryland” the voice was hoarse and menacing. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Ryland was fascinated as he stretched out and popped his back. The smooth green windbreaker rustled loudly in the void. Throwing a hand into his pocket he continued to explore the ancient structure, running his right hand along the carved walls craning his neck to get a glimpse at the writing on the ceiling.
The further he walked past old useless furniture and menacing dark shadows the more uneasy he became. There was stillness about him. Deeper and quieter then ever before, the atmosphere seemed foreboding and Ryland could sense it. Somewhere off in the distance evil lurked waiting for its prey.
A sound echoed around the interior. It had come from one of the dark rooms adjacent to the hallway. A note of skepticism pulsed through Ryland’s mind for a second or two. Just a sound, he laughed nervously to himself, nothing to worry about. He continued more slowly this time forgetting about the fascinating old furniture. His resolve was beginning to wane.
All he had to do was walk through the hallway and out the back door. Easy enough, if it weren’t for the creaking floor boards, random noises, and oddly shaped shadows. Another echo emitted out of the darkness. “Shoot!” Ryland jumped. His heart was racing and he fought to keep control over his imagination.
What had he been thinking? He stepped over a warped floorboard. The senior jocks had dared him to walk into the old structure. “Lot’s of the guys from school do it,” they had said. But their shifting eyes and non-convincing tone spoke otherwise. He was sure they themselves had never stepped foot on the property. He remembered trying to stop his hands from shaking as he had brushed some nervous sweat from his brow. After gaining control of the involuntary movement in his hands and legs, he had nodded at the older boys with fake confidence. Very fake. Ryland smiled grimly to himself. He had been a wreck. And now, ten minutes later, here he was jumping nervously at every little abnormality.
He stood up a little taller as he thought of the scornful smiles on the Jocks’ faces. They probably thought he’d pee his pants. He winced. That wasn’t far from the truth. There had been no accidents yet, but the night wasn’t over. Reserves of anger from years of ridicule and being looked down upon suddenly unleashed. What did those boys know about him? That he was easy to throw into a trash can. That he couldn’t fight back when they stole his money or held him against his locker. They couldn’t possibly make judgments about him and say he was stupid, weird, and terrified of everything. They didn’t know Ryland H Edward II. He’d show them. He would make his dead mother and distant father proud.
“Come out,” He said a little above a whisper. “Show yourself and face me like a man.” His voice was becoming louder and more confident. As he passed one of the dark rooms there was a subtle blur of motion. The movement was so subtle, Ryland hardly noticed it through the security he had found in his anger. “I’ll give you to the count of three,” he dared, taunting the darkness. “One, two, thr…” before he could finish the count, a voice laughed hysterically from another of the rooms followed by the “tip” “tap” of shoes on hard wood. Ryland nearly jumped out of skin, but dared not turn around. Instead, he sucked up against one of the walls and slid to a crouching position hugging his knees to his chest. “Oh, please no, Oh, please no” his said over and over again. A cold chill ran through his body and he thought he heard someone whisper something close by.
Maybe if he closed his eyes, the laughing creature wouldn’t notice him he thought. The five-year-old mentality, though useless, was somewhat comforting.
After what seemed like an eternity, Ryland opened his eyes. As he stared down at the old weathered floorboards afraid to look up, the foot steps came closer. Louder and louder, they approached him until…silence. The same unbearable, deep silence hung over the abandoned house like stillness before the storm. Something waited, Ryland knew. It was poised ready to pounce any second on the young boy.
Not quite paralyzed by fear, he lifted his head focusing on one of the empty door ways. The footsteps had been coming from that general direction. His eyes began to refocus in the dark. For a few breathless seconds he could only make out dark blotches and a few shapes. Then as the shapes became distinguishable objects, he noticed it. Something protruded slightly from the door way. He was sure it hadn’t been there before. At first it looked like a box lying on the floor. But as his eyes gathered in more light particles he recognized, in horror, what he was looking at.
There was whisper, a chuckle, and then another foot step as a large black boot penetrated the empty space of the door way landing only six feet from Ryland’s cowering body. “Welcome, Ryland” the voice was hoarse and menacing. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Monday, October 17, 2011
A Quick, Cheap Metaphor
My life is like a church sanctuary. And I don’t mean this as a spiritual illustration. The picture of a church sanctuary just happens to pop up in my head as I box life up into this quick, cheap metaphor.
My life is like a church sanctuary. It is 3:00 P.M. Sunday afternoon and the pews are filled to a bursting point with people. Up on stage dressed in Sunday’s best, a red-haired chipper, high-energy lady leads the afternoon events. Nervous students sit in their pews clutching the arm rests or tapping their shaking toes against the ground. In their hands, music books shake as much as their toes.
Outside, a beautiful Sunday afternoon follows the movements of the sun waiting for its queue to fall asleep when the large, orange orb drops below the horizon. Meanwhile, a music recital is under way. Each student can’t enjoy the cool spring afternoon past the old sanctuary walls. They can’t even see through the barriers they built around themselves. They are in a dark dreadful tunnel. At the end of the tunnel lays, not a light, but a black grand piano. It taunts them to no end.
When the timer clicks zero after a beautiful Sonatina; when life consist of a few more seconds; when unnatural, unsettling quietness hangs in the air only disrupted by tiny footsteps down hardwood stairs, the long awaited moment arrives. No one could ever hope for that moment, especially the poor student standing up for his turn at the dreaded piano. But the moment is inevitable, mandatory and steadfast.
The student will stand up. He had prepared too many days in advance for this. The days had been long, prolonging the dreaded moment. He lays the music on the bench and looks at it longingly as he leaves it behind. Though he had memorized the song several weeks before the recital, the sheet music is soothing, available if things went terribly wrong.
The student will walk out off the comfortable pew into the isle. Now he is exposed for every one to see. They look around with glaring eyes. “You will fail,” they say, “We are waiting for you to fail”. The poor student looks back at his pew; his home, the sanctuary within a sanctuary, and walks further away into the jaws of hopelessness, failure and condemnation. Up the stairs through the tunnel to the piano, his footsteps echo around the room. Everyone is so, so quiet. Are they breathing? Are they alive? Can they see through his church cloths to the racing heart underneath? He sits upon that bench and waits. The seconds tick by. Like hours, they drag on until the moment can’t wait any longer. His little child fingers rest on the piano for one last jolt of the clock hand and then he plays.
Time becomes a thing of the past. For those few moments nothing exists but the piano and his dancing fingers. A rhythm and a beautiful harmony of chords and notes take the place of minutes and seconds. The melody rings around the suddenly enchanted chamber. And then as quickly as it began the moment is over. The last chord is played and the audience claps. The young boy smiles, bows sloppily and quickly runs to his sanctuary.
My life is like a church sanctuary. I am that boy waiting in the pew. Like a prisoner about to be executed, I wait with shaking hands. The pew is my home, my family, friends, and comfortable hang outs. It represents the familiar things in life where I feel safe. The dreaded tunnel is only an illusion I create for myself. It is a barricade between me and the “other” unfamiliar parts of my life. At the end of that tunnel are the things I need to do, the mandatory, inevitable, steadfast priorities. Outside of the pew is my journey towards those things I dread most.
Many times I have taken that journey away from the pew. All the while I could hear the taunts of failure. As real as the tunnel I had created for myself, the taunts impeded my voyage to do those hard things outside of my comfort zone.
But always, when the moment came, the one I had imagined in horror for so many days and had dreaded to the point of exhaustion, everything worked out. I played my piece on the piano, the seemingly ravenous crowed clapped as reality slapped me in the face for my prideful fear, and I ran safely back to the haven content from accomplishment. Over and over again I have done this. Even as I write these words at midnight on October the 17th, I sit in my pew, awaiting the next hard inevitable thing. My hands shake as I see it coming. I clutch the pew arm rests until my knuckles turn white and my toes tap nervously against the hard word floor.
Then I hear the footsteps…
My life is like a church sanctuary. It is 3:00 P.M. Sunday afternoon and the pews are filled to a bursting point with people. Up on stage dressed in Sunday’s best, a red-haired chipper, high-energy lady leads the afternoon events. Nervous students sit in their pews clutching the arm rests or tapping their shaking toes against the ground. In their hands, music books shake as much as their toes.
Outside, a beautiful Sunday afternoon follows the movements of the sun waiting for its queue to fall asleep when the large, orange orb drops below the horizon. Meanwhile, a music recital is under way. Each student can’t enjoy the cool spring afternoon past the old sanctuary walls. They can’t even see through the barriers they built around themselves. They are in a dark dreadful tunnel. At the end of the tunnel lays, not a light, but a black grand piano. It taunts them to no end.
When the timer clicks zero after a beautiful Sonatina; when life consist of a few more seconds; when unnatural, unsettling quietness hangs in the air only disrupted by tiny footsteps down hardwood stairs, the long awaited moment arrives. No one could ever hope for that moment, especially the poor student standing up for his turn at the dreaded piano. But the moment is inevitable, mandatory and steadfast.
The student will stand up. He had prepared too many days in advance for this. The days had been long, prolonging the dreaded moment. He lays the music on the bench and looks at it longingly as he leaves it behind. Though he had memorized the song several weeks before the recital, the sheet music is soothing, available if things went terribly wrong.
The student will walk out off the comfortable pew into the isle. Now he is exposed for every one to see. They look around with glaring eyes. “You will fail,” they say, “We are waiting for you to fail”. The poor student looks back at his pew; his home, the sanctuary within a sanctuary, and walks further away into the jaws of hopelessness, failure and condemnation. Up the stairs through the tunnel to the piano, his footsteps echo around the room. Everyone is so, so quiet. Are they breathing? Are they alive? Can they see through his church cloths to the racing heart underneath? He sits upon that bench and waits. The seconds tick by. Like hours, they drag on until the moment can’t wait any longer. His little child fingers rest on the piano for one last jolt of the clock hand and then he plays.
Time becomes a thing of the past. For those few moments nothing exists but the piano and his dancing fingers. A rhythm and a beautiful harmony of chords and notes take the place of minutes and seconds. The melody rings around the suddenly enchanted chamber. And then as quickly as it began the moment is over. The last chord is played and the audience claps. The young boy smiles, bows sloppily and quickly runs to his sanctuary.
My life is like a church sanctuary. I am that boy waiting in the pew. Like a prisoner about to be executed, I wait with shaking hands. The pew is my home, my family, friends, and comfortable hang outs. It represents the familiar things in life where I feel safe. The dreaded tunnel is only an illusion I create for myself. It is a barricade between me and the “other” unfamiliar parts of my life. At the end of that tunnel are the things I need to do, the mandatory, inevitable, steadfast priorities. Outside of the pew is my journey towards those things I dread most.
Many times I have taken that journey away from the pew. All the while I could hear the taunts of failure. As real as the tunnel I had created for myself, the taunts impeded my voyage to do those hard things outside of my comfort zone.
But always, when the moment came, the one I had imagined in horror for so many days and had dreaded to the point of exhaustion, everything worked out. I played my piece on the piano, the seemingly ravenous crowed clapped as reality slapped me in the face for my prideful fear, and I ran safely back to the haven content from accomplishment. Over and over again I have done this. Even as I write these words at midnight on October the 17th, I sit in my pew, awaiting the next hard inevitable thing. My hands shake as I see it coming. I clutch the pew arm rests until my knuckles turn white and my toes tap nervously against the hard word floor.
Then I hear the footsteps…
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