ANNIE WILLIAMS AND OLORUN SMITH

Annie Williams

ANNIE

Annie walked in silence along the street until she was noticed by Officer Ted Darling…

When you are a security guard you see a lot of unusual and interesting people in your duties. A particular person at any particular time may or may not grab your interest, and in as much as guards are trained to watch for special points of interest, one person scuffling along a sidewalk on North Theresa Avenue near Washington Street kept attracting my attention; not so much as that he or she may be involved in some criminal activity, but because of their physical condition. I first noticed this individual bent over and crouched against an alley wall, and my thought at that point was that this person was drunk and intoxicated to the point of incapacity. The person made a weak wave to me with a hand, and I sloughed that movement off as a hobo that probably would be moving on in short order.

After a few minutes of patrolling the vehicles lined up and down an adjoining street, my view again came in contact with this person, who now had moved onto the sidewalk near the apartment building, and I could plainly see it was an elderly black person that was having great difficulty walking, had a metal cane for support, huddled beneath a rather large trench coat that hung sloppily over a misshapen frame. The person obviously was injured and possibly in pain.

I continued to watch on each additional trip past that point, and noted that this person was handicapped, made many encumbered steps, was bent almost at a seventy degree angle from the hip and could only move a few inches at a time. The person would stop, rest, and then hobble a little further in a desired direction, and repeat that sequence over and over. I recall the words ‘My God!’ coming to mind. The next trip this person appeared to be heading my way, but changed course and went back towards Washington Avenue. ‘This is not right,’ I said to myself, ‘I better see if help is needed.’

I slowly walked towards the person whose head seemed completely hidden beneath the collar of the coat as I approached from the rear.

‘Hello, do you need some help?’ I asked as politely as I could. In tight little increments of movement a head began to rise and the body turning artificially to allow an African-American lady’s face to arise, reminding me strangely of a turtle’s head coming out of its shell to look around, and two large brown eyes in the middle of a face, I swear, resembled ‘ET,’ the extra-terrestrial, in Steven Spielberg’s movie: all the wisdom, pain, longing of a lifetime written there. She was mustering strength to talk, one foot shuffled ahead of the other finding footing in her worn boots. Then she seemed prepared to speak:

‘Yes, no, ah….’ she appeared at a loss for words, words that sounded weak and unsure. ‘I ….. I’m just walking…. .’ And barely at that, I thought. We stared at each other for a minute or so, her with both hands cradling the top of the cane, looking for the entire world like George Steven’s Yoda movie character, but a Yoda that was seriously injured.

‘Are you in pain?’ I asked. I could see her eyes were matted by the cold weather and the tears that continued to wet her face. Her mind was dulled by age, but she still was active in searching for words, lips nervously moving to form expression.

‘Yes,’ she barely spoke audibly, ‘I…I….walk…walk for exercise.’
‘Does it help, I mean the pain?’ She nodded slowly.

‘How long have you had this condition?’

She gave a weak laugh, ‘Long time, now…. .’ She would glance up briefly as she spoke and then glance down at the sidewalk and remain gazing at the concrete. I thought for a moment.
Her withered and crippled hand slowly crept into her coat pocket and, grasped in a mangled fist, she brought out a wrinkled and dirty page of paper; Annie painfully placed it into my palm and folded my fingers over it as best her aged hand could. She again attempted a weak smile.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked. She again gave a weak laugh.

She lifted her head and this time gave me a strong, soul–searching look from two gorgeously bulbous and pitifully sad eyes: ‘Annie!’ She expressed it almost defiantly as if a different plateau of relationship had been reached. I smiled back at her.

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Annie Image

‘My name is Ted, Officer Ted Darling,’ I replied. ‘Ted,’ she repeated in almost a whisper. There was silence for a moment. ‘Will you be out here in the cold long?’ I asked. ‘No, no, I have to take my medicine…. .’ It was obvious that I shouldn’t go much further into her personal business.

‘Well, if you need any help at all, I’ll be walking by here every so often, don’t hesitate to call out for me, okay…….Annie?’ She slowly lowered her head up and down.

‘What….what….arthritis, rickets…..what….?’ I felt I should probe a little further. She insipidly nodded at the paper she gave me.

She gave another weak laugh: ‘Yes, everything,’ but her words came slow and almost in gasping breaths, ‘arthritis, diabetes, and neuropathy….everything…..’

‘Okay,’ I relinquished. And for a few more passes on my patrol I continued to watch her struggle moving diseased limbs and joints slowly down the sidewalk and slowly back in the other direction, occasionally resting her weight on the apartment wall. Then, sometime after sunset, she was gone and did not return.

The soiled and worn paper she gave me was headed in large bold letter: ‘If Annie Williams should be found ill and needs help, the following is a list of medications and medical conditions you should know about…,’ and what jumped off the page was a conflagration in a menagerie of disease and medicine that even I could not comprehend, and I promised myself I’d research the mysterious text as soon as possible. That mission came that evening before the public library closed. I headed home with a bag of medical books, settled at the kitchen table beneath a laptop computer, my investigatory juices parleyed the Internet into an ink pen dirge of medical facts. Annie’s ailments seemed daunting and unflinching: ‘Friedreich Ataxia, spinocerebellar tract, Hulter monitor, rheumatoid arthritis, crippling skeletal fluorosis, osteosclerosis of pelvis and vertebra, musculoskeletal fibrokeratoma, scoliosis, bursitis, Paget’s disease….’ Photo after photo showed broken, disjointed, twisted and medically diseased bodies, many with strained looks of fought-against pain. The list of medication used in treatment was just as disheartening as it allowed me to create in my mind belched visions of therapeutic mayhem that, I had read, such torture surely existed in the 18th century London Bedlam madhouse: ‘….Paracetamol, Pfizerpen-G, Percocet, Oxycontin, Naproxen Ibepuron, Ibuprofen, Neorontin …..’ About an hour into my indefatigable, cavernous research, a creeping raptorial nausea and sweating enveloped me, causing me to slam shut an opened medical book and slump crumpled into my chair as a dilapidated shack of depressed and weary flesh and bone. It was a sleepless night.

I certainly was on the alert for my new-found friend. The first night of patrol: Nothing. The same disappointment for the second, third, and the fourth nights: Sadness took hold of me, an almost heightened sense of freight that I might not see Annie again. Then, on the fifth day, there she was standing at the alley way, she slowly moved her hand side to side at her typical stomach level, her style of waving beneath her chronic pain.

‘Annie! I’ve been hoping to see you again!’ But, just as I lifted a foot to walk in her direction, a hysterical voice came from behind me: ‘Officer! Officer, can you assist me? I think I locked my keys in my car! Can you help?’ Caught in the dilemma of decision, I shouted to Annie: ‘Stay there, please; I’ll be back in a minute, please wait.’ Annie’s awkward rolling of her head on a nonexistent neck indicated her affirmation to wait for me.

About nine-hundred-feet away, on the next street, time seemed to agonizingly creep as I attended to the lady’s problem. Suddenly, the wail of sirens filled the air. From my vantage point I could barely see where on North Theresa Avenue the panic and canopy of scintillating blue-red, white circus of EMS and police lights were coming from. I knew something serious had happened; but I also knew the police were fully in control.

 

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EMS

It was ‘sometime’ before I was finished with the locked keys incident. The EMS and the police had long gone from North Theresa. The street was empty and dark and forlorn in the cold chill. I could only stare in desperation towards Washington Avenue. And then – ‘He’ came – turning the far corner of the building, quickly, swiftly, courageously, directly towards me as if on a mission, the pillar of his body passing through shadows created by the silver moonlight; tall, almost if on stilts, uniformed in stylish dark tailored linen trousers, his full-length solid black overcoat caressing his stride, synchronically whipping around his legs as he placed one foot strategically in front of the other in some seeming choreographed dance or march. I had no fear of his advance. He suddenly stood before me, a towering black man with sparkling black eyes as if polished coal or those of a gazing deer, his complexion a viscerally hearty ruddy-brown. He had no furrowed brow and appeared to be a caricature of the best of health. The silence seemed to go on forever.

‘You are wondering about Annie?’ He spoke very authoritatively.

‘Yes. Yes, I am’, I felt entranced, gripped by almost feelings of euphoria, ‘who are you?’

‘My name is Olorun Smith. I’ve known Annie Williams for a long time, a very long time. She is all right now. Oh, so many prayers have passed her lips. She is the happiest she has been in a long time.’ His tone was not typically Afro-American, but had the brogue of direct African descendants. ‘There was a lot you did not know about Annie. Did you know that Annie was an artist when she was young? Indeed, the best of the best. In 1911 she was a world-class act at the Dark Town Follies at the Lafayette Club, was one of the originators of the Cakewalk, ‘Ballin’ the Jack, and knew J. Leurie Hill, yes, yes, indeed. She danced nightly at the Savoy Ball Room for many years, and, and, in 1923 she was part of the Ziegfield Follies, the all black cast of the ‘Running Wild’ troupe. Annie was part of the 1936 Brown Sugar Revue at the world-renown Cotton Club; she sang with Lena Horne and performed regularly. But there is more: in 1925, Annie starred alongside Josephine Baker at the La Revue Ne’gre in Paris.’ In a perspicacious flood of words in rapid fashion, for a good ten minutes, Mister Smith spoke in a symphonic deluge of panoramic life events and historic narration, reciting about a life that only could have been a fantasy-world panoply for many a young lady; a wishful dream to most young girls.

‘Where did you get all ‘that’ information?’ I blurted out in total astonishment.

‘I’ve held black teenage Civil War soldiers in my arms as their blood oozed the life out of their wounds; that life-giving serum flowing through my fingers. I stood by Sam Clemons as Cub Pilot aboard the riverboat Paul Jones as we fought Mississippi River sandbars. I have watched with Captain Kermit Beahan, as we dropped the Little Boy atomic bomb upon Nagasaki – we looked into the Eye of Beelzebub and saw the face of Hell. I whispered words of comfort and salvation as living bodies fell from flaming ledges of the Twin Towers on 9/11…..’ Olorun’s eyes darkened even further in majestic intensity, a growing wisp of romantic fragrances emerging in the air….

Olorun paused, then grinned in a beaming smile that demonstrated a mouth of uniform and brilliantly white teeth, ‘I have seen things that you could not begin to accept; events that stretch far beyond the capabilities of your mind. I have been to places that exceedingly surpass the meager events of this tiny planet. I have walked on beaches trillions of miles from here with water so pure and so clear that as you walk in it, it washes your soul. I have known a succulent tropic plant on a very distant world whose juices would cure all known diseases. I have been to the center of your sun, indeed, I have been to the center of a million suns. I have sat abroad comets and raced through the solar system. I rode the comet that rained its watery tail down on Noah. I have come face to face with Evil itself, and I have ‘won’.’

Olorun suddenly looked ahead, over my shoulder, abruptly realizing that something new, something prorogating and urgent beckoned him, and he quickly rushed past me, whipping his overcoat against my side, dispersing mystical, aromatic, tropical scents of a combined unknown perfume reminiscent of Ralph Lauren, Michael Jordan Regal, and Chanel Pour Monsieur Concentrate. Stunned, I thought to myself only for a split-second, and then swirled around to confront him once again, ‘Mr. Smith!’

He was gone! Gone!

And I was left standing there with my heart pounding, immersed and lost in a violent mental flood as a rain drop fallen into an emotional sea, left with solemn and fantastic memories of Annie and the realization that this world was not nearly as real, or far more real, than it was before I met her.

Written By: Stephen Erdmann


UNIVERSAL DIGEST is pleased to be a conduit for our contributing authors. Some editing was provided. We do not claim credit; we simply want to make it more available to the general public. The opinions of the authors are not necessarily the opinion or stance of this website.

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MORIARTY AND THE WILD NIGHT

Moriarty UFO - Wild Night

MORIARTY AND THE WILD NIGHT

‘Pow! To the moon, Alice!’ Jackie Gleason acting as Ralph Kramden in The Honeymooners television series.

The humid, limp summer breeze stalked them amidst the body sweat and flamboyant teenage talk. It was the St. Louis summer of a magical 1960: A time and place marked by historical and personal events that permeated Moriarty Wild’s every fiber of flesh and bone and also sank deep into his life-giving soul…

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Suburbs in Wild Night

The USSR had recently launched Sputnik 5, successfully retrieving two dogs, 40 rodents and two rats; the U.S had launched the Tiros 1 weather satellite, while America’s Mercury-Atlas 1 suborbital flight failed.

Three thousand, five hundred American soldiers had been sent to fight in Vietnam. Gary Power’s U-2 spy plane was shot down by Russian Mach 3 surface-to-air SA-2 missiles; Nikita Khrushchev authorized a Soviet military base built in Cuba.

The Federal Reserve voted to cut margin requirements from 90% to 70% allowing easier market investment. Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Penthouse was playing every week on TV, advertising his modern lifestyle of sleek sex and entertainment. The U.S Democratic convention nominated John Fitzgerald Kennedy as its presidential candidate; Vice-President Richard Nixon was nominated for the Republican nominee. Fidel Castro, Cuba, nationalized all U.S owned sugar factories. The Cern particle accelerator in Geneva, Switzerland became operational. France detonated its first atomic bomb. Presidential candidate John Kennedy spoke of America and the world as ‘entering a New Frontier’ of existence.

It was, also, one of Moriarty Wild’s most exciting and vibrant evenings in a long time; walking from up-town St. Louis theaters to south-town Carondelet. Four buddies had been to see a Steve Reeve’s HERCULES UNCHAINED movie at the ‘fabulous’ FOX Theater, amidst a metropolis of ‘The Great White Way’ of thousand-seat fetes: The St. Louis, The Orpheum, The Pageant, The Missouri.; the Theater District, canopied with the magic music and trumpet sounds of nearby ‘World Famous’ Gaslight Square. Moriarty recalled that it was from this very spot that he stood and watched the myriad floats celebrating the yearly Veiled Prophet Falstaffian-style parade.

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Gaslight Square from Wild Night

That might have been, at least, a five mile hike; talking about sundry things like big-time ‘wise guys’: sex, politics and school tripe. Big, burly ex-Marine, and algebra instructor, Mr. Julius, barreled down the school hallway and single-handily pinned an armed high school student against the corridor wall in an excellent judo-hold. Patricia Bowen, they swore, had the biggest and the best breasts they had ever seen; and she was relentless in advertising the fact. They debated as to what was the best part of a female’s anatomy; was it the calves or the butt?

How fast could you recite your phone number without stammering: FL-1-3446, FL-1-34…? Should they divulge the secret ending of the Alfred Hitchcock summer-smash-thriller Psycho? Which was a bigger hit: Puppy Love by Paul Anka, or the Percy Faith orchestra’s Theme From A Summer Place?

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Willoughby Wild Night

Was it true what they heard: that some kid got avalanched and smothered playing in the sand dune at the Sand Company by the edge of the Mississippi River at the foot of Davis Street? Did ‘you guys’ watch the recent Twilight Zone episode ‘A Stop At Willoughby’ where ‘this character steps off a train into a 1880- fantasy world?’ A very unhappy 38-year-old ad agency executive enters a netherworld ‘in a desperate search for survival’: ‘You’re travelling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind, a journey into a wondrous land…’, so on and on, in rapid-fire fashion, awash in adolescent adrenaline…

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Moriarty Wild Night River

One bus came by; they let it go on; another and another, the boys eventually zigzagging from Grand avenue onto Michigan; soon the boys were passing the small business district west of the St. Anthony of Padua Church and passing favorite hang-outs and business sites such as Schaefer’s Hobby Shop and Winkelmann’s Drug store, and encountering the last of a chain of small neighborhood ‘shows’ that doted the community, many on Michigan Avenue: The Dakota, The Michigan, The Virginia.

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Bus in Wild Night

Unrelenting, their healthy teenage skeletal frames hardly seemed phased by robust walking. Two of the boys trailed down Krause Street to their homes. Moriarty began to note the customary fear, the sickening twist and cramps in the pit of his stomach as he neared his destination, but he forbade it from taking control of his attention and he drove himself back into the spasm of jumping about in play-acting and dervish-like flamboyant camaraderie. The time was well after midnight.

Moriarty eventually said ‘good night’ to his next-door pal and suddenly stopped dead in his steps as other thoughts came cascading into his brain and he almost surprisingly found himself facing from across the street the Siamese duplex hidden away from street lamps in the dark of night. Like a brooding giant bull dog resting in the black night on dog’s paws, the front windows as menacing, starring eyes, the house challenged Moriarty’s demeanor and his ambiance changed from friendly excitement into the reality that stood before him; a heavy dark fog like apparition of thought psychically enveloped him; the terror, the fear, the hurt. He allowed his Adams-apple to grip his neck and it squeezed and pained his throat. Would it be different tonight, the screaming, the hysteria, and the threats?

The Bowers, who lived in the south duplex, contributed their share of family turbulence when their daughter, the sweetheart of Moriarty’s brother, announced she was pregnant. And how could they have tolerated: the firing of a German Luger gun into the bedroom floor, the routine deep thuds and bangs of bodies slamming against furniture; or the sickening sound of the blunt blow of a human skull of a living-being violently smashed onto the sturdy boards of a kitchen floor; the incessant and weekly alcoholic brawls just a thin wall away?

Behind him were the mesmerizing clickety-clacks of the folding apparatus and the crank linkages of the cardboard folding machines in a nearby ‘box factory’; almost as entrenching and hypnotic as some thousand crickets of a dense forest. Taking his chances, Moriarty stepped off into the darkness, mustering what courage and foolish heroism he could, heading across the cobblestone bricks into the ancient street and into the deeper darkness of the front lawn, his mind racing over past events of the last ten years or so. ‘Maybe you’d like to jump me?’ the drunken swaying image of his mother invaded his thoughts as she stood in the doorway of his room; or it was: ‘Maybe we should beat you till you die! How about that!? You want to die?’ Moriarty wanted to scream at the images: ‘Stop it Mom, stop it, for God’s sakes – stop it!’

But it was too late: he had nowhere to go, and it was far too late to dillydally outside the house. It was not the first time that unusual political hauntings ravished his thinking. I mean, it was not like it was actually taking place then and there. It may not happen again, maybe not this night. And thoughts are just thoughts, right?

He entered the front of the gangway leading to the back of the house. To Moriarty it was as if Ichabod Crane was slinking into the thicket of Sleepy Hollow on some macabre Halloween night; the low, rote cricket-chanting of the not-too-distant box assembling devices having become second-nature to him. But there was no real Sleepy Hollow forest sounds this time. It was deadlier than dead. Not a dog barking; not the neighbors’ animals. Sparky surely would be whimpering in happiness on the other side of the gate at the end of the gangway to welcome his master. But nothing came from the family dog; or any noise from inside the house, and this was a Saturday night, thought Moriarty, a tavern night, and how he had hoped the routine sadism and fear would not appear again on cue. But this night something possibly sardonic —- something —- was trying to appear but was purposefully, though nebulously, being somehow warded off.

Once or twice, someone’s drunken laughter peaked loud enough from the corner tavern to stab the black night, but it would instantaneously disappear and the lake of life would be completely sullen and still again. As a courage-builder, Moriarty accompanied the soft squall of the box factory crank rocker linkage ‘crickets’ and began to sing in his head the Walt Disney weekend TV favorite and theme song by Jiminy Cricket, ‘When you wish upon a Star, makes no difference who you are…’

Halfway down the gangway, at its darkest, pitch black point of possible night light between the walls of houses, Moriarty looked towards the tree just about three feet on the east side of the gangway gate: the defined, yet almost brilliant light of the moon shining through the branches of the tree. It certainly and sententiously added to the bizarre atmosphere. Not being an astronomy student, Moriarty had not analyzed that this was not a night scheduled for a full moon, nor was he studied enough to account for the fact that the moon would have been higher in the sky at that time, almost directly above.

Oh well, here goes, thought Moriarty, unlatching and then quickly latching the gate and dutifully striding towards the back steps. ‘One look at the moon,’ he thought to himself and he turned to examine the light in the open area of sky…

Moriarty became gripped with what he could only later describe as Tremendum Mysterium* …Miraculum Keuthonymos# …His heart seemed to fall into his stomach

He stood transfixed to the bright, blue-white glowing manifestation that appeared slightly sweptback in appearance, completely silent and motionless. He could not be sure how long he was paralyzed in a somewhat hypnotic stare; seconds, couldn’t have been a minute? A sense of time disappeared. And the light began to move picking up speed with every millisecond. It moved too fast for Moriarty to assimilate the reality of the moment: A huge snow-white ‘dove’? Was this a gigantic white dove? But it was illuminated! And then it began to change shape, a spinning blue-white mass of energy as it became oval and ascending up into the clear night sky until it was far out of visibility.

Moriarty sat on the back porch steps; stunned. He listened for sound, any noise to snap him out of the stupor that possessed him. No noise from within the house. No noise from without. After almost an hour of curiously blissful but eerie silence, Moriarty used his back door key and quietly slipped into bed in his room without interruption, harassment or waylay. That lack of parental attack seemed awfully mysterious. It continued to be mysterious the following day, on the same back steps; he explained to his mother what had happened. His mother only casually and equally mysterious gave a ‘My poor problem child’ expression and went on her way without being on the attack in her full battle agglomeration.

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Bakery in Wild NIght

He seemed to float as if out-of-the-body for the rest of the day, Sunday. And then he heard the jukebox playing from the corner tavern – that very tavern, drenched insistently in the smell of fermented beer, hops and barley and Loretta Lynn’s wail about the Honky Tonk Girl – in that horror-hall-of-mirrors place laced with metaphorical, societal clown paraphernalia, outfits. Suddenly someone played Ferlin Husky’s recording of Wings of a Dove and Moriarty’s mind raced back to the apparition of the night earlier and he quivered and thought about how coincidental situations could appear.

Author and originator of Wings of a Dove, Robert Bruce Ferguson, and alias Eli Possumtrot, not unlike Moriarty’s imagined gangway Ichabod Crane’s Sleepy Hollow, was born in a rustic Ozark commune of Willow Springs, not far from a Thick Hollow; the Ozark Mountains rift with stories of hauntings, even in nearby Mountain View and West Plains.  Events continued to be surrealistic when Moriarty discovered the diary notes he had hidden in his desk telling of his heavenly apparition, notes that also included telling of the barbaric fist fights that mother and step-father conducted in the past week – fights that almost resulted in death – were mysteriously missing — but no threats or reprimands came from their discovery. Was the apparition, he thought to himself again and again in those subsequent hours, somehow connected with his grandmother’s passing at the start of this weekend that last Friday? They had all stood about her death-bed at the hospital and watched her slowly and peacefully sink into the netherworld. Did her death intervene as a nighttime apparition allowing a peaceful night?

And, then it struck him how synchronistic and miraculous life was at times; those little interconnected ‘ins’ and ‘outs.’ The invigorating dinner aromas from roast beef and butter and mashed potatoes had filled the house earlier, fallout from a family gathering of aunts, uncles, children, brothers and family; mom, despite her crimes, was always an old-fashioned chef educated in classic Scrubby-Dutch lifestyle, ihrhaus ist sehr sauber und gemutlichkeit (her house is very clean and comfortable); unfortunately, a lie and illusory at times, this Germanic-style was not a normal, natural or pleasant trait taught her, rather she felt it as the searing and sadomasochistic beauty of a branding mark on some heifer by a rugged cow-poke, as taunt as a German sieg heil (victory), or kommen sie hier (come here)!

Such cloaked, lonely, forlorn and frustrating emotions would be passed down for many generations. But, she came through ‘big time’ this weekend. The Honeymooners and Jackie Gleason played on TV in a syndicated rerun the night before, unrealized and unaware, almost in Rod Serling fashion, of the actual and historical story of paranormal-hobbyist Gleason’s yet-to-happen 1973 midnight adventure with friend Richard Nixon, and their trek to a mysterious morgue at Homestead Air Force Base containing alleged frozen alien creatures.

But, this was a Sunday in 1960; Moriarty, curled into a fetal position, had quietly lain on the freshly laundered and aromatically sweet and clean bed coverings on his bed in his room hugging himself as if lying in the uterine fluid of prenatal comfort, all stress disappearing as ripples on a pond. Moriarty thankfully listened to Gleason’s forlornly haunting orchestration of the Melancholy Serenade…

He then realized that Life, as was concerning everyone, was a mixed bag of good and evil; of endless, Jungian-coincidental events. People were an inured itinerary of love and hate; and he took that insight as a curious comfort in that singular moment and slept peacefully for the first time in weeks.

‘If we stop to gaze upon a star…people talk about how bad we are…ours is not an easy age…we’re like tigers in a cage…what a town without pity can do…how can we keep love alive…how can anything survive…when these little minds tear you in two…what a town without pity can do…’ Town without Pity sung by Gene Pitney, 1961, Musicor Records [1009], Aaron Schroeder Publishing.
‘…If every building falls, and all the stars fade…pull me out of the dark…from so far away…I guess were all one phone call from our knees…’ Mat Kearney, Closer To Love, Aware Records, LLC, 2009.

Based on a true story.

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Steve Erdmann

Written By: Steve Erdmann

Translations from above: * (The Secret Awe) # (Miracle Name Card)


UNIVERSAL DIGEST is pleased to be a conduit for our contributing authors. This article was produced being mostly unedited. We do not claim credit, we simply want to make it more available to the general public. The opinions of the authors are not necessarily the opinion or stance of this website.

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