Three Syllable Word
Publisher & Category:
The Dark Krypt E-Books
BLURB: Is it possible that we really do live previous lives? Is it possible that we go from life to life to learn all that we should know before progressing to a higher plane, or that we may go from one life to the next, in order to atone for the sins of a previous life? Maybe…
EXCERPT: The gray haired, middle aged American Indian dressed in worn clothing stood silently in front of the dirty living room window, staring emptily across the street at the well kept homes, nicely manicured lawns, and carefully tended flower gardens of middle class America in the late 20th century.
If he had been able to he would have congratulated himself on surviving impossible odds for almost 12 years though he was now destitute, bankrupt, and about to be put on the street when the landlord and sheriff arrived.
If he had been able to he would have asked God what he did in this life, or in a previous life, to deserve the life he survived since his birth. He would have asked if what he did was so terrible that he had to suffer so painfully. He would have asked why he was damned from the day of his birth no matter how hard he tried.
But he couldn’t.
Behind the empty black eyes was only the harsh, mocking chaotic whispers from deep within, as rivulets of bright red blood ran down his fingers from deep cuts in his wrists, to drip onto the worn, faded carpet…
The world was ending in an apocalyptic storm of blood and smoke and his life was over.
“Hope” was a lying, fawning one-syllable word that implied a future, a possibility, and sounded good and decent and spoke to fools. “Survival” was a cold, honest, three syllable word that spoke of now, of what had been, and was a harsh rallying cry for hardened cynics to struggle for another minute, another hour, another day.
“Come out!” The heavily accented voice called below gray, stormy clouds. A warm, smoky, dusty wind rustled through the surrounding trees. He knew the voice. He heard it before snowy onion-domed Moscow, the burned ruins of Kharkov and Belgorod, and on the bloody banks of the Dniepr, the Vistula, and the Oder rivers. He cheerfully silenced the voices of the unending chorus over the years, but new voices always filled the silence. And now he heard the voices in the western outskirts of the blasted rubble that was once Berlin. “It’s over! Come out!”
The thin, unshaven man sitting on the stained carpet leaned back against the dirty, chipping living room wall…