THE GLASS TOP COFFIN

Combine ten year-old, Jordan Taylor‘s amazing gift of creative writing and a vivid insight into his own future and you'll find a boy with a very special destiny. Fatherless and underprivileged his entire life, Jordan befriends an old country grocer who will eventually guide him down a long road of fate that will affect an entire community and thousands of lives with it.


The Glass Top Coffin

By: T. Stephen Bryan
HurricaneWarning


The following chapters (approximately 4 pages per chapter - 40 pages for the entire story) will be presented in this order.


THE GLASS TOP COFFIN CHAPTER LIST:


1. Prologue And Part 1 Of “The Glass Top Coffin”

2. On Becoming - A Young Writer’s Inspiration

3. Death Lies Dark And Deep

4. Old Black Men And Bottle Dreaming

5.. The Antics Of Wally Perkins

6.. Pennies From Heaven

7.. Funeral For A Friend

8.. The Christmas Miracle Of Falls Hills

9.. Jordan vs. “The Ducks”

10. The Orate

11. The Final Rendezvous

12. epilogue



“All that destruction, it’s a sight your mind never let’s you forget.” ---Mr. Wendil Moore



*** prologue ****

June 14th 1963

In their battered, 1953 Chevy Bel Air, ten-year old Jordan Taylor and his mother, Madelyn, arrived ten minutes late for their ritual Sunday morning church service. Walking into the small, Falls Hills Baptist church, they were met by an overwhelming crowd of gossiping adults and squirming children. Thankfully, services had not yet begun. Jordan and his mother stood anxiously in the isle, looking desperately for a place to sit.

“Over here,” hissed a white makeup faced woman in a red feathered hat. Madelyn turned to her right and saw an old lady waving and making a small space for the young mother. After being seated, a serious look crossed Madelyn’s face as she watched her son standing all alone in the isle with a confused, embarrassed look upon his face. Jordan could feel hundreds of eyes zooming in his direction, many with snickering lips. The boy had already decided that he would stand at the back of the church isle if that would be his only option.

Suddenly a dim voice abruptly spoke out.

“Hey Jordi boy, over here.”

Jordan quickly turned to his left to see who was calling. Wally Perkins was smiling at the young boy, hallmarking his large, yellow teeth and pointing to a tiny spot that he had wiggled out on the end of the pew.

Jordan looked toward his mother and silently urged, “No Mom, please, not there, anywhere but there.” However, Madelyn gave him a stern glare and nodded firmly across the isle toward Mr. Perkins. Jordan walked slowly in that direction, head down in defeat, then squeezed himself into the tiny cubbyhole beside Mr. Perkins. Wally slammed a huge arm around Jordan almost knocking the air out of the boy’s small lungs.

It was the first time Jordan had ever seen Mr. Perkins out of those filthy green overalls, but that scent, the stench of dirt, tobacco and alcohol were all present and accounted for.

Wally Perkins was considered to be the largest tobacco farmer in the state of North Carolina. Being a sixth generation cropper, he had inherited most of his late ancestor’s asset possessions as well as purchased other large bordering acreage over the last 30 years. Wally was the self-proclaimed “Tobacco King of the South.”

However, to Jordan, he was the most obnoxious, repulsive person that the boy had ever encountered. By the appearance of the man, you would never know he was worth over five-million dollars. Dirt and tobacco juice caked his stained overalls and the decaying truck that he drove must have been at least twelve-years old.

Wally Perkins, stood roughly six-foot seven and weighed at bare minimum three hundred fifty pounds. He appeared to be somewhere in his early sixties. His hair was cut in a crew chop and was lightly sprayed in a generic salt and pepper. Judging from his mammoth size, it came with little doubt that Wally Perkins held the native genes of a gargantuan gladiator.

It would be the most miserable hour that Jordan would spend in his life. Wally did nothing but fart and scratch his privates throughout the entire hour service. On the verge of puking, Jordan grasped hard with each breath, trying desperately to keep his breakfast from spilling onto his freshly polished Sunday shoes.

Pastor Ellis was a tall and skinny young man of dark thick hair, harden blue eyes, a gentleman of perhaps mid thirties who presented an uncanny resemblance to Ichabod Crane. His low, bottomless pit voice had the efficient means of putting the vast majority of the congregation into slumber well before the first half hour.

A few moments into the service, Pastor Ellis made a light, humorous remark that triggered Wally into roaring fit of laughter. A hand-pounding jab struck hard to Jordan’s left leg, sending the boy’s face into a tight grimace. The half slumbering lad awoke abruptly, then noticed the entire congregation scorning hard in his direction. In complete embarrassment, Jordan slumped low into the pew in dire fear that someone may presume the man beside him could possibly be his grandfather or even worse, his father.

A short time later as Pastor Ellis was going through his monotonous ritual before the passing of the plate, Jordan slowly pulled four quarters from his pocket. Traditionally, he and his mother would each contribute one dollar. Jordan preferred using quarters, favoring the illusion that coins seemed more valuable than a just a single paper bill. The overall two dollars was not much of a generous offering, roughly two hours wages for Madelyn, but circumstances being as they were, it was all that Madelyn could possibly afford.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jordan saw Wally pull a single bill from the breast of his suit pocket.

That Cheepo, he thought, a total millionaire and he’s only going to give one lousy buck.

As the plate steadily rolled down their isle, Wally firmly took hold of it and tossed in his single bill then handed the large silver dish to Jordan. The boy’s hand slightly hesitated as his eyes glanced down into the plate. With a sense of remorse, he humbly stacked his four meager quarters atop Wally’s one-hundred dollar bill.

After benediction, Pastor Ellis smiled and thanked his full congregation for their attendance. His last request, as usual, was suggesting that everyone stand and huge their fellow neighbor.

Jordan suddenly felt a hot lump build in his throat.

Wally kindheartedly hugged his wife, Rose, a small and slender woman with a long drawn face with ashen white hair.

He then turned toward Jordan, and the first thing that the boy saw was Wally’s huge yellow teeth sparkling dully in the small light of the stained glass windows.

Jordan suddenly felt himself jerked from the floor and squeezed so brutally that he could almost feel his bones crack. Wally slammed him back to the floor and the boy quickly headed across the isle in search of his mother’s safety. Just as he darted away he felt a large, calloused hand grasp firmly around his neck.

Jordan began pulling hard toward his mother, feeling like a small dog on a leash.

“Right fine boy ya got there, Mrs. Taylor, right fine, indeed,” said
Wally, speaking in a burly southern accent.

“Why thank you, Mr. Perkins,” Madelyn replied. “I believe that’s one of the reasons I keep him around.”

“Smart as a whip too, is that boy,” Wally continued. “Overheard him down at Wendil’s grocery not long ago readin’ one of them stories of his. Yeah, that boy can write like a storm, he can. Never ‘spected anything that pretty to come from a youngster only that age. Gooda ‘nough to have come from a real book or some like.”

“Yes, but I worry that he’s a little too smart for his own good.” Madelyn corrected with a touch of pride. “Sometimes he writes too much and forgets about the rest of his homework.”

Wally simply nodded as Rose and Madelyn shook hands and spoke a few customary words together. Soon, the little church began to empty.

Wally and Rose went home to a large Sunday feast. Their old black, live-in maid had been keeping it warm all morning. Madelyn and Jordan returned to their small, red and silver trailer with white awnings. Two ham sandwiches and potato salad awaited inside the rusted refrigerator.



“The Glass Top Coffin”

***Part 1***

By Stephen Bryan (HurricaneWarning)



Jordan sat crossed legged on his small bed, viciously shaking a large, glass piggy bank. It was the type of piggy that once money had been inserted, the only means of removing its contents was to take a hammer stiffly to its head. Jordan’s late father had bought him the bank on the day he was born. The piggy was the only possession that the boy owned from his dad.

That was back in the old days before the heavy drinking began. The days before Madelyn found out about the other woman. It was back in the days when Madelyn received a knock on her door late in the night, the night that two deputies sheriffs stood in her doorway, one with a somber look, the other repeating over and over, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Taylor. I’m truly sorry.”

Jordan stuck a big green eye close to the slot on piggy’s back and noticed a slither of silver. Carefully, he pinched the edge of the coin and slowly extracted one single quarter, more or less an afternoon’s wage for helping Mr. Parker, the trailer court manager, with some odd chores. The boy dashed into his small living room and slipped on his aging sneakers, then grabbed a yellow folder containing his newest treasure. As Jordan started out of the door, he hesitated then turned toward the bright yellow clock that was hanging high above the small kitchen sink.

Three-thirty, it spoke. Four more hours before his mother would return from work.

Madelyn was employed as a seamstress at a local dry cleaners in the big city, sixteen miles away. During the previous few days, the small cleaners had an unusual brisk business, causing Madelyn to run far behind with her mending. Mr. Bouders, the store owner, had offered her some precious overtime, a wonderful surprise that would mean a little extra money for desperately needed essentials.

Jordan slammed the small trailer door so hard that it shook the adjacent ground. He walked away in total anger, discussed at the hideous way that his mother was being forced to work and at such repulsive wages.

He started down a hot and dust ridden road clinching his yellow folder securely to his side. The young fatherless boy with holes in his jeans and a dream in a pocket, allowed himself to meander far away from his present day life and into a special future, a future he knew he would someday achieve with great immensity.




***Part 2*** On Becoming - A Young Writer’s Inspiration


“THE GLASS TOP COFFIN”


By Stephen Bryan (HurricaneWarning)



Jordan stood in the gravel driveway of Mr. Moore’s general country store, closely eyeing his target. Yellow folder still in hand, he sank to a low position, gathered a breath, angled a foot then slightly lowered a knee. With a rapid exhalation of the held breath, he exploded toward the concrete steps, leaping high and swift, sailing like a gracious bird in flight. Just as his bottom sneaker smoothly polished the top step, Jordan flung open the old screen door but accidentally tripped on the door jam and hurled hard onto the wooden floor.

“Damn you boy, one of these days you’re going to bust your head wide open on those stairs,” barked Mr. Moore from behind a stained and cigarette burned counter. Jordan simply laughed and picked himself off the floor then pulled the single quarter from his pocket. Sliding the coin across the counter, it perfectly targeted Mr. Moore’s outreached fingers with ideal accuracy.

“How many times have I done it?” Jordan asked the old man. "That was the first time I’ve ever tripped," he added proudly.

“Damn it boy, it only takes one time to crack that skull of yours wide open. If your brains get spilled all over my outside vegetables, someone’s gonna to pay for them. And another thing, don‘t expect me to go running off trying to find you some damn fool doctor either.” cranked Mr. Moore while disinfecting the old wood counter with a clean rag, his compulsive tradition, each time money came in contact with it.

Jordan listened with heavy skepticism, knowing perfectly well that Wendil L. Moore was a man of tender heart and generous compassion, yet enjoyed playing the tough-guy part.

“Come on Mr. Moore, I know you better than that,” Jordan teased. “Remember when you found all those abandoned puppies under your store last winter. You took care of every one of them, even found them all good homes, and you wouldn’t even call a doctor for a good friend?”

Mr. Moore’s face broke from a frown into a lighten smile. “Oh, Shut the hell up, boy,” he snarled, knowing the little nasty game was officially over.

Mr. Moore was such a softy. His bright blue eyes sparkled like fireflies on a dark summer evening. The long flowing white hair and white bushy beard highlighted his fair skin and rosy Irish cheeks. Everything combined, including a large potbelly and small-rimmed spectacles made him the perfect Santa Claus. And at Falls Hills Baptist Church, he enjoyed playing that very part each Christmas season.

At the church, he was just another fake Santa, taking orders from small children, listening patiently to their memorized gift request. However, come late Christmas Eve, the old man would pack his blue pick-up truck with boxes of new and used toys, clothes, and other accessories. On his list were thirty-seven of the most underprivileged families in Hills Falls, including Jordan and his mother. If by chance you were on Mr. Moore’s list, you would always find a large box filled with neatly wrapped presents waiting outside your door on Christmas morning. They were delivered inside a hefty brown box with two double crossed white and red ribbons.

Walking around the counter, Mr. Moore said, “By the way, Jordi, I just wanted to tell you again, how sorry I am that I couldn't use you this summer. Business has just been so damn awful with the drought and all the fire restrictions. I don’t believe in paying a man to just sit around and do nothing. Wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

Jordan knew exactly what Mr. Moore was talking about. The 1963 North Carolina summer drought had been the worst that the state had endured in almost a century. The famous (at least locally) fishing and hunting cabins (about 35 in all) that surrounded Lake Sapphire had been officially closed due to several fire violations. Almost three-quarters of Mr. Moore’s business came as a direct result of that nearby rustic resort. Jordan bit lightly on his bottom lip and glanced to the back of the store. His eyes darted around a wall that was strictly devoted to fishing equipment and supplies. Rods and reels, fishing line, live boxes of worms, flys, hooks, leaders and tackle boxes. Everything you needed for an excellent day of fishing. Yet not a single item had been disturbed in weeks.

“I just knew how much you were looking foreword to making a little extra money this summer, you know with your Mom and well....” Mr. Moore said awkwardly while glancing down at Jordan who had just leaped into the old man’s huge rocking chair.

Oh, that’s ok Mr. Moore, Jordan thought. Everyone around here knows how poor Mom and I are. Maybe they should just put it up on billboards for everyone to read.

Jordan sat rocking, staring up at the big moose head hanging on the wall high above him. Mr. Moore had named it “Bullwrinkle.” He inherited the old moose when he bought the store a few years earlier. Bullwrinkle seemed an appropriate name seeing it’s terrible, crumpled condition. Its left antler hung curiously to one side, one big glass eye was totally absent and it was covered with large bald spots of missing hair. Mr. Moore estimated it to be at least one hundred years old, not to mention how old the fellow might have been when its head was butchered clean.

“I finally finished my newest story,” Jordan called to the old man who was now busy pushing a large, red broom. “It's my latest and greatest,” he added proudly. “It’s about a man who learned how to defy gravity.”

“Now this I wouldn‘t miss for all the gold in Ft. Knox,” Mr. Moore called back. Jordan smiled and allowed the yellow folder to drop to the floor.

Mr. Moore was the only person Jordan had ever trusted to read his stories. The wise old man had once told him it was probably a good idea not to show his writings around at this time, explaining, there were too many people in the world who had lost their own dreams for one reason or another and who would cherish the idea of destroying his own---a natural process in the order of things.

Mr. Moore’s sweeping eventually brought him around to Jordan’s feet. “You know if you were a tad older, I’d let you run the store all by yourself this summer. Been wanting to take some time off, get caught up on a few things, maybe even go see my brother up in Kentucky.”

Jordan already knew how to run the small store. He had done it on a few occasions when the old man had visited his heart doctor.

The store had little costumers and most of the heavy work simply involved making small change and swatting at flies.

Mr. Moore had purchased the country grocery some eight years earlier after his wife, Sara, had died. He’d once explained to Jordan that he bought it just to have something to keep him busy. Mr. Moore pointed out how much he had hated sitting around his house in the big city, 16 miles away and how he could feel the walls moving closer to him each day, almost if they had eyes”

“Maybe next year...maybe next summer?” Jordan asked with rising excitement.

“Well, we'll just have to wait and see, but when that time does come, it will be mine and your mother’s decision. Now get that into that thick, rootless head of yours,” he crabbed.

Jordan lit another smile then slumped deep into the big rocker again.

A sparkle flashed in the old man‘s eye. “Know what Jordi, when you get older, and I mean a lot older, maybe I’ll just sell you this old store. Might even give you a good deal on it.

Of course, the old man was not the least bit serious. Just out of curiosity, he wanted to see the reaction he could get from the boy. Mr. Moore, realized that Jordan’s future stretched far beyond the path of selling snacks, tobacco and beer in a run-down country grocery store. However, the boy surprised him.

Jordan glanced around the big room as if he were looking for something. Then his eyes finally came to rest on a spot close to where he was sitting. He pointed to the floor; an area between the old rocker and big potbelly stove.

“Yep, right there...right there is where I’m going to set up my desk and typewriter. Just imagine how quiet it’ll be between costumers. That’s a perfect idea, Mr. Moore; this store could be my entire writing office! “Jordan cried out in inspiration.

“Glory be!” Mr. Moore said, rolling his eyes to the heavens. “Boy, you sure have a way of making something out of nothing don't you? “You’re talking about all those famous books you‘re gonna write someday, aren’t you?”

Jordan momentarily shined then nodded with self-conscious modesty.

Sweeping off into another direction the old man stopped then bent slightly over. Jordan looked into his face, horrified that all the color had suddenly gone.

Mr. Moore sat the broom aside and began wobbling slowly toward the rocker. Jordan quickly jumped from the chair and helped the old man gently into it. Reaching under his mammoth butcher apron he slowly pulled a small white pill from his shirt pocket and placed it under his tongue. The old man relaxed, leaning back into the chair then closed his eyes.

Jordan stared at him in shock, tears flowing from his eyes, afraid to talk or move.

After a few seconds, Mr. Moore opened his eyes and exhaled a slight smile.

“What was wrong with you?” Jordan cried, noticeably shaken.

“Just the old ticker staggering around again,” explained Mr. Moore, the color now flowing smoothly back into his face. “Have one or two little spills every day. Been having them for years. Nothing to be concerned over as long as I have these little pills handy. Only takes them a few seconds to get me up and kickin’ again. Say boy, those are those tears in your eyes I see?”

Jordan dashed to Mr. Moore and threw his arms around the old man. For a brief moment, Mr. Moore seemed slightly surprised, but then he encompassed his own arms around the boy. His big scarred and disfigured hands, from an occurrence in his earlier life -- a life he would never discuss with Jordan -- kindly kneaded on the boy’s skinny shoulders and back.

“I don’t know what I’d do if something would happen to you,” Jordan wept. “You’re the only real friend I’ve have.”

The old grocer patted Jordan lightly on the back and the boy slowly rose to his feet.

“Now don’t go getting all gushy over an old fart like me, you know I can’t handle that sort of stuff,” Mr. Moore said in a soft, grumpy voice, his own eyes slightly moist. “Besides, I’m sure you have a ton of friends around here.”

“None!” Jordan instantly shot back. “None at all. They all make fun of me because I like writing stories. They think that’s sissy kind of stuff.”

“Nonsense,” the old man said. “I know most of the boys around here, and they’re all decent little fellows. Thing is, you’re not a crowd follower. Never been one myself. Do what I feel like doing. Decided if someone doesn’t like it, then I say the hell with ‘em.”

As Jordan nodded in agreement, Mr. Moore reached down and picked the yellow folder off the floor. “Well let’s just see about this new story of yours.”

Jordan sat Indian style on the floor, closely studying Mr. Moore’s eye movements as he slowly scrutinized every sentence, paragraph and page. When he had finished, the old man neatly put the seventeen, handwritten pages back into the folder and returned it to the boy.

“Well?” Jordan asked, knowing he could be either brow-whipped or generously praised. When it came to Mr. Moore’s straightforward appraisals, the old man rarely held anything back. Jordan was prepared, he had heard it all.

Mr. Moore said nothing. He simply got out of the rocker and motioned for Jordan to follow. Walking around the counter he opened a small drawer beneath the cash resister and pulled out a single sheet of notebook paper. Jordan stood on the other side of the counter, closely watching him. Mr. Moore laid the paper on the counter and drew a large “V” then he turned the sheet to where the V pointed directly to Jordan.

“There are three types of people in this world,” he began. “Look here,” he said, pointing to the left side of the V. “These are all the people who have a burning desire to do something special in their lives yet they all lack the talent to fulfill it.” Then he pointed to the right side of the V. “Now over here are all the people who have a wonderful, gifted talent yet lack the aim to do anything with it.”

Mr. Moore turned the sheet to where the V now pointed toward himself then reached back into the drawer and pulled out a large magnifying glass. He studied the very tip end of the V carefully for a few seconds.

“Yep, there you are.” They both looked up and made eye contact at the exact same moment. “You see Jordi, all those who are down on the very tip of the V, have that wonderful, gifted talent as well as a blazing desire to accomplish it. Very few around, but I can see that you’re right down there with them.”

“Well….does that mean that I’m sort of….special or something?” Jordan asked in a tiny, insecure voice.

“No it doesn't son,” Mr. Moore replied while placing everything back into the drawer. He ran his big flawed and damaged fingers through Jordan’s golden, curly hair and whispered, “That makes you blessed.”



***Part 3*** Death Lies Deep And Dark

“THE GLASS TOP COFFIN”


By Stephen Bryan (HurricaneWarning)



Mr. Moore grabbed the broom and picked up exactly at the spot where he had left off. Jordan hopped back into the old rocker, throwing his legs over the side. “Well you‘re sure right about one thing Jordi," Mr. Moore said with a half chuckle. “If business is anything like today, you’ll have time to write an entire novel. But I just see one little problem with making this store your writing office."

Jordan pointed a puzzled look at the old man. “That God-smirking dam project that everyone's talking about. Guarantee you one thing, there won’t be a store or anything else left around here if that monster moves into the neighborhood.”

“What are you talking about,” Jordan asked in a befuddled voice, now sitting up straight in the rocker.

The boy had heard some talk of this project at school and from his mom, something about the possibility of the entire Falls Hills area being purposely flooded. However, he understood it to be at least thirty years away, a time so distant that it seemed meaningless for any ten-year old. Now, hearing about it from the lips of his trusted old friend, the dam project seemed to take on a completely new meaning.

“Those greedy ass Power Company Ducks,” Mr. Moore bellowed. “The same ones who built Lake Holder, you know that huge beast of a lake up on the Virginia border. That particular dam provides power for this entire area. Now they’re saying in about thirty-five years they’ll need more power than Holder can provide.

“Mom and I went to Lake Holder once on vacation,” Jordan told him. “I remembered we rented this little boat and rode all around. That was the biggest lake I’ve seen in my life. We got lost a few times and had to ask some other boaters the way back to the marina.”

“Yep, that sounds like the one all right, runs right through two states, Virginia and North Carolina.”

“But that’s almost 50 miles from here, how are they going to get that lake to flood into this area?” asked Jordan.

“They’re not. What they’re planning to do is dam the Kostyu River. It runs along by highway 38, down that long steep grade. I’m sure you’ve seen that river before.”

“Yes sir,” Jordan told him. “But only from the car when we crossed the bridge”

“Well, she’s a real roaring son-of a-gun, third largest river east of the Mississippi. They’re going to dam it about 5 miles south of here.” Since this part of the area has lower elevation, the water will just flow naturally into our little valley. Do you know anything about geology, Jordi?”

“Yes sir, we study a little about it in school, but it’s not my best subject, English is my best.”

“Oh really? I’m just shocked to the ass,” Mr. Moore grumped. Jordan just grinned to himself.

“Anyway, this stranger came in for a snack and soda a few months back. Told me he was a geologist and was doing preliminary work for the Power Company’s new dam project. My first instinct was to kick his ass right out of here, but then I thought I would try for a little information. Well, I got it all right, but it wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear. The only good news was that the actual flooding wouldn’t take place until around 1990, that’s twenty-seven years up the road. Let’s see, you’ll be about thirty-six or thirty-seven by then, and that's when...”

“Why on earth is it going to take twenty-seven years?” Jordan interrupted with a confused look.

“An undertaking that big takes a lot of time and planning. Land acquisition for one thing. That’s their biggest enemy. Can’t just walk in here and take a man’s land, got to pay them something for it and believe me, they wont pay them half of what it’s actually worth. They’re supposed to pay what the land is worth according to the record books, but those Ducks seldom play by the rules. What they’ll use is the fear factor. They won’t buy anything at first; they’ll just keep preaching this project in the papers and waving it in front of everyone’s face, scarring the last light of Hell out of them. People will begin to panic and practically give their land away just to get out. Others will see what’s happening and will try to get shed of their property too. But what idiot is going to buy it from them? Who in the name of hell would buy land that was staring death straight in the face? By then the value of the land will have dropped to near nothing. That’s when those Power Company Ducks step in and acquire everything for the price of horse shit. Damn shame but it’s the good Lord’s truth.”

“Then there’ll be all the lawsuits,” the old man continued. “Yeah, some of the more affluent folks might try to fight them in the courts. But they won’t win. Suits and appeals could drag on for years and years, but they won’t win. Lawyers will just take their money and run. Never met a lawyer in my life who gave a shit about ecology and conservation. Need someone important that can stand up to those bastard Ducks. Someone who has a lot of money and a will to spend it. Someone with a lot of influence that could change many minds. Just about all the people around these parts are just common folks. They know nothing about legalities and such. They’ll just pack up their old cars and trucks and move along. What else can they do?”

Jordan leaned back into the rocker and started rocking very slowly looking blindly threw a crude side window that framed a huge tobacco field. Mr. Moore who always keeps a wiping towel in his back pocket, the way that a football referee carries his yellow flag, jerked it out and began cleaning the candy shelves for the third time in the last four hours. “The man also told me the area around this store would be the very epicenter or ground-zero of the lake.”

“What’s an epicenter and a ground-zero?” Jordan asked.

Mr. Moore momentarily popped the towel back into his hind pocket and tapped one finger into the center of his open palm. “Just some fancy words for smack-dab-in-the-middle,” he said shaking his head. “Not only is this area going to be the center of the lake, the man also told me it’s going to be the “apex saturation point,” more fancy words for the deepest part of the lake. Want to know how deep it’s going to be, and I‘m talking right here, right where this very little store sits?” he asked Jordan. “The man told me it’s going to be roughly 580 feet deep. That’s almost two football fields long, well, in this case, two football fields straight up.”

Jordan stopped rocking and stopped breathing. He felt cold inside, icy cold, a sensation that made him wonder if his heart was still beating.

Mr. Moore glanced up at Bullwrinke and frowned. His rag began popping the old fellow’s nose, cleaning off a few spots of dust.

“That brother of mine, the one in Kentucky, well they built a similar reservoir up his way a few years back. I took a ride up there about a year after it was completed. They had already started constructing parks and camping areas around it. New marinas were popping up and people were building beautiful new homes around the shore. It looked real pretty like. However, that’s what the Power Company wanted them to believe ‘Look what a fool you’ve been trying to fight us off. Look what a beautiful recreation area that we’ve brought to your fair little community.’

“But that’s bullshit. What they didn’t tell you is that they first had to commit a murder. When my brother and I got his boat onto the lake we quickly discovered who the victim was.”

“I remember how calm and crystal the water was that day. Looking deep into the lake, you could see it everywhere, death and total destruction. It went on for miles and miles. Houses with little picked fences and backyards full of swing sets and dollhouses, abandon cars, tractors even old school buses. These were people’s homes and lives; they’re dearest memories at one time.

“Everything appeared intact as far as I could tell. It looked like a little world that was frozen in clear solid acrylic. Then we spotted this two-lane highway and decided to follow it along. Hell, no reason to worry about getting lost out there, all you needed to do was pull out an old road map and follow the highways along. Well anyway, we followed this road for a couple of miles up lake and the destruction just continued. We saw along the way, little country stores, farmhouses, barns, you name it. Even the phone poles along the road still had their transformers and wires attached. Then we passed over this little church and I caught sight of the graveyard sitting off to the left. I could see some of the departed and been removed, buried elsewhere, but many were not. I could easily make out their headstones. Guess these poor souls had no living relatives to help and the Power Company certainly wasn’t getting into the grave-digging business. We passed over a little roadside restaurant and motel, small businesses, a trailer park, more houses, some with brick chimneys that were still supporting TV antennas. Then the road came to a four-way stop. Hell, even the stop signs were still standing.

“Why didn’t they just bulldoze all this down before they let the water in?” Jordan asked, and then realized how stupid his question sounded.

“No need to, the water would take care of everything in a few years. We then passed over what looked to be a high school. Off to the right was the baseball field. The diamond was clearly visible lacking only the bases. Further off to the right sat the football field, complete with both home and visitor’s bleachers. One of the goal post was lying in the murk; the other was leaning heavily off to one side. We pressed on passing over some fields. Of course there was nothing down there, just thick shadowy mud. Then the fields tapered off into a deep forest. It was a bright summer day up on the surface, but looking beneath us appeared more like a cold winter afternoon. Most of the trees were still standing, but some of the bigger boys had already slipped in the mud and were lying flat on their backs. The ones that had managed to keep their balance looked like giant dead twigs sticking up in the murk. No life at all left in them. Mr. Moore looked down at Jordan. The boy’s mouth was hanging open and his big green eyes were the size of a Franklin half-dollar.

“It didn’t feel like we were on a boat, it felt more like we were on an airplane, looking down at a lifeless countryside. But you know what it really felt like, Jordi? Sort of like we were riding across the top of a glass top coffin and looking down onto someone dead. Seemed almost disrespectful to stare. About three years later, we went back out on the boat. The water was just a clear as it had been the first time out, but now everything was gone, sunk deep into bottomless mud, just vanished.”

“Mr. Moore I don’t think I could ever come back here and see what you did if they flood this area,” Jordan trembled. “I’ve lived here all my life and I couldn’t even imagine seeing what you did. I mean, right here in Falls Hills. I’m getting sick just thinking about it.”

“I know what you mean, son. All that destruction, it’s a sight your mind never let’s you forget.”




***Part 4*** Old Black Men And Bottle Dreaming


“THE GLASS TOP COFFIN”


By Stephen Bryan (HurricaneWarning)


“Say boy,” said Mr. Moore, peeking at his large pocket watch. “You paid for that soda and snack almost thirty minutes ago, isn’t your belly telling you something?”

Jordan spread his arms backwards, stretched big, then rocked himself to his feet. He walked to the large red drink box sitting close to the back of the store. The box was comprised of two sections. The left side was for soda pop and the right side was for beer and wine only. Mr. Moore kept them carefully marked.

Jordan took hold of the large black handle on the soda pop side, opened the heavy lid and swished his hand around in the ice-cold water. A faint scent of rust emanated into the air. In a few seconds, he had found the familiar shape of his particular brand and pulled the bottle out like an ice fisherman. Before he popped the top off, he carefully dried the bottle and his hands on a clean, white towel that hung above the drink box. Mr. Moore did not intend to have his floor the least bit drippy. Jordan snatched a bag of pork rinds off of a silver rack then headed for the screen door. Mr. Moore had made his way to the back of the store and was busily feeding the live fishing worms.

Outside there was an empty vegetable box that Jordan secretly kept stored around the left corner of the grocery. He pulled it around front and sat beneath the store’s big open window. Pulling a large pork rind out of the bag, he crunched into it. Brown crumbs sprinkled to his stomach and then bounced to the ground like polluted snowflakes. Two ease-dropping crows flew in and landed a few feet away from his feet. Jordan kicked some gravel at them and they swiftly fluttered backward. He leaned his head easily against the storefront, staring blankly into the big open fields.

The hot June sun was finally beginning to tire in the west sky, and a dark statuette of the grocery silently crept across the road and into the endless miles of tobacco. The huge tobacco plants waved and bowed in a lazy breeze. Jordan looked intently into the bowing plants. Up and down, up and down they bowed. It reminded him of the old black men in tattered overalls he sometimes passed along the roads and paths of Falls Hills. The old men would always remove their straw hats, smile genuinely and bow, always bowing, their old dark eyes never leaving you.

Jordan hated this. He felt as if he were being treated as a god or king, which was the last thing he wanted. Always bowing, their old dark eyes never leaving you. Always bowing. He wanted to stop and scream: Stop that damn bowing to me! He remembered once having ask his mother about this. She had explained that it was just a deeply rooted tradition of the very old colored people and that they were the only ones who still practiced it. They come from a time that is totally out of place with today’s world, she had explained. It was just a sign of courtesy and respect. Jordan still protested but his mother clarified that most likely it would deeply hurt their feelings if they were told to stop. Her advice was to politely nod, say hello and keep walking. They always bowed, up and down, smiling genuinely, holding their straw hat over their heart, their old dark eyes never leaving you. Never leaving you.

The old south was all but “Gone With The Wind” during the early summer of 1963, but there were many pockets still left if you looked patiently. In this deep, rich tobacco country “The “Wind” had forfeited to just a faint breeze and even that light breeze would soon exhaust itself to the confines of a quickly changing world.

In the old days, the days of slavery, there were no traditional plantations in this area. It was very much the way it is now; the more successful farmers lived in spacious white homes usually wrapped by a large veranda. Built nearby were several small, tin roof cabin-like structures for the colored farmhand families. This way of life had been passed down through many generations, even after slavery had been abolished. It was a beautiful world in its own regard. A world that was relaxed, easy-going and most of all, accepted by all.

Jordan cracked a large pork rind into, popped half of it into his mouth then threw the other half to the two crows who had been waiting patiently for a handout. The birds attacked it with a sense of vengeance. Each gained an equal piece and took to the air.

The boy held an emerald 7-Up bottle (the exact match of his own eyes) up to his face and gazed into it like a crystal ball. In deep shades of purples and blues he could see landscapes quickly form then disappear. One landscape held its own and Jordan could see the image of people talking in a tight circle. When the picture focused for a brief second, he could see that one person in the circle was a young woman and she was weeping. The others were trying to calm her. The image blurred again then swirled into a bright magnitude of sparks and green mist. It grew larger then twisted itself into another landscape. He could see a hefty size dog running full speed through a field toward its master who held out two welcoming arms. The animal leaped through the air and playfully hit its target full speed sending both master and beast to the ground in a hard heap. Jordan could faintly hear the serious laughter coming from the master and he chuckled to himself at this funny scene. Then he waited patently for the image to transform itself.

Jordan always had a special way of looking deep inside himself and seeing images most people could never imagine. He loved doing this little trick with the bottle and if he concentrated hard enough it always seemed to work. Sometimes what he saw could be humorous and lighthearted, and then at other times the images could be downright horrifying. He was always prepared to pull himself quickly away should an image get too far out of hand.

The colorful disfigurement inside the bottle began to reshape, structuring itself into a man standing on an isolated beach painting an evening seascape. The colors then slit apart and danced together forming into a beautiful chessboard. At first, the pieces appeared to be moving by themselves. However, upon closer inspection, Jordan noticed that two translucent men who were sitting on opposite sides of the board were the ones actually moving the chess pieces. Both were dressed in Victorian style clothing, one was leisurely smoking a cigarette while the other was seriously studying his next move.

At this point, the image washed away creating another landscape that looked very familiar to the boy. He recognized it as a large home that sat just a few hundred feet down the road from Mr. Moore’s grocery. Jordan must have passed it a thousand times. Mr. Moore had once told him it belonged to a Mr. S.L. Anderson, a wealthy businessman. The land surrounding their home was almost two-thousand acres, but the Andersons weren’t the least interested in farming. Their land was simply leased out during growing season. The large house was in sharp focus, but something off to the left was blurry and giving a slight show of movement. Jordan concentrated harder and the blurry object began to solidify itself. Jordan immediately recognized it as one of the old, bowing black men. As usual, he was attired in frayed denim overalls and a straw hat. He was plowing what looked to be a small garden area in the side yard.

The old black man was using a large brown mule and the animal was greatly struggling with the drought stricken ground. Jordan noticed that the man had a long strip of wire and was beating the mule with it and yelling something to the animal. It sounded to the boy like, “Yit-oop!, Yit-oop!, Moan up!, Moan up now!” The poor mule’s tongue was exiting at least a foot out of its mouth and snot and slobber dispensed with each heavy breath. The ill-fated beast looked as if it wouldn’t make it much longer in the hot sun.

The old black man beat into him again with another loud pop of the wire. Large whelps were now forming to its side, and bright red blood had begun to ooze out. The mule raced foreword then slipped and went down hard, such as a deer will do should it receive the perfect shot. The old man struck the mule hard over its head, and only the terror of the wire made the animal jerk itself off the hot, rocky ground. The mule’s blood-shot eyes looked wild and full of terror. It lunged forward, desperately trying to escape, but the large heavy plow had it anchored tight. Jordan began to scream at the mule’s master, but at that very moment, the old black man looked across the road and saw the boy watching him. He dropped the reins and the wire then properly placed his straw hat over his heart and began to bow to the boy. He smiled genuinely, always bowing, up and down, their old dark eyes never leaving you.

“Lay off that mule!” Jordan screamed in a stormy voice. “And quit that damn bowing!” he firmly added. However, the old man continued to bow and smile genuinely. Jordan stepped forward in his vision but failed to see the oncoming car to his left. It screeched and swerved on the highway, missing the boy only by inches.

The next sound he heard was the old screen door slamming open. Jordan momentarily broke away from the bottle and saw Mr. Moore standing on the top step looking down on him, the seven-up bottle smothered close to his face. Mr. Moore knew all about bottle dreaming. Jordan had once explained it to him in fine detail, including the fact that he obtained many of his story ideas by using it.

“You know there's a place in town called Rex Hill,” Mr. Moore said, shaking his head. “That’s where they take all the loony cakes that’ve flipped out of their heads. A state institution is what it is. You keep up that bottle dreaming and most likely that’s where you’ll end up, in a little padded cell with a goddamn typewriter.”

Jordan wiggled a few fingers as if to say, I'm ok, just leave me alone for right now. Mr. Moore got the message and went back inside the store. “Yes sir,” the old man mumbled, “Heard they have to put some of those idiots in straightjackets so they won’t throw their own shit at the nurses.”

Jordan joined back with the bottle. He was riding on a good trip. “Bottle dreaming” was very addictive once you got into the grove of it. Like the alcoholic, he was on a binge and there was no stopping at this point. He tried to restore the old black man and the mule, and at first, it began to take some structure, but then it dulled and washed away, leaving nothing but a subtle darkness.

Within the shadows of a transitory image, a fuzzy white light began to spread and tangle into its own luminosity. It grew transparent, much like smoke rising from the tip end a cigarette, almost ghost-like in appearance. Then it smoothed gracefully into an oblong shape. As it focused, Jordan could clearly see that it was a large white bathtub. In the tub sat a baby girl no more than two-years old. An old woman was preparing the bathwater and the baby was playing in the filling tub, splashing happily with her toys. A bright red towel with a swimming yellow mermaid hung above the child‘s head. The old woman was on her knees holding the bath toys in the air, flying them like an airplane. Then she pointed to the child’s gold, wavy hair and snapped her fingers as if there was something she had forgotten. The old woman struggled carefully to her feet then pointed some firm instructions to the little girl.

Jordan watched as the old woman quickly left the room. As she did, he could see the small child’s head slip quickly below the rim of the tub. Her small hands and feet were sticking up above the rim, kicking in joy. Water splashed to the floor and Jordan chuckled at the fun and excitement. Then everything became disturbingly quite. There was no movements in the bath, no splashing of water. The image rolled slowly forward toward the tub. Jordan peered into the bathwater where he saw a large glob of silent blond hair floating in soapy water. The baby had drowned.

Quickly trying to escape the image, Jordan swiftly jerked backward, banging the back of his head rigidly against the storefront. He was free of the vision, but his head was spinning like a hurricane. The boy sat the bottle down and noticed that dazzling white stars surrounded it. This wasn’t another vision, rather just plain, throbbing reality. Suddenly he heard a boisterous sound directly to his right and then he caught a glimpse of a large dark shadow moving rapidly toward him. Jordan flinched, holding an arm up in defense. It stopped just inches away and Jordan recognized it immediately. His heart sank deep. It was the tattered pickup truck of Wally Perkins.




***Part 5*** The Antics Of Wally Perkins


“THE GLASS TOP COFFIN”


By Stephen Bryan (HurricaneWarning)


Jordan glanced up at Wally who was sitting in the pickup then he noticed him raise a brown whiskey bottle to his face. The truck door opened, squealing like a wild bird. Wally walked straight to Jordan, flashing his bright, yellow teeth and slapped him on the shoulder, almost knocking the boy off the box.

“Goddamn boy, I never seen you sitting out here that you ain’t munchin’ on them their porker skins,” Wally teased.

Jordan was fast with words and tongue, a skill he practiced constantly in his head but had never used with an adult. He had taken enough abuse from this obnoxious, drunken, millionaire farmer and decided even if it meant being belted, he wasn’t going to take any more.

“Mr. Perkins, why don’t you eat what you like and I‘ll eat what I like and all the world will be happy,” Jordan retorted.

“Well let me tell you a thing or two about eting all them porker skins, son. You ete maybe just one too many and you're liable to turn into a little piggy. Once that happens, might some dirty-minded farm boy just come along and do some disobedient little trick on ya.” Joked Wally in exploding, sickening laughter.

Jordan looked up at him in total discuss. “Well, Mr. Perkins, if I ever turn into a little piggy, I’ll make sure I stay far away from your place.”

At first, Wally’s face looked a little confused then it grew serious. “You trying to say something smart there, boy?”

“Well, my teacher once told me I was one of the smartest kids in her class. Is that what you mean, sir?” replied the boy with a smooth face.

Wally started for the stairs, mumbling under his breath then stopped and tapped his fingers to his side. Walking back to his truck, he opened the door and pulled out a large brown grocery bag. The top was rolled tightly shut and Jordan could see that Wally had randomly punched a few holes into the outside of the bag. He also noticed that Wally was carrying it protectively away from his body. The bag rattled in a tizzy and Jordan realized that whatever was inside was without doubt alive. It was something large and something that desperately wanted free, at any price.

As Wally passed by, he quickly shoved the bag close to the boy‘s face. Jordan leaped backwards, almost banging the back of his head again. Wally bellowed a huge drunken laugh. “Got your worst nightmare in here, boy.”

“I don’t think so Mr. Perkins,” Jordan shot back. “Mine would never fit in that bag.”

Wally, glanced over his shoulder, mumbled again then started up the steps leaving two large farts hanging in the air.

Jordan was tempted to go inside to see what Wally had in the bag, but not wanting to be around the man any longer than absolutely necessary, he quickly decided against it.

The large open window above his head allowed the warm, rural summer air to stir lazily through the old store. The late afternoon countryside was in quiet solitude except for a few arguing crows somewhere in the distant fields. Jordan could hear perfectly every word spoken inside. He listened closely in slow breathing.

“Wendil, that goddamn pet of yours outside sure has a smart-shit little mouth on him,” Wally complained. “And when I say smart I ain’t talking about no educated type eitha.”

“Well, I always thought that's a good trait in a man, Wally. I sort of like a person who states their mind right up front, no beating around the bush.” Mr. Moore defended.

“Well, if he ain’t careful with that mouth of his, somebody's liable to come along and squash him, like steppin’ on a puppy’s head.” Outside, Jordan raised his eyes and slowly shook his head.

“What can I do for you, Wally?” Mr. Moore said in an irritable tone, already losing his patience with the man.

"Got a little somethin’ to show you. Let me just put it out here on the counter, but ya better stand back a little.” Jordan heard the bag rattle as Wally opened it. There was a brief pause and then a gasping sound. Jordan braced himself for the worse. The next sound he heard almost tore the old screen door from its rusty hinges.

“Get that goddamn, half-dead, bloody rat off my clean counter!” Mr. Moore boomed.

“Rat,” Jordan said to himself. “It’s a rat.”

“Hold your pants up, Wendil, hold your pants up, let’s just knock ‘em down here on the floor.” Jordan heard a soft thud. “Caught him this mornin’ in the basement,” Wally explained. “Damn trap near took the better part of his hind leg off. Heard it told an animal would ete its trapped leg off just to get away. Never believed it till today. But that’s what this one was a doing when I found it. Eteing at it, eteing the livin’ hell out of it.”

“Damn you Wally, I just mopped that floor this morning. Now get that rat back in the bag and out of my store.” His words echoed like cannon fire.

“Here, help me get it back in.” Wally said. “Damn thing’s the size of a cat, ain‘t it, Wendil?”

“Wally, Oh hell, now its getting away!”

Jordan could hear Wally laughing as if he had gone insane. “Fast little bastard for only having three legs, don’t you say, Wendil?”

“Get that damn rat out of my store! Just look at all that bloody mess on my clean floor,” Mr. Moore howled.

Jordan heard the rustling of the bag. “There he goes,” Wally said. “He’s good and safe now.”

“Then get the hell out of here!” Mr. Moore roared in a bursting rage. Wally staggered out of the door and stood on the top step, his head held high to the sky, totally out of breath in laughter. Then he looked down and saw Jordan sitting on the vegetable create, finishing the remains of his snacks. The amusement grew soft and a strange little look came to one eye. Wally descended the four concrete stairs then smoothly turned in the direction of the youngster. “Hey, Jordi boy, wanna see the biggest damn rat anyone ever laid eyes on?” Jordan scooted as far back as possible then waved a hand and shook his head, ready to make a fresh dash if necessary.

“Oh, come on boy, just a little peep, he ain‘t gonna hurt no one,” said Wally, while carefully opening the bag close to Jordan’s face. “Now just peep carefully down in there, son. Caught ‘em this mornin‘, messing round in my basement.” Jordan lifted his chin slightly and peered in. Wally carefully continued to open the bag until it was exactly to the point where he wanted it. Suddenly he shoved the entire opening of the bag over Jordan’s face.

“Got ya boy, the damn rat’s got ya!”

Jordan yelled loud then fell over backward, trapping one leg under his body. Above him, he could hear Wally howling in drunken laughter. Jordan's one free leg was sticking straight up in the air and waving around, making him very vulnerable. Wally immediately recognized that fact and pushed the bag to Jordan’s crotch. “Teeth big enough to bite your fuckn’ dick off.”

“Help!” Jordan yelled out. “Get that away, get that away, please somebody help me!”

“Snap - Snap -Snap,” Wally squealed in his drunken stupor, pushing the bag even more firmly to the boy’s crotch.

With the one free leg, Jordan cocked it tight then thrust it upward as hard as he could manage. His shoe hit the bag perfectly, knocking it clean from Wally's hands. The rat-in-the-bag went sailing through the air, landing about ten feet to the left. The brown sack immediately bust open upon impact and the rat scampered out freely. Nevertheless, just as the half-dead varmint hit the gravel it lost all traction. Jordan, still on his back, could see it now. It wasn’t the size of a cat but maybe a good-sized kitten. At first, it appeared as if it had two tails. Then Jordan realized that one of the tails was actually a long dragging leg that was scarcely clinging to its body by only a thin, bloody membrane. The big varmint was scurrying hard in the gravel but it was only departing in small circles.

At once, Mr. Moore suddenly burst from the store, his face the color of an inflamed boil. The first thing he saw was Wally standing over Jordan‘s twisted body, laughing like a man who urgently needed to be admitted to Rex Hill. Then he turned and saw the rat darting around in a desperate circle. “Wally I’m going to give you thirty....no, twenty seconds to get away from that boy, get that rat back in the bag and get your ass off my premises or I’m calling the Sheriff!”

Wally stood up straight, laughing so hard that his eyes were watering. His huge stomach jolted up and down as if he’d recently swallowed a
Volkswagen. He staggered over to the rat and informed Mr. Moore,
“Might I remind ya Wendil that you ain’t got no goddamn telephone. Hell, more than half the people rounds these parts ain’t got no phone they’d be so god-shit poor.”

Mr. Moore had seen and heard enough. “Then bye-golly, maybe I’ll just throw your drunken ass off myself,” said the old man, starting down the stairs and hastily rolling up his sleeves.

“Hold your shit,” Wally said. “Just let me get my little friend here and we’s aboth be getten’ off.”

Wally kicked the rat hard to the head sending it flying lifelessly back into the bag. Quickly picking it up, he began wobbling in the general direction of his truck.

As he walked past Jordan, who was now sitting up and wiping the dirt from his shirt and tears from his eyes, Wally held the rat-in-the-bag his way. “Snap-Snap-Snap” he mocked one last time. Jordan engaged a fast kick at the brown paper bag, but the boy’s worn out sneaker missed by a wholesome country mile.

Wally opened the door to his truck and tossed the rat-in-the-bag onto the front seat then pulled out the whiskey bottle. He tilted it skyward taking several long gulps. As he drank, some of the hard stuff rolled down his white unshaven face, soaking into the green tobacco stained overalls.

“Hey Jordi?” he called in a slurred voice. “When ya gonna come sit with ole Wally in church again? Sort of like sitting up close to a pretty little boy on Sunday mornin’. Makes me fell real close to Jesus-like.

Jordan wiped away some more angry tears then glared hard at Wally. His pressure point had now reached full maximum and this was the perfect time to let it all blow loose.

“Maybe I’ll try it again in another fuckin’ life!” Jordan shrieked, slightly hurting his throat.

That remark even brought a light chuckle from Mr. Moore who was now standing on the bottom step and tapping his watch. Wally took another long drink then returned to his truck.

The old heap started quickly but it hissed and puffed then finally grinded into a random gear. Wally shot past Jordan then slid to a quick arrest in front of the steps.

“Tell me Wendil, When’s ya birthday?”

“Early October, what’s it to you, Perkins?”

“Thought this year I’d make ya a little birthday cake, but ya otta be careful with the cutting,” he laughed, pointing to the bag. “Might just use this as part of the fillin‘.”

Mr. Moore looked at his watch one last time and nodded sternly toward the end of the driveway.

Wally gunned the engine three quick times then punched the accelerator to the floor spraying Mr. Moore and Jordan with dust, gravel and blue exhaust fumes. At the end of the driveway, Wally made a tight U-turn and peeled up the highway heading south. As he flew passed the store Jordan could see him grinning wildly and shaking the rat-in-the-bag in the air much the way a parent would shake a bag full of candy to a child---‘here you are sweetheart, it’s all yours.’

Jordan kicked the gravel in angry frustration. Mr. Moore simply walked to the end of the store and disappeared around the corner. He returned a few minutes later pushing a mop and bucket that was filled with water and five or six disinfectants. On the steps he struggled a brief moment with the large bucket then he shoved everything into the store. Standing on the top step, Mr. Moore stared in the direction of Wally’s departure.

“Now that‘s what you call an idiot,” he said to no one in particular. “That’s what you call one goddamn idiot.”





“THE GLASS TOP COFFIN”

***Part 6*** Pennies From Heaven

By Stephen Bryan (HurricaneWarning)



Ten minutes had passed when Mr. Moore stuck his head out of the door. “Got the floor relatively clean, at least decent enough to walk on. You coming in, boy?” Jordan nodded then watched the remains of his 7-Up sizzle into the dark gravel, akin to agitated acid. He tossed the few remaining pork skins into a small weedy area to his right. There were no crows.

Jordan stood up and thought to himself---even the crows have enough sense to stay away from Wally Perkins.

“You ok, boy?” Mr. Moore asked as Jordan slowly walked into the small store.

“Yes sir, I‘m ok,” Jordan softly replied. “He just got to me a little. I shouldn't have let him get that far.”

“Oh, forget about it boy,” said Mr. Moore who was finishing the last of his chores with the fishing worms. “He’s always got some damn fool way of getting under a person’s skin. Him and that whisky go together real well.”

“I guess you’re right,” Jordan said, putting his empty 7-up bottle into an old wood carton.

“Just remember,” Mr. Moore educated. “Some days you're the windshield and some days you’re the bug.”

“Guess I was definitely the bug today,” Jordan responded, feeling somewhat better now.

Mr. Moore turned and pointed to the mop and bucket. “Well, I guess I got splattered right along beside you.” They both laughed.

Jordan walked to the cash register and pushed the green “NO SALE” key. The big brass bell rang out with distinguished pride. He took his two-cent bottle deposit from the penny cubby and started to close the drawer. Then the boy saw it, the little white box at the very back of the register drawer. He pulled the box free and rubbed the top softly. There he saw red ballpoint pen writing. It said:


“FIRST SALE”

APRIL 4th 1955


He removed the blue rubber band and opened the little box. Inside, resting on soft white cotton, were two Indian head pennies, both in mint condition. They were special to Mr. Moore because they were in the change of his very first sale, eight years ago. They were also special because of a minting error. Mr. Moore had once pointed out to Jordan that there were only eight feathers on the Indian’s headband instead of the normal nine. Jordan once asked if they might be valuable.

“Never even checked,” he had told him. “They’re going to sit right here in this register drawer as long as I own this store.”

Jordan read the dates on both coins: 1889, the year Mr. Moore was born.

He poured them into his hand then rubbed them with his fingers. They felt smooth, cold and slippery.

Mr. Moore, the mind reader, yelled from the back of the store, “Now why do you want to mess around with those pennies, boy? You know I’ll just have to clean them.” Jordan just smiled.

“Don’t worry, I’ll clean them up, Mr. Moore,” he yelled back. Jordan held them both up to a wide eye and counted the feathers, only eight, and then flipped them over and rubbed the other side. Pouring a dab of alcohol onto an old rag he rubbed it into the coins then sat them back into the box just the way he’d found them; one heads-up the other heads-down. He put them back into the drawer, closed it and walked to the back of the store.

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Moore,” he said, holding up his little finger.

Mr. Moore wrapped his own little finger around Jordan’s and they tugged for a few seconds---a little tradition they had played for the past two years.

“I’m sure I will, don’t think you’ve missed coming here in over a year,” chuckled Mr. Moore while patting Jordan on the shoulder.

As the boy opened the screen door, Mr. Moore called out to him. “Hey Jordi, you know those Ducks at the Power Company I was telling you about earlier?”

Jordan nodded a head.

“I have a feeling those Ducks might just fly your way one of these days. I once heard it said that anyone can pull a trigger, but to be a Marksman, one must learn to master the aim.”

Jordan had not the slightest idea what the old man was talking about but he could sense a profound seriousness in his wavering voice. He committed every word deep to memory, knowing that one day it would all be clear. He held up his little finger and wiggled it and Mr. Moore did the same. A small twinkle came from the elderly man’s eye, crossed the room and landed smack-dab-in-the-middle of Jordan’s.

The boy turned and bounced down the stairs. As his sneaker grazed the final step he heard the old screen door slam behind him. It would also slam out this chapter in Jordan’s young life. It would be the last time he would ever see Mr. Moore alive.


*****


Jordan started down the road, his destination, his small rented trailer home. When he reached S.L. Anderson’s large house he studied the section of yard where he had seen in his vision---the old black man with the mule. Nothing was plowed, just new summer’s grass.

He walked a few hundred feet up the paved road then turned onto a small footpath that led through a section of woods. Soon the footpath unfilled into a large weedy meadow. He continued to walk, passing at a safe distance from an old abandoned plantation home.

Once there had been a time when he enjoyed exploring the old place, but those days were long since past. Several months earlier, late on a cold January evening, as he was returning home from the grocery, Jordan had heard a strange noise coming from the old, dark house. Upon closer inspection he heard what sounded as if two large animals were fighting fierily in an upstairs bedroom. The commotion was so intense that it actually shook the entire house.

The air on that evening was bitter cold and breathlessly still. No wind was at play. Two dark silhouetted ravens sat atop a deep crest in the aged rusted tin roof and seemed to be enjoying the uncanny ruckus, their silver-black wings and tail feathers remaining still, motionless on this lifeless, icy evening. Sitting on the front porch was an old junk rocking chair. It began to rock slowly, to and fro, faster and faster and then began to spin wildly. Suddenly the old rocker was thrown from the porch as if it had been caught by a violent wind devil. That was the last time Jordan ever got near the old place.

The boy jumped a small ditch then crossed a grassy empty lot. He was now back on his own dusty road and only a short walk to his trailer that sat parked at the end of the weedy lane.

As Jordan walked into the front yard, he stopped to admire all the pretty flowers that his mother had recently planted around their small and shabby trailer home, almost reminding him of a modest Japanese garden.

The boy smiled, despite a stomachache that was beginning to brew heavily in his mid-section.

Opening the front door to his trailer, he slung off his old sneakers, sending them flying in opposite directions. On the sofa, he curled up into a tight ball and fell fast asleep.

Two hours later Jordan felt his mother tapping lightly on his shoulder, asking if he were ok. He quickly explained that his stomach had been upset earlier and that he did not feel like eating supper.

Madelyn felt his forehead. It was cool.

She carefully removed his socks and shirt then unfastened his trousers, pulling them slowly away from his body.

Attired only in cotton underwear, Jordan curled back into another tight ball.

Madelyn held up his tattered jeans and noticed two new holes that had recently appeared in the knee area. She made a mental note to mend them just as soon as they were washed.

Certainly, there was no money for new clothing anytime in the near future.

Madelyn left the room, returning with a light blanket and placed it securely around her son.

Even though the small trailer was suffocating in the mid summer heat, a light shiver ran through the boy and he lugged the blanket tightly over his shoulders.

There were no dreams and there were no bottle visions. Only peaceful sleep.

Deep black, velvet sleep.




“THE GLASS TOP COFFIN”

***Part 7*** Funeral For A Friend

By Stephen Bryan (HurricaneWarning)



If it is fitting to say, it was a beautiful day for a funeral. The bright warm Sunday afternoon played a gorgeous host for the many mourners who had come to pay their last respects to Wendil L. Moore.

Jordan sat quietly beside his mother as they drove to the little church in their worn 1953 Bel Air.

The boy had not talked much during the last few days and Madelyn was beginning to worry more and more about him. Last night she had asked if he would perhaps enjoy saying a short eulogy to Mr. Moore.

At first, he was horrified at the idea of standing all alone in front of a large audience. However, after thinking it all over, the thought seemed rather appealing. Besides, he reasoned, he owed Mr. Moore at least that much respect in light of all the things that he had taught him as well as all his encouragement.

Jordan wrote one page and handed it to his mother. She carefully read every word then told him that it was excellent and not to change a word. Jordan slowly took the page from his mother's hand and re-read it. Frowning, he balled it up and tossed it into the wastebasket. Madelyn looked surprised and confused. Jordan took out another sheet and wrote for ten minutes then handed it back to her. When Madelyn finished reading the new eulogy, she hugged her son. This fresh writing was something totally different producing large tears from her eyes.


****

As their car passed by S.L. Anderson’s home, Jordan glanced at it casually then shot up in the seat in total disbelief. To the left side of the lawn was a freshly plowed garden. He only had a glimpse of it but there was no mistake. Long white strings had been tied tautly to wooden stakes marking the rows of beans, squash, carrots and other vegetables. Madelyn looked at Jordan, he was as white as a ghost.

“Are you ok?” She asked in a concerned voice. Jordan just stared out of the window, slowly nodding his head, never noticing Mr. Moore’s boarded up country store.

Earlier, Madelyn had phoned Pastor Ellis to informed him that her son wished to say a few words on Mr. Moore‘s behalf. He was delighted and told her that he would save them both a spot on the front pew. When Jordan and Madelyn walked into the little church, they immediately noticed the sweet and rich scent of floral that lingered in the air.

The flowers that surround Mr. Moore’s light oak casket was overwhelming. Jordan handed his mother the small vase of flora that he was carrying and walked straight to Mr. Moore’s closed casket.

The boy placed both hands atop it and began making brisk, tiny circles. Immediately his eyes began to burn. He quickly stepped away, trying desperately to control his emotions. Madelyn intervened, putting an arm around her son. “Why don’t we read some of the cards that are attached to all the pretty flowers,” she suggested.

Jordan knew many of the contributors but the vast majority of the flowers were donated from people totally unknown in Falls Hills. Jordan thought of Mr. Moore’s big-scarred hands and his earlier life -- the life he would never talk about. The boy wondered if perhaps these were some of the people who were apart of that past silent world.

When he and his mother had finished reading the cards, they both took their seats on the front pew. Jordan looked around as more people filed into the small chapel and began hunting for a place to sit. He had never remembered seeing the church so full, even on Easter Sunday.

Many people had no place to sit and simply stood around the back and sides of the little church.

Sitting off to his left, Jordan could see Wally Perkins, who actually looked half-sober for a change. Then he noticed some men he had never seen in Falls Hills. They looked strange, sort of like the Secret Service men he had once seen on TV, the ones who so professionally protected our President, John F. Kennedy. They dressed in expensive looking dark suits; some wore deep shaded aviation glasses. None of them sat, they stood in the back, talking among themselves and watching.

When Pastor Ellis walked to the podium all the small chatter stopped. For thirty minutes, the slinky tall pastor talked about Mr. Moore, listing his wonderful and generous qualities. The qualities that this small community knew, loved, and would dearly miss. When he had finished, the Minister stepped away from the podium and nodded to Jordan. Madelyn nudged her son lightly and encouraged him not to be nervous.

Jordan walked to the small stage and unfolded a sheet of white notebook paper. Pastor Ellis had thoughtfully placed a footstool behind the Podium for the boy to stand on. Jordan looked into the huge congregation and all the air suddenly left his lungs. Never in his life had so many eyes stared at him. The microphone was slightly too high so he carefully reached up to lower it, but it was stuck tight. For a few seconds he struggled with it, and when it finally lowered, it did so with a sudden snap, hitting the boy squarely on the nose. The huge speakers popped loudly and everyone in the hushed church jumped in their seat. Looking down to his paper he could hear quiet snickers and suppressed laughter. He felt more like a standup comic rather than someone trying to give a heartrending eulogy. Why am I doing this? he screamed silently to himself. I’ll never be able to get through this alone. So he tried to speak but nothing came forth. The smallest word in the entire English language just hung there on the roof of his mouth. By now, Jordan was in the process of a full-blown panic attack.

The boy suddenly felt a comforting arm reach around him and a warm breath in his ear. “Happens to me too,” Pastor Ellis whispered. “Happens to all of us, even the best speakers in the world. Learned a little trick in seminary school, goes like this. I’m going to bring you a glass of water. When I give it to you, I want you to take two large breaths then take three very quick swallows of the water. Be careful not to get choked. Works every time.” The pastor returned with a small, glass of cold water. Jordan followed his instructions and like magic, it actually seemed to work. He felt much calmer and decided to try again. At first his words came out slow and meek but soon they began to pick up strength and volume.

“I...I was going to read something nice that I wrote about Mr. Moore but then I decided to tell you a story he once told me.” Jordan started out, head lowered, reading from his paper. “This was back when he was a very young man and the first year that he was married. It was Christmas Eve and Mr. Moore was out buying a last minute gift for his new wife. He had just left the department store and was walking toward his car when he saw an old man holding onto a streetlamp for support. Mr. Moore walked up to the man, who he said, looked frozen, hungry and very ill.”

‘Are you ok, sir?’ he asked him. The old shabby man just nodded “yes.” Mr. Moore handed him a twenty-dollar bill, which he told me was worth almost a week’s salary back in those days. The old man refused the money and waved him away. But Mr. Moore wouldn’t take no for an answer. He stuck the bill into the pocket of the man’s thin jacket and told him, ‘Sir, you’re not in any condition to be proud at this time. Now go get something to eat, find a warm place to stay and for God’s sake go see a doctor in the morning.’ The old man remained quiet until Mr. Moore began to get into his Model T.

‘Young man,’ the old man called to Mr. Moore. ‘For your generosity, someday in your life you will receive a treasure, something wonderful, beyond your wildest dreams. It will be something that you will cherish until the very last breath of air leaves your body.’

Jordan looked up to the sea of hypnotized eyes who were studying him. “He told me later in his life that this actually came true. Would you like to know what the treasure was?” Everyone in the small church was deafly silent, a few heads shook yes. Jordan looked down to Mr. Moore’s beautiful oak casket and began to cry. Then his voice broke and began to shake. What the boy said next was only slightly audible, but everyone in the little church heard it perfectly.

“He told me that the treasure was Falls Hills and all the wonderful people who live here.”

Pastor Ellis walked up to the sobbing boy and put another comforting arm around him then spoke into the microphone.

“Now those, my neighbors, were the most beautiful words to have ever been spoken in this church.” One by one someone stood and began to applaud until the entire congregation was giving Jordan a standing ovation. When they had finished, Jordan wiped the tears from his eyes and sat down next to his mother. Madelyn took his hand into hers and squeezed with proud affection.


****


Mr. Moore was to be buried in the church cemetery next to his beloved Sara. Since he had no family, pallbearers had not been designated. A few volunteers, including Jordan, carried the casket outside to its final resting-place. Pastor Ellis simply read “The Lord’s Prayer” and everyone turned to leave.

Jordan noticed that the strange men in dark suits and sunglasses were boarding into a new Lincoln Continental with tinted windows. Madelyn and Jordan began walking toward their own car when the boy suddenly stopped and began staring hard into the bright afternoon sky.

Madelyn wondered if Jordan had at last found religion. Perhaps he was actually praying to God.

But he hadn’t found religion and neither was he praying. Jordan was standing on the bottom of a deep reservoir and looking up through five hundred feet of water and remembering Mr. Moore’s last words. ‘But you know what it really felt like? Sort of like riding across the top of a glass top coffin and looking down on someone dead. Seemed almost disrespectful to stare’.…..‘Then we passed over this little church and I caught sight of the graveyard sitting off to the left. I could see that some of the departed and been removed and buried elsewhere but some hadn’t. I could easily make out the headstones. Guess these poor souls had no living relatives to help and the Power Company certainly wasn’t getting into the grave-digging business‘..…‘Hey Jordi, you know those “Ducks” at the Power Company I was telling you about? I have a feeling they might just fly your way one of these days. I once heard it said that anyone can pull a trigger, but to be a Marksman, one must learn to master the aim.’

Jordan looked back into the small, enchanting cemetery and saw Pastor Ellis, the mortician and two other unknown men lowering the casket of Mr. Moore carefully into the ground.

“Stop!” yelled the small boy, running toward them as if in an extreme alarm.

Madelyn chased close behind, thinking that her son had totally flipped out.

The coffin was almost completely into the ground when the boy rushed up to it.

Jordan knelt to one knee and yelled at the height of his lungs, “I know what you mean now, Mr. Moore, I know what you mean! And when those Ducks fly my way, I’m going to blow their goddamn heads off!”

Madelyn’s mouth fell open wide. It was the first time that she had ever heard her son swear, and of all times, directly in front of Pastor Ellis.

She raised a hand to pop his mouth but the easy-going Pastor quickly caught her attention and nodded kindly toward the parking area.

Madelyn sighed in complete frustration then put her arm around her son knowing that words, even the most impiety of words, could never compete with the loneliness of a wounded, grieving heart.

The two walked away in total silence. This time, the boy never looked back.


****


The ride home was quiet and somber. Finally Madelyn broke the silence when she stated, “I know you are hurting about Mr. Moore but you’re still going to apologize to Pastor Ellis?”

“Yes ma’am, I’m sorry, Mom, I’ll make sure that I write him a real nice apology just as soon as we get home.”

“Oh no you don’t, Mr. little author. That doesn’t cut the cake. You’ll give him a full face to face apology next Sunday, is that clearly understood?”

“Yes ma’am, I understand,” Jordan said, staring down the road with absolutely no expression. “And I apologize to you too, Mom, right now and here.”

Madelyn smiled and covered Jordan's hand with her own. “Can I just ask you one question, Jordi? You mentioned something about ducks. What exactly did that mean?”

Jordan looked through the side window as the beautiful countryside of Falls Hills swirled by. Warm, dazzling sunlight spilt through the green branches of huge maples and oaks and sparked onto his face. Jordan turned to his mother and simply replied, “A promise.”


“THE GLASS TOP COFFIN”

***Part 8*** The Christmas Miracle Of Falls Hills

By Stephen Bryan (HurricaneWarning)



December 25th 1963


The joyous Christmas spirit that normally surrounds Falls Hills were absent this year. It was equally the same all across the entire country. The Nation’s 35th president had just been laid to rest less than four weeks earlier. However, it was especially sad for this small community due to the loss of their beloved Santa, Wendil L. Moore.

Madelyn handed Jordan a large, heavy present. Since it was expensive, she explained, it would be his only gift. After Jordan tore open the wrappings, his mouth fell open and his eyes danced with joy. Madelyn helped him pull the large, brand new typewriter from the box. The boy got to his feet and began jogging in place, then leaped into his mother’s arms and smothered her in kisses. Jordan ran to his bedroom and returned with a sheet of paper, inserted it, and began pecking away at light speed.

After a few minutes, he arose from the floor and walked to the small Christmas tree that adorned the tiny trailer living room. Jordan handed his mother a square, thin present that he had picked out and wrapped himself. Madelyn slowly opened it in guarded optimism.

It was just what she was hoping for, the newest “Roy Orbison” album---her favorite singer. She hugged Jordan warmly then put the record on to play. Jordan returned to his new typewriter and to the heartrending beat of “Only the lonely”, he began writing his very first “typed” story.

Outside the small trailer there was a strange commotion going on. Jordan recognized it first. It was the sound of car horns blowing all over the community. Even the fire station’s siren was blasting irrepressible through the cold, raw air.

Normally, Christmas morning in Falls Hills was as quiet as light falling snow. Jordan and his mother knew that something must be terribly wrong. She turned off the record player and they both looked out the front door. Madelyn put a hand over her mouth to suppress a scream. Jordan stood frozen, dazed and in shock. Sitting before them was that same familiar brown box with two double-crossed white and red ribbons. Attached to the box was a huge blue bow and a large greeting card.

“It can’t be, Jordi, it just can‘t....,” Madelyn said, shaking.

Jordan walked up to the box and looked at the writing on the card. “It’s his alright, Mom, I recognize his handwriting. Come on, help me get it inside.” As they began to pick the large box up, they discovered it was as light as air.

“I don’t think there's much in it,” Jordan said, picking up the box by himself and carrying it into the small living room. Madelyn plucked the greeting card from the box and read it aloud.

Dear Madelyn and Jordi:

So you thought you were going to get rid of me that easily...well think again. No, I am not a ghost or some fool miracle worker. I’m too ornery for that mushy stuff. These boxes have been sitting in my garage for the past year. I placed all the necessary items inside and sealed them shut then gave explicit instructions that they be delivered to everyone on my list in the event that something should happen to me. Everyone received the exact same thing expect for the adjustments I had to make with various families. However, it will be the last gift that this Santa will unfortunately ever bring. Please use it with a mind of wisdom and with the warmth of a Falls Hills summer day.

Forever yours in heart and spirit,

Wendil L. Moore

They opened the heavily sealed box and found inside three white envelopes. One was addressed to Madelyn and other two were addressed to Jordan. Madelyn opened hers first. She pulled out a small rectangular piece of paper and stared at it blankly. The first line read, “Pay To The Order Of: Madelyn K. Taylor” The following line read, “The Amount Of: $300, 000.” Madelyn continued to stare at it, never saying a word or flinching an inch. The check slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor. Madelyn had past out cold onto the sofa. Jordan screamed and ran to her. Slapping her face lightly had no effect; she was out like a light. He dashed to the bathroom, wet a towel and began wiping his mother’s cheeks and forehead. In a brief moment, she began to come around. Her eyes quivered upward at first then opened lightly.

“What happened to you, Mom?” Jordan cried.

“I’m not sure honey, I think I just fainted,” she said in a weak voice.

Seeing that his mother was ok, Jordan picked the check off the floor and read it. Large tears filled his eyes as he enfolded into his mother’s arms. For what seemed an eternity, they tightly rocked and cried.

What else was there to do during a miracle?

After a few moments, which allowed them to gain some composure, Madelyn looked into her envelope again. There was something else inside. It was a business card and it read:

Joseph McAllister

President, First Federal Bank And Savings.

On the back of the card Mr. Moore had written:

Madelyn, please see this gentleman.

He’ll need to confirm the check.

He will also help you set up some nice investments if you choose.

WM

Jordan removed the two letters addressed to him. The first one that he opened contained a large brass key. A small note was attached. He also read it aloud for his mother to hear.

Dear Jordi,

Here is the key to the store; she’s all yours. Mr. McAllister will put it into your mother’s name until you reach 21. Feel free to do what you wish with it. I gave instructions that it be cleaned and boarded shut should something happen to me. I hope everything inside will be in good order.

PS: Mr. McAllister will help you and your mother with the trust fund that I have set up for your collage education.


“Oh God,” Madelyn cried, “I always worried about your college. I knew I would never be able to afford it.”

Jordan looked at her with tear-filled eyes then read the last line.

PPS: Master that aim, boy, that’s what college will help you do, master that aim. Those Ducks will be coming in awfully fast and you’ll only get one shot.

WM

“Mom!” Jordan cried. “That’s almost the very thing he told me the day he died but I didn’t understand then. How could he have possibly put that into this letter if the box has been sealed for a year?” Madelyn just shrugged her shoulders and shook her head in total disbelief.

Jordan opened the last envelope. It jingled like more keys. He poured the contents into his hand then let out a faint yelp. It was the two special Indian head pennies. Large tears dripped onto them, running through the boy’s small fingers and onto the green, worn out carpet.

There was one last note attached with the pennies and it read:

Jordi,

I always knew these pennies meant more to you than they did to me. I could never think of anyone better to entrust them to.

WM


*****


The spirit of Wendil Moore walked casually through the deep forest of Falls Hills. He was in no hurry. To his right was his wonderful Sara. After eight long years in death, she had finally reunited with her dear husband. Between the couple walked their four-year old son, Patrick. Wendil Moore’s large hands were no longer scarred and disfigured from the deadly fire and one of them wrapped firmly around Patrick’s small hand.

Patrick had died in a raging house fire that occurred in the early hours of dawn in 1926. With horrid flames scorching at his hands only seconds separated Wendil Moore from grasping his son away from death‘s ugly grip. However, that was all the time the Dark Angel needed to swiftly seize Wendil and Sara’s only child. In the dim ruins of the fire, not even a hint was ever found of the boy’s ashes.

The three strolled in the midst of a long rustic path. A cold, morning wind breezed lazily threw their hair, but they felt no chill. Their footsteps were as light as air, leaving no trace in the sparkling Christmas morning frost. Mr. Moore smiled as he pointed out to Sara and Patrick the many things that he loved in this forest. Then a slight frown grew to his face. “Hell, it could be pretty peaceful around here if they’d stop blowing those goddamn car horns.”



“THE GLASS TOP COFFIN”

*** Part 10*** Jordan vs. The Ducks

By Stephen Bryan (HurricaneWarning)


July 16th 2035


Jordan and Kate, stood in their driveway waving goodbye to Tim and Heather. Their recently purchased 2035 BMW Alaskan rolled slowly up the small, dusty trail that would eventually lead to the main highway. In his arms Jordan held Megan, his beautiful two-year old great granddaughter.

Tim, his only grandson, along with his lovely wife, Heather, both with the letters, “MD” proudly trailing their last names, were finally upon their way to a long anticipated medical convention in Atlanta.

Heather was especially excited because she was to formally endorse the newly revealed drug, "Aultafaulicide," to a large panel of worldwide physicians and scientists as well as to the most affluent members of the FDA. During the last seven years of clinical analysis, the drug had proven to be adequately safe regarding it's long-term use for patients with terminal kidney failure. With it’s approval, and a official recommendation from the FDA, the new drug, with no doubt, would save the lives of thousands of patients who awaited upon the long list of kidney transplants.

****

Two year old Megan’s love for Jordan and Kate was immense and she was always eager to spend a few nights with the old spoilers. On more than one occasion Tim had lightheartedly scolded his grandparents for spoiling the girl with their generous volumes of toys and sweets. Megan pointed to the house where she knew her new playthings waited.

It was early Sunday evening and the heat and humidity hung like a heavy beast in the unrest air. All three were sweating profoundly as they walked into the house. The cold blast from the air conditioner felt dazzling fresh. Megan skittered off into the large open family room and began playing with her new toys. Kate went directly to the kitchen and embarked on her chore of stacking the dirty dinner plates into the dishwasher. Walking out onto his large screened lanai, Jordan poured a full shot of Chivas Regal scotch. He lounged himself into a large cushioned chair and held the glass closely to his lips. He managed only a small sip before carefully placing the glass back down. Jordan looked at his shaking hands knowing it was a bad day.

Jordan was moving into the late stages of Parkinson disease, diagnosed almost fifteen years ago when he was sixty-seven. To complicate matters, he had taken a nasty fall and was forced to undergo a total hip replacement two years earlier. Jordan was still encouraged to walk and he followed his doctor’s orders five mornings each week. But the Parkinson was what really bothered him. It denied him of the very thing he loved best and that was to write.

The old man sighed as he looked out into the red glowing field behind his beautiful home. A large orange ball sat heavy on the horizon and somewhere far away, a distant rumble of thunder gently shook the earth.

Staring blankly into the day-ending glare made him think of his very first published novel. It was three-hundred and sixty two pages and called “West of Sundown.” He was only twenty-two years old and in his senior year at The University of North Carolina when it was first published. From there, everything began to snowball.

Over the following thirteen years, “Jordan Taylor” suspense novels topped the New York Times Best Seller List on thirty-two separate occasions making him one of the most esteemed writers of modern times. It also earned him well over sixty million dollars by the ripe old age of thirty-five.

But then everything changed and Jordan found his writing career taking a sudden and unexpected detour. He had been following it closely over the last five years. The Power Company was right on schedule with its project. It had recently loop-holed through a number of environmental protection laws and sprung ahead with preliminary construction of the dam that would eventually block the Kostyu River. As he remembered Mr. Moore telling him, the residents and farmers of Falls Hills were rapidly vacating the community in droves. Like a dark shadow of death, it was slowly creeping over the countryside. That’s when Jordan decided it was time to bring out the Duck rifle.

When Jordan told Tom Sneed, his close friend and financial adviser, what he was planning, the man almost suffered his second heart attack within a 32 month period. He had learned that Jordan planned to use the bulk of his sixty million to buy up as much property as possible in the Falls Hills area. With extreme reluctance, Tom employed three property attorneys to work full-time on the acquisitions. Within six months Jordan practically owned Falls Hills.

The local TV stations and newspapers from the big city, 16 miles away, got hold of the story early on. And what a story it was: ‘World famous author, Jordan Taylor, spends tens of millions to fight for his boyhood community.’ CNN got hold of the story as well, staging him daily speaking at huge rallies, talking with environmental specialist as well as Congressmen. Millions of Jordan Taylor fans were writing and giving their full support. The fight was growing bold and ugly but that’s exactly what Jordan wanted.

By now he had already hired a lobbyist to fight on the behalf of the remaining residents of Falls Hills. The dam project, being a federal issue, Congress was just beginning the early stages of deliberations. However, a recent poll had suggested strong congressional support for its go-ahead. Jordan himself made a plea before Congress. He stood at a small podium and pounded a fist with such fury that he quickly found himself surrounded by five Capital security officers. Jordan’s outrage on the matter was splashed by satellite throughout the entire world. But still, it seemed to have little impact of the old gray heads of Congress.

With the battle in full force, Jordan had little time to write. At this point it had been over two years since his last publication. His fans were understanding but at the same time they thirsted for more “Jordan Taylor” entertainment. No one realized it at the time, but soon Jordan was going to deliver. And by far, it would be his best ever. He’d been working on the book on and off for the last ten mouths and had just finished with the third and final draft. When released, it would prove to be the best selling novel of modern times. It was simply called: “Falls Hills.” The story reminisced about his life in this small valley as a boy. He reenacted every possible scene from his childhood, including the magic of Mr. Moore and the day Jordan learned of the devastating plans of the Power Company. It was beautifully written, warm and comical. To the millions who would read it, “Falls Hills” was certain to convey tears of sadness as well as a wonderful sense of elation. The small community of Hills Falls would soon no longer belong to just Jordan, it would also become the home of millions of heartwarming neighbors, at least in heart.

Jordan agreed to a release date of approximately four months ahead of the congressional vote and specified that the book be released in both hardbound and paperback simultaneously. Once the book hit the open market, sales exploded. “Falls Hills” received so much publicity that it was being read by people who had never touched a Jordan Taylor novel. Hell, people who never touched a novel in their life were reading it. Within three months, “Falls Hills” had total sales of approximately forty-six million copies and was still listed as number one on the best seller’s chart.

The small community was overwhelmed with tourist during that summer of 1988. Jordan was relieved that two years earlier he had done a second renovation on the old store; a new tin roof, new wood floors and a beautiful paint job of white, green and gold. The little store stayed packed with tourist eight hours a day and CNN cameras were continually rolling, reporters grabbing anyone willing to talk. The long line of cars parked along the highways forced the sheriff to add a small army of officers to the area simply to maintain order.

Inside his grocery, Jordan had stacks of boxes filled with his newest novel in both hardbound and paperback. Most of his time that summer was spent inside the old store, meandering with the tourist and autographing books of “Fall Hills.” Over the next several weeks he was flooded with calls from Congressmen who had read the book and seen public sentiment flowing heavily in Jordan’s favor. The majority of these Congressmen told Jordan that they had changed their mind and would not allow the Power Company to destroy this awe-inspiring region of North Carolina. But Jordan was still worried. According to the small law firm he had helping in D.C., the vote was still slightly in favor of the Power Company. Then something happened that changed everything.

Jack Arnold, an elite, private investigator, that Jordan had hired hoping to dig up a little dirt, called him early one evening. Arnold informed Jordan that he had uncovered secret hush money that involved the Power Company and sixteen Congressmen. Two million dollars were being compensated for each congressional vote that fell in favor of the Power Company. The money had been furtively wired to several undisclosed bank accounts in the Bahamas and Jamaica. With the help of inside contacts from these banks, detailed documents had been obtained and secretly forwarded to Arnold, indicating who held the accounts as well as the exact parties that initiated the money transfer. Jordan knew now that he had them by their old gray balls. As soon as Arnold leaked his discovery to the media, the feeding frenzy commenced. It only took hours for the FBI to thoroughly check out the documents before twenty-two arrest warrants would be issued, including sixteen for the Congressmen.


****

The annual Falls Hills Fourth of July firework show had been put on hold until after the August 19th 1988 vote in Washington. It was a landslide in favor of Falls Hills. A young Jordan and Kate held hands as they watched the fireworks explode over Lake Sapphire. It was a beautiful August evening and Jordan glanced around looking at the hundreds of people clapping and celebrating. He knew that without their help none of this would have been possible. One man who helped in a different way was William Kinston, the County Commissioner of this district. He and Jordan had worked diligently on reshaping Falls Hills’ zoning laws that would forever keep it safe from an external commercial world. Eventually Jordan would resale the property back to anyone who had an honest intention of helping the area maintain it‘s exceptional character. It was resold at the exact price that he had purchased it. No profits were to be made here. Some of the proceeds went back into the community to build a beautiful park, a baseball field and other improvements. Many of the people who returned to the community were still underprivileged and Jordan also used this money as a means of help during their times of need.

Jordan continued looking at all the people whenever a firework would light up their face. Then he saw someone that he knew. There was no mistake about it. That face had been sketched deep into his memory for the last 25 years. It was Mr. Moore.

The early night went momentarily dark and then another big firework rumbled, lighting up the countryside. Jordan looked again and Mr. Moore was looking directly at him. The old man smiled and raised his little finger then wiggled it. Jordan smiled back and returned the gesture. Then it went dark again. A shooting star flared across the muted sky, leaving in it’s wake a reflection in the water, just as Jordan had once seen it do somewhere in a distant time. Another firework bellowed and flamed. Jordan looked back through the blue glittering light. Mr. Moore was gone.

Debate throughout 1989 revolved around construction of a nuclear power plant to be built along the North Carolina/Virginia border. There was strong opposition to it, but Jordan didn‘t care. Falls Hills was forever safe and that’s all that mattered. The Power Company's request for “Nuke” was granted in November,1989 and the big “Radioactive Cat” was in full operation by 1994.


THE GLASS TOP COFFIN

***Part 11*** The Orate

By: Stephen Bryan (HurricaneWarning)



Jordan poured himself one more shot of scotch whisky then went into the family room and sat down. Meagan was in full force running and playing. He looked again at his badly shaking hands then balled them tightly together. Kate walked out of the kitchen and called to Meagan, “Time to get ready for nightly.” She then escorted the little girl upstairs. Jordan knew he had time, Kate would be busy for at least 15 minutes with Meagan. He walked across the room and removed a small picture from the wall and began spinning the dial on his safe.

“Damn,” he cursed at his quivering hand that struggled with the sensitive dial. After three tries he finally had the safe open. He reached inside, his hand passing through thick legal papers and past the special case that he had made for the Indian head pennies that he had acquired years ago. Then his hand finally found what it was searching for, “The Orate.”

He walk back to his chair and gave a quick glance upstairs. He switched the gold, triangular device to the ON position and set the timer for three minutes. Normally he would set it for six, sometimes ten if Kate were not around. But Meagan was in the house tonight and he felt it wouldn’t be wise to become over exposed from the device. He looked into the screen and a vortex began to spin. Slowly at first but ever increasing in speed. It was very comparable to staring into the spinning funnel used by a hypnotist. The object of the game was to stare far down into the apex of the vortex until you began to feel a pleasant feeling. If you could maintain your concentration by keeping the color on the spinning sidewalls the exact same color as the inner walls, the sensation would become total elation. Jordan relaxed and felt this rapture of bliss flow through every pore in his being. Suddenly the Orate’s screen went black. Three minutes were already up and the game was over. Jordan slipped his finger back to the ON switch, hesitated, and then clicked the OFF button. It was enough for tonight. He walked across the room and put the Orate back into the safe. After replacing the picture he sat back down and held out his hands. They were calm and still.

The Orate was invented in 2023 and only had a shelf life of less than one week before it was pulled from stores throughout the world. “The Game” as it was dubbed, was declared highly additive, even more so than heron and cocaine. “The Game” worked directly on the brain’s central additive region and playing it just once could lead to extreme dependence. Treatment centers had been set up all over the world to treat the more than 40 million people who had played it. Unfortunately, the vast majority of The Game’s victims were teens and children. Treatment lasted almost six months and withdraw symptoms included a temporary insanity syndrome. Some patients never recovered completely and some of the younger children had actually died.

Alec Martinez, a man with many shadowy contacts yet a very good friend of Jordan had scooped an Orate off the Black-Market for him. The Orate’s original price was $69.95 but Jordan had dished out a hefty $50, 000. He didn’t give a damn about the cost or even the addiction aspect. In scientific experiments it was discovered the only medical benefit the Orate possessed was to slow the advancement of Parkinson disease and to greatly improve the uncontrollable shaking.
Unfortunately the effect only lasted roughly twelve hours.

At first, Kate was furious upon learning that her husband had illegally obtained an Orate device. Not only was she worried about the almost certain addiction of The Game, she also worried about the $500, 000 fine and mandatory life sentence for the mere possession of the apparatus. But gradually, she accepted it, especially in light that Jordan’s medication was practically useless in this late stage of the disorder. But nevertheless, Kate had set strong rules for its use: only on very bad days and absolutely no more than three minutes per session.

Jordan sat back into his chair and closed his eyes. He was feeling the wonderful warm tingle that The Game leaves in its aftermath. He let his mind freely drift. It meandered off toward his mother who had died of cervical cancer at the age of sixty-two. He still could see her face so vividly. Madelyn and Jordan had moved to the big city, 16 miles away, during January of 1964. There, she opened a small florist which rapidly prospered. She branched out, opening several more in neighboring cities. Within ten years, Madelyn Taylor owned one of the largest floral enterprises in the Southeast. After her death, Jordan sold the entire venture to a Chicago based corporation. At the height of his writing career, the last thing he needed were the headaches of a huge business.

Then his mind drifted to Kyle, his and Kate’s only child. Kyle was the renegade boy of the Taylor clan and simply had too much of his grandfather in him. The boy had dropped out of high school and was living with two girls who were deeply into drugs. Jordan and Kate tried desperately to get him help but he flatly refused. Kyle would not work and constantly begged Jordan for money, that is, when he wasn’t spending time in jail. His marriage at twenty-years old was a disaster. Jordan thought of the night, while in a drunken rage, he had almost beaten his pageant wife, Jennifer, to death. The doctor had said it was a miracle that both mother and baby survived. On October 7th, 2005, Kyle finally threw his life away. While outside a bar, he pulled a gun on a man who had challenged him to a fight. Kyle spat out two rapid shots at the unarmed man. One of the shots hit the abdominal area and the other shot struck the upper sternum, ripping apart a massive area of vertebra. The man was dead before even hitting the pavement. Kyle was charged with first degree murder and sentenced to life in prison with no possibility of parole.

Their son is fifty-seven now and there’s never a Saturday morning that goes by that Jordan and Kate fail to visit him. With each call, Jordan brings cigarettes and a small amount of cash. It’s always a very special and close time for the three. Jordan only wished their relationship could have been this close thirty years earlier.

After Kyle’s sentence, Jennifer was all alone with a small baby boy. Jordan set the two of them up with a nice place to stay and Jennifer soon returned to college. After receiving her degree in criminal justice, she managed to land a professional job with the County Sheriff’s office. Jordan and the boy (Tim) grew very close and remained that way all of their lives. Tim attended Duke University later in life, earning his medical degree. That’s where he met Heather, during their residencies at Duke. Heather now works in the crazy confines of Emergency while Tim, the more easy-going of the two, opened a rural practice in Falls Hills.

As Jordan relaxed, his mind drifted into a different direction. It was as if it were listening to something. A voice? A warning like a dark omen. He jerked up in his chair and spun around looking fervently. Then like a jackhammer pounding across his forehead, it all came back.

“Thank God for the rejuvenation effect of the Orate” he thought as he dashed up the stairs like a twenty-year old. As he rushed into the bathroom his heart stopped for a brief moment. He held a breath then peered into the tub. Meagan was splashing and totally under water.

He quickly reached into the thick suds and pulled the little girl to a sitting position then grabbed for a towel to wipe the soapy water from her face. His hand froze when he saw the towel that was hanging on the rack. It was bright red with a swimming yellow merman in the middle, the exact same towel he had seen in his bottle dreaming vision, years ago. Jordan jerked it swiftly from the rack and wiped the soap and water away from the child’s face. Meagan looked dazed and then grew a large frown as if she was going to erupt into hysterical, loud tears. Jordan snatched a floating toy out of the water and waved it in front of her face. Meagan’s large glower turned to a happy smile. She coughed a few times then took the toy and began splashing it in the bath water. Kate returned and saw Jordan on his knees rubbing the girl’s thick blond hair.

“Excuse me sir, don’t you realize that you are in the ladies room?” Jordan chuckled then slowly got to his feet, his knees just now feeling the effects of the upstairs 50-meter dash. As he walked toward the door, Kate gave him a sharp slap directly on the butt. ”Dirty old man,” she teased.





THE GLASS TOP COFFIN

*** Part 11*** The Final Rendezvous

By: Stephen Bryan (HurricaneWarning)


The morning air had an unusual crisp ring, making Kate decide to serve breakfast out on the front veranda. She called to Jordan and Meagan. When Jordan saw all the food he was surprised. “This time, you really out did yourself, honey, what’s the special occasion?”

“Of course I out did myself. And it’s always a special occasion whenever I have my little sweetie over.” Kate lightly pinched Meagan’s puffy cheek. Skipper, Jordan’s twelve-year old Labrador retriever, smelled the morning banquet and slowly strolled onto the porch, his nose sticking high in the air. The three ate hardily on eggs, pancakes, homemade bread, sausage and beacon. It was a fine breakfast but Meagan’s favorite part of the event was feeding Skipper her sausage links.

Everyone pitched in to clean up then Kate handed Jordan his lunchbox. It was Monday morning and time for his morning walk to the store -- business as usual except this particular morning a fine young lady would accompany him and skipper. Meagan held on tightly to his hand as they waved Kate an all-out goodbye. Half way up the long trail Jordan stopped and pointed out a large brown rabbit hiding in the bushes. Meagan screeched in excitement and Skipper just gawked at the furry creature, wishing he were ten years younger. Jordan nodded to his left and they entered a small spur trail that eventually dead-ended into a bubbling natural spring. It was pure and clean and its source came was from somewhere deep within the Earth. Jordan cupped his hands and placed them into the ice-cold water. He lifted them and gave Meagan a small sip. This was a very special place that Jordan had discovered as a boy. The water tasted just as cold and good now as it did some seventy-three years ago. Skipper stuck his huge tongue into the little pool and began slurping hard. Meagan and Jordan both laughed. They walked back to the main trail and started toward the highway. When they arrived there was only light farm traffic.

Jordan hoisted Meagan up onto his shoulders and they walked along the side of the road toward the store. Along the way they passed Jimmy Watson, a meager, yet established tobacco farmer who's grandparents never contemplated the idea of selling out during the turbulent scare of the late 1980’s. He stopped his blue and white tractor and shut down the roaring engine then spat a long string of tobacco juice onto the road. “Well, who’s that sweet lookin’ little gal ya got there, Jordi?”

“She’s my sweet little great grand gal,” Jordan returned, a nice quantity of pride in his voice.

“I say that must be Dr. Taylor’s youngster, huh?”

“Yep,” Jordan answered. “Guess you could say, both Dr. Taylor‘s youngster. Tim and Heather are down in Atlanta for a few days, some sort of big medical convention. Can’t ever keep up with those two. We’ve got Meagan here until Wednesday, anyway.”

“How ya been feeling lately, Jordi,” Jimmy asked.

“Not too bad for an old fart,” he said, not mentioning the quickly advancing Parkinson disease. “Kate’s got so damn much energy, she keeps me young, whether I like it or not.”

“Well you take care of that little sweet gal there, she’s sure somethin’ to be right proud of,“ Jimmy said, right before starting up the loud tractor engine.

Jordan snapped a head in appreciation and Jimmy took off down the highway, blowing black smoke into a beautiful North Carolina morning sky.

Every car they passed along the way, beeped and waved at Jordan and Meagan. Jordan was no longer famous for his writing these days, he was just a good Falls Hills neighbor. And that’s what good neighbors do in this little part of the world, they beep and wave, they beep and wave.

Finally they arrived at the store. Jordan stopped just short of the entrance and studied it. Meagan was pulling at his arm and pointing toward the store. She was trying to say something that sounded like: “Ganpa’s tore, Ganpa’s tore.” Every two years Jordan had the store freshly painted and closely inspected for any problems. He kept the old place in as perfect condition as any collector would keep their antique show car. Above the new tin roof was a rectangular sign. Written in green letters it simply read:

“Taylor’s Grocery.”

Underneath, there was something else written in smaller red letters. It read:

“In Memory Of Wendil L. Moore”

When the sign was first erected several years ago, everyone was curious about this man. Jordan related the story of Wendil Moore with pride and enthusiasm. He must had told the story a thousand times about the wonderful heart that this man possessed and how on a cold Christmas morning in 1963, six mouths after his death, Wendil Moore had taken thirty-seven families out of poverty and given them a new life. He told of how this old man carefully and discreetly guided a small ten-year old boy in the right direction that eventually saved the entire area from total destruction. It was a story he always loved telling, but now, very few people seemed interested. Jordan looked one final time at the sign then sighed heavily. At eighty-three years old, he was probably the only person on this earth who remembered Wendil L. Moore.

Jordan and Meagan walked to the baskets of vegetables and fruit that lined the front of the store. Jordan reached down and picked up a red petty cash box. There was no lock on it so he simplify flipped the latch and opened it. Ruffling through the bills and change, he estimated to be close to $20.00 inside. Everyone in Falls Hills knew the store was closed during the weekends and should anyone be in need of vegetables or fruit, they simply picked out what they needed and left the posted price in the little cash box. In the big city, 16 miles away, that practice would be disastrous, but in all the years that Jordan had owned the store he had never experienced any dishonesty.

Just as he unlocked the grocery, Meagan quickly rushed in ahead of him. Her favorite toys were the dozen or so brightly colored fishing rods that were still kept on the back wall. Jordan took them all down and lined them up neatly onto the floor for Meagan to play with. He walked slowly to the old drink box and placed his plastic lunchbox deep into the ice-cold water. It was the very same drink box that Mr. Moore had owned but it had endured its many share of repairs over the years. An antique dealer had once told Jordan it was most likely the only working soda pop cooler left in the world. With a badly shaking finger, Jordan pushed the same green “No Sale” key and the old brass bell shouted its song throughout the small store. Meagan looked up from her toys in surprise then smiled.

When Mr. Moore first bestowed Jordan and his mother the small store they immediately placed everything into storage. Years later, after finishing college, Jordan had the grocery totally restored and everything brought back in.

Just as he had promised Mr. Moore, the store would double as his writing office. At the very identical spot where he had pointed out where he would someday place his typewriter, the area between the old rocking chair and the pot belly stove, stood an old word possessor. The machine was almost 35 years old but was still in good working condition, Many of his best selling novels had been written on the old computer.

Jordan tossed the vegetable money into the drawer and then closed it softly. Meagan had crawled up into Mr. Moore’s big rocking chair and Jordan handed her a rainbow colored ice cream bar that he had taken from the freezer. She sat content, rocking and licking, rocking and licking. Jordan chuckled to himself.

The store had a fair amount of costumers during the first hour, mostly local farmers, and all of them tended to make a fuss over Jordan‘s great granddaughter. Soon Kate arrived to take Meagan home. Jordan wasn’t too disappointed. The little girl was already beginning to get bored and a little fussy. Kate and Meagan both planted a big kiss on his cheek then drove away. Old Skipper slowly started down the road for home. Jordan knew he would return on his own before closing time.

As usual, Kate reminded Jordan that if he wasn’t feeling up to the walk home, just phone her and she would be more than happy to pick him up by car. In addition to the air conditioning, the one improvement that he had made to the rural grocery was to install a telephone.

The day went by quickly. Jordan had an unusual amount of brisk sales that kept him jumping in and out of the rocker and sometimes interrupting his reading or snoozing. He looked at his watch and saw that it was a little past four. He walked to the drink box and pulled out a can of 7-Up then opened it. Trying to steady his right hand, he poured the clear contents into a green antique 7oz. bottle. Jordan grabbed a bag of pork rinds off the rack then walked outside where he placed an old vegetable carton directly under the big storefront window, just as he had done as a boy.

He sat down and leaned back, took a sip of the ice cold drink then opened the bag of pork rinds. The infinite miles of tobacco still flowed to the horizon and the dark gray shadow of the store crept tiredly across the road and into the fields. Little had changed around this area in the last seventy years, thanks to the rigid zoning laws that Jordan and Will Kinston had implemented many years’ back. He took another sip from the green bottle and thought of the day when he discovered it. Years earlier, when he and Madelyn were moving the store furnishings into storage, he had found the 7-Up bottle in the same carton where he had last placed it. It was the same bottle that he had sipped from on the afternoon that Mr. Moore died. It was also the same bottle he had visualized the drowning death of his own great granddaughter. Jordan held the emerald bottle up close to his face and gazed into it. Something began to form and twirl. It appeared as a fuzzy purple cloud that was beginning to grow small legs and arms. Then everything quickly vanished. Jordan reached up and rubbed his old, tired eyes. Bottle dreaming was for the young.

For the first time in years he thought of Wally Perkins and his rat-in-the-bag, then snickered to himself. Wally had died about three years after Jordan and Madelyn moved away. He had heard it was from a massive stroke. Wally lived three days on life support until the family decided to terminate the machine.

He sighed deeply and thought again of his son Kyle. Jordan was always saddened when he thought of all the things that his son had missed in life. He thought about the night of the shooting and realized that actually two men had died outside that bar. Kyle was not dead physically but he wasn’t truly living either. He never received the opportunity to see his wife again or to ever get to know his only son, Tim. And even worse, he never had the opportunity to meet his beautiful granddaughter, Meagan. With each visit to the prison, Jordan and Kate could see that Kyle was giving up both mentally and physically. The sorrow had eaten away at him for so long that he was only the shell of the man he had once been.

Jordan jerked away from his thoughts and got to his feet knowing the last thing he wanted to do was to depress himself. Back inside the store he rinsed out the green glass bottle and placed it back into the drink box. He glanced at his watch again---four-thirty. Suddenly he was overcome by a feeling of tiredness and for a moment he considered calling Kate to pick him up. He decided it would be best if he waited another half-hour to see how he felt. Jordan sat down into the big rocker and relaxed. The gentle breeze that floated through the store felt nice and soothing. He shut his eyes and drifted off into a deep, calm sleep. When he opened his eyes again, he suddenly found himself standing outside the front of the store. He wondered if he had possibly sleepwalked. Then he heard a very familiar voice that he hadn’t heard since childhood. It was the voice of Mr. Moore and he was bellowing about some dirt that he had overlooked. Jordan slowly walked up the stairs and peered in. Mr. Moore was on his knees, cleaning under a shelf. The old man immediately stopped his chore, turned around, and looked directly into Jordan’s old green eyes.

“My Jordi boy!” he yelled, getting to his feet. “Well, come on in, son.”

Jordan reached for the screen door handle but his hand passed straight through it, almost ghostly. “Try a little harder,” Mr. Moore encouraged. Concentrate, son, if anyone can do it, it‘s you.”

Jordan put his whole mind into the task and concentrated hard. On the second attempt he could actually feel the coolness of the handle. As he watched his wrinkled shaking hand struggling with the handle, something strange began to occur. His hand became slightly fuzzy then began to change in form. When it reappeared, it was the small, puffy hand of a ten-year old. He tried again, and this time he instantly grasped the handle firmly and the screen door went flying open. Jordan stepped into the store and saw Mr. Moore smiling and holding out two big arms. The boy dashed to him then leaped threw the air and landed “Smack-Dab-In-The-Middle” of his giant potbelly. They both embraced with tears steaming from their eyes. After a minute the old man put Jordan gently down.

Mr. Moore lowered to one knee where he now looked the boy face to face. The old man stopped smiling and began to scowl. “Damn boy, just where the hell have you been for so long?” he asked gruffly.

Trying to hold a straight face, Jordan took a small step backward, squinted an eye and pointed toward the ceiling. “Duck hunting,” he laughed proudly.

Old Skipper had learned the trick back when he was just a pup. He dug with his claws between the door casing and the edge of the screen door. Within seconds he had it open and leisurely walked into the grocery. He glanced to his master who was sitting quietly in the rocker and the old dog slowly moved in that direction. Skipper stuck a cold nose up to Jordan’s perfectly calm hand and then stretched down beside him. Jordan was dreaming deeply and his mind was expanded far between the boundaries of time and space. It was an astonishing dream, a dream that is experienced only once in a single lifetime. Like a cold winter sky, it was all so clear and all so vivid. It would be a dream that Jordan would never awaken from. The boy was finally home.


******The End******






THE GLASS TOP COFFIN

By: Stephen Bryan - HurricaneWarning

***epilogue***

After a 43 year career in the newspaper industry, the older gentleman decided it was time to allow another generation a fair chance to the chaotic game. Although the newspaper business had always been his life-long calling, he had also deeply invested into the stock market as a younger man. At the date of his retirement he was worth well over fifteen million dollars.

His wife, terminally ill after three grinding years of breast cancer, would now need his full time attention. But this was not the location that the elder man sought to spend his final years and perhaps his wife’s last final months.

He was weary of fighting his way within the enormity of such a large city. So in the fall of 1954, he and his beloved wife, settled into a much smaller community within the state of North Carolina. For the first time in many years the elderly man felt the bliss of solitude that he hadn’t experienced since a boy growing up in in rural Kentucky. At long last, he was now content amidst his newfound world of Falls Hills.

Over the next nine years he would put his whole heart and soul into this small, tucked-away hamlet. It would be a place where he would give to a young boy the treasure of words and demonstrate to him how to carefully assemble those expressions to create fresh new worlds within his young mind, a mind that would someday touch the hearts of millions of readers.

The old man dearly loved the small community and the people of Falls Hills dearly loved him in return. Shortly before his death, the old man had suddenly realized that his life had been exhausted on a career that seized everything yet gave nothing in return except monetary value. Now, even in death, the old man could still be happy. He had finally experienced something that had a clear and purposeful meaning and a true happiness with admirable love. That was all that was needed for death’s long and deep slumber. But most of all, he had felt it all returned to him through the heart of a young boy and a loving community.

This story was written in it’s entirety to the memory of Wendil L. Moore: Executive Editor and Publisher of the New York Times. Circa: 1932 - 1954



******


Bring tea for the Tillerman

Steak for the sun

Wine for the women who made the rain come

Seagulls sing your hearts away

'Cause while the sinners sin, the children play

Oh Lord how they play and play

For that happy day, for that happy day

---Cat Stevens



A wholehearted, thank you, for reading “The Glass Top Coffin.”

-Trevor (HurricaneWarning)