Still

Still
By Kevin Harbison

Firewood crackled. The darkened sky lashed out at the Earth, striking with lightning and stones of water. The lights inside the home were turned down low, so John could see the firelight dancing across the living room walls. Sitting at his desk and listening to the rythymic rainfall, John eagerly tapped his pencil against the half-empty sheet of paper, breathing slowly. Time was standing still as it had for what seemed an eternity. He was still waiting.

John's gaze slid over the dusty paper, not quite sure how to continue the surely epic novel that would soon come to be. It was still the first page; he had come to a roadblock. John had been stuck at this point for quite some time. The headers were there... May 1... "The Manhattan Factor, by John Tate". The opening paragraphs were there, introducing the surely magnificent protagonist of the story. It was a bestseller waiting to happen, John was sure of it.

Hearing the call of boiling water, John stood up and mechanically moved for the brightly lit kitchen. He passed by the clock, noticing its display of "8:58". Amy would be home soon, bringing back Todd from his performance through the storm. The family was eating dinner late tonight... that didn't matter, as long as they ate together. It was a family tradition, really; they had always eaten together.

John's hand dashed over the stove, switching off the burner to an overflowing pot of spaghetti. He let it simmer down before heading back to the living room. He passed by the dinner table, set for three. He stopped for a moment, gazing at Todd's chair and the boy's dust-settled plate. He was only nine years old; he loved to play baseball and loved getting attention. That made him perfect for the leading role in his class' production. John wished he could have been there, but his car's engine had other things to say when it decided to stop working on his way home. Now here he was at home late, making dinner for the three of them. 'They'll be home soon,' thought John, 'Soon, sooner...'

John moved back into the living room, passing framed photographs on the side table. One of them was a picture of Amy, on her wedding day, standing beside John. She was holding his arm tightly, smiling as she kissed him tenderly on the cheek. John remembered that night, too, very well.

John admired the latest picture of Amy. Laying on the thick green grass, she was tickling a hysterical Todd laying beside her. John looked more closely, smiling as he observed the bulge in her stomach. Amy was six months pregnant with their second child, a baby to be named Alisa. John sighed while he half smiled. He couldn't wait for the little child to arrive. Raising Todd was difficult at first - any new parent would realize that - but John had grown to love it. He loved Todd dearly. He would love Alisa much the same as soon as Amy's and Alisa's time came. He would love Alisa.

John sighed again, looking towards the front door. It was 9:06 now, and Amy was supposed to be home... it wasn't like her to be late. As the sound of the fierce storm raged outside, John sat back down at his writer's desk, watching firelight dance across the living room wall. He closed his eyes and let the familiar rhythm of rainfall and the heat of the fire calm his nerves... he was anxious in anticipation of the perfect dinner.

On the wall above the desk, unnoticed, hung two pictures. One was of Todd, the other of Amy; both surrounded a single paper dated to seven years - their obituary framed in gold.