Several people have asked me to post a sample of my writing -- this is
something I wrote last September-October:

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The old man sits down on the park bench -- heavily, in slow motion. In
his mind, he hears his bones creaking; they don't, actually, but he has
grown fond of the stereotype and he likes to imagine he can hear the
sounds. I'm 83, he thinks to himself, and my bones are supposed to make
noises, as he conveniently forgets where he obtained this shred of
timeless wisdom.

He holds a large brown paper bag, which he sets down on the bench beside
him. It's the kind of paper bag they used to use in the grocery stores,
before they all switched to the flimsy, cheap, disposable plastic ones.
He nods approvingly at his brown paper bag, like a teacher silently
observing a favored student.

The old man looks up, looks around; it's morning, early morning, the sun
barely up, no one else in this little section of the park. Birds peck
away at invisible peck-targets near the edge of the jogging track. There
are no joggers around, not this early, and it's also too early for the
park workers to be out collecting trash with their pointed sticks and
enormous plastic garbage bags.

Plastic bags everywhere! He shakes his head. The precocious sunlight
cascades down on him, his paper bag, his bench, his world....

Evelyn. She had been his world, his life, his meaning, for 47 years.
Until four years ago, when she had been killed in a horrendous traffic
accident. We always thought it would be cancer, or maybe Alzheimer's,
that would get one or the other of us; he grimaces bitterly at the
thought. But no, it was a truck the size of a stegosaurus.

She had been killed instantly, so the story went. There had been no
goodbyes, no I love yous, no thank you for 47 wonderful years. Just an
image on a TV screen, an image of twisted metal, of ambulances, of cars
backed up all the way to Hazel Crest as hundreds, maybe thousands, of
delayed drivers waited, with varying levels of impatience, for the
wreckage to be cleared away.

The old man looks at his bag. Earlier this morning, he placed three
objects inside it, before leaving home to come to the park. Now he pulls
out the first object.

It's an old photo album, well-worn and antequated, with a deep
blue-colored cover. Photos of Evelyn and the old (young) man, photos of
the son who died only weeks after being born, photos of houses and
apartments and vacations and parties and family reunions and all of the
other semi- and pseudo-memorable flotsam and jetsam affairs that people
tend to photograph more from inertia than from any fathomable desire to
remember the event.

Almost all of the photos in the front half of the book are
black-and-white. The old man spends several minutes looking at the
wedding pictures. 1955; his lips move, but no sound emerges.
Evelyn in her billowy white dress. Evelyn holding a piece of cake (what
kind was it? -- he can't remember). Evelyn dancing with her father, a
big, burly man with a crewcut and a facial expression of utter
confusion; he seems to be asking Why is my little girl marrying this
guy? to the sphinxlike camera.

The old man wipes his eyes, sighs, and puts the book back into the bag.
So many memories; but he can't believe it was 47 years. There are times
when he feels as if it had all been compressed into a mere 47 days.

I miss you, sweetheart, he thinks, looking up as if she might be
floating invisibly above him.

He reaches into the bag and pulls out the second item, a tuna sandwich.
He know it's not generally acceptable for one to eat a tuna sandwich at
this hour of the morning; but he doesn't care. I'm 83 years old and I've
earned the right to eat a tuna sandwich any goddam time of the day I
want. I'll eat one at 4:00 in the goddam morning if I feel like it.

One of the little birds from the edge of the jogging track has hopped
over to the slab of sidewalk in front of the old man's bench. The old
man pulls a few bits of crust from the corner of the sandwich and
sprinkles them near the bird. The bird ****s its head quizzically at the
old man -- perhaps unaccustomed to such a show of largesse -- and then
begins pecking away at the bread crumbs.

The old man smiles, and, for just a fraction of a second, almost wishes
he could trade places with the bird.

As he eats, the old man thinks about how Evelyn used to make tuna
sandwiches for him. Hers were better, he admits to himself. I can make
them, but mine will never win any prizes. Not that Evelyn's ever won any
prizes, either -- but hers were still better.

The old man finishes his sandwich, then folds up the plastic sandwich
bag into a vague square -- another plastic bag! -- the word "ubiquitous"
crosses his mind -- and places it in the brown paper bag.

The little bird, having finished its own meal, hops away and rejoins its
fellows near the jogging track.

The old man reaches into the paper bag and pulls out the third item.
It's a gun; old, silvery-gray, with just the slightest hint of tarnish.
He's had it for years, ever since he and Evelyn found themselves in a
"changing neighborhood" 35 years ago, and he had felt the need for some
semblance of protection.

He has only fired it a handful of times at a local gun range; and once,
not long after he acquired it, at the moon, during a period of
frustration following a blowup at work.

The old man recalls doing a reasonably good job of killing the little
paper-target men at the gun range; but he's fairly certain he didn't hit
the moon.

He hefts the gun with his right hand, testing its weight. It's heavier
than it looks. Knew how to make 'em back then. None of that modern-day
cheap-ass plastic handle grip crap on this.

He remembers reading an article which claimed that the best way to kill
yourself with a gun is to put the barrel in your mouth and pull the
trigger. Something about the bullet pulverizing the brain stem before
you know what hit you. He always used to think you were supposed to
shoot straight into your temple, but it turns out the bone there is
pretty solid. Sometimes you end up with nothing but a nasty bruise and a
headache. Other times -- worst case scenario -- the bullet deflects at a
weird angle and you end up blind or paralyzed or with half of your brain
missing, but you're still alive.

And that isn't what he wants at all.

The old man looks around. Still nobody in sight. Even the birds have
disappeared. A lone squirrel flashes a grin and levitates up a tree.

The old man puts the barrel of the gun into his mouth.

Forgive me, Evelyn. But it's only because I want so much to be with you
again, that I'd even consider such a thing. I'm not a religious man, you
know that, never have been -- I've always had my doubts. But if there's
a snowball's chance in hell -- (what a time to invoke the term "hell"!
he thinks) -- that this will somehow get me to wherever it is you are, I
have to do it.

And, if not -- well, then it really won't matter.

Evelyn, floating wraithlike either above or inside of the old man's
head, stops him. Don't do it, she whispers. Not yet. The time isn't
right.

The old man shudders a bit, pulls the gun out of his mouth, places it
back in the bag....

....same as he did yesterday, and last Thursday, and the Tuesday before.
Same as the 20 times before that....

Inspiration will have to wait another day.

WoW!!!!
Lex,,,Incredible,,,,
Love so true & pure, taken away so suddenlly,,
Amazing Story,,,,, I so hope thier
is More,,,to follow

Send more please...

Hey Lex, Very good indeed. Have you submitted any of your stories yet?
I am a published writer and can help you find an agent, if need be.
Just email and I will get the info for you. You would need very little
editing on that story too.

Verb

Brought chill's and relief you write very real

Lex, that was Awesome loved the story one that grabs you and keeps you
reading you are very good would love to read more that you have wrote.
Please do let us know if you have any in book form would love to get one
and read it great work

Lex, Great story and writing, please send more.
hugz
BlushingAngel