A short story by
Ken Anderson
The following is an excerpt from Ascending.
On Friday morning, I prepared to go about my solitary routine. The new steps had vanished and all was back to normal, except for myself.
As I washed the night from my face, a stranger looked back at me from the mirror–a man with my wrinkled, tanned features, and with the same crooked nose that was broken in a tussle with a long-handled shovel.
Startled by the sight of each other, we both dropped our wash cloths at the same time, and our white knuckled and age spotted hands gripped the rim of the basin.
We both had thin white hair gathered into a short, rubber-banded ponytail, and on his sunken left cheek he sported a small mole like mine, but the person staring at me seemed afraid and deserted. A longing was in his eyes; a need for something he nor I was sure of.
He toweled his face just as I did, and tears formed in his frightened green eyes–eyes that had witnessed so much life and too much loneliness. His vulnerability made me quickly lower my gaze and turn from the mirror. From the corner of my eye, I saw the miserable soul move away, his head bowed.
I wondered how a man could live with such anguish, and I hoped he would find his peace.
The day was filled with more than the usual mopery as I went about my chores. I found I couldn’t function as I ordinarily did, constantly listening and looking over my shoulder; for what, I didn’t know. I had always considered myself a practical man, not bowing to insecurity by believing in things I was sure didn’t exist–things like luck, UFOs, and particularly, ghosts.
But now, certainty was being tested.
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Ascending is a copyrighted© 2007 story by Ken Anderson and all rights are reserved.
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