Markwildyr.com, Post #240
One of my Okie buddies
asked if he could put up two of his stories. Therefore, for the next two weeks,
we’re having some of Donald T. Morgan’s works. The first one is a short story
with a long title: A Nothing Gone to Nothing in No Time at All. I asked him
what that meant. He said to read the story. So here goes.
* * * *
A NOTHING GONE TO NOTHING IN NO
TIME AT ALL
He sprawled on a cheap
towel spread over warm sand. Cool sea breezes, lightly perfumed with the scent
of hydrangeas, fought the heat of the sun to a standstill, making the
atmosphere just about right. The wind dried the light sheen of sweat on his
brow as soon as it popped out. But he stared out over the calm expanse of blue-green
water, listened to the lap of wavelets against the shore, and felt … nothing.
Despite the clean, clear air, he found it hard to breathe, gulping oxygen
through his mouth like a beached bass.
Thirty-five and washed
up. A piece of flotsam deposited on the beach by an errant wave. Driftwood
abraded bone-white and brittle by sea brine, stripped of blood and nerves.
Great job. Gone in a
flash. “Sorry, Cal, we’re having to cut back. This depression’s hit us hard.
You’re young and a great programmer. I’m sure you’ll find something fast.”
Yeah, right.
“Sorry, Cal, you’re
over-qualified for this little job we’ve got. But your resume’s solid. I’m sure
you’ll latch onto something more appropriate pretty soon.”
Translation: You’re too
old. Won’t fit into our corporate culture.
Fantastic marriage swamped
by a sea of debt. “I can’t take it anymore, Cal. A friend of mine in Iowa has
offered me a job. It’s not much, but at least I can pay my bills.”
Yeah. Her bills. What
about the ones she’d run up when times were good? And that friend was a
recently divorced old boyfriend. How
could she? They’d been so involved, so wrapped up in one another … until his
job disappeared.
At least she’d left him a
twenty-five hundred square-foot brick with pool and exercise room. In nine
months, that was gone, too. Sold to cover a delinquent mortgage. Car hadn’t
lasted much longer than the house. And the banker had been a golfing buddy too.
His entire world in
ruins, he’d cashed in what few assets Marilee, the bank, and the mortgage house
had left him and headed south. South to Florida, but that wasn’t south enough.
So he caught a berth on a trawler probably engaged in smuggling drugs into—and
whatever was in short supply—out of the US. Somehow, he’d found himself
deposited on a small, thinly populated island somewhere short of South America
billed as a “tropical paradise.”
He shook his head. Where
the hell was he? Nowhere. With nothing but a few dollars in his pocket. Maybe
if he sat in the sun long enough, he’d shrivel and die, a withered, forgotten
mummy. A nothing gone to nowhere in no time at all.
He was about to close his
eyes and sink farther inside himself to maybe commence the dying process when
he caught something at the edge of his vision. Someone walking. Someone with an
inadequate bra and a sarong-like scrap tucked around her waist. Someone with a
long, graceful stride.
She subtly altered her
steps so she’d pass a little nearer. He took inventory as she approached. Dark
skin. Mexican? Certainly Latin. Narrow waist. Broad hips. Barefoot. Long dark
hair falling below her shoulders and bouncing as she walked. Big gold hoops in
tiny earlobes. Green eyes. He couldn’t see them yet, but he was willing to bet
on it.
Then she was close enough
to discern features. Broad nose, wide mouth, smooth brow. She glanced his way.
And smiled.
Cal sat up straighter,
hesitating only a moment before scrambling to his feet and starting after her.
He’d do that mummification thing later.
What can I say.
Life does tend to go on despite our intentions.
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
Email:
markwildyr@aol.com
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Twitter: @markwildyr
Now my
mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.
You have something to say, so say it!
See you later.
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