citizen-seth
On the Prowl
Hello, everyone. My name is Seth and this is my story. I have been reading the stories on this site for almost a year now, and I am yet to find one exactly like mine. This is a romantic story, though it is presented with a twist. It’s a giant puzzle, and all the pieces wont fit together until the very last sentence. Every detail is important. I hope you enjoy it.
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The Surly Bonds
Part I
Prologue
The Diary of Karl Sargasso
Karl Sargasso locked the door of the funeral home. Nathan’s visitation had ended several hours ago. The last of visitors had left well before nine, but he had stayed until well after midnight. Walking to his car, he looked up into the sky. Though light pollution meant that most of the night’s sky seemed blank and empty, several of the brightest stars shone through, their light creating frescos across sky.
Sitting behind the wheel of his truck, he look up into the sky. The gentle Aquarius poured out his bowl, the water splashing down across the back of Capricorn. As he drove home, facing west, he found himself driving under Hercules; the mighty hero, protector of all. He looked up into his face, saw his club arm raised in battle. Ah he unlocked the front door of his hour, he saw Vega sitting in the palm of Hercules’ outstretched hand, the tiny dot barely visible reflected in the door’s glass pane.
Karl walked up the stairs of his house and into his second floor bedroom. He threw off his tie and unbuttoned his white poplin shirt. He looked at the great maw of his bed staring up at him, but instead of falling into it, he bypassed it and sat down at the desk under the window. He took out a slim, leather bound notebook and opened it to where the crimson ribbon bookmark held the page. He took a pen from the cup standing near the photo of his adoptive parents, and began to write:
Oct. 27, 2007
Nathan’s viewing was today; his funeral is tomorrow. It was so much harder than I expected. You would think that after 30 years of working in a funeral home I would be used to death. I will never be used to the sight of my best friend lying on my table. It’s not like I had not known it would happen. Cancer is a death sentence here - whether it is in three months or, like Nathan, three years. It was going to happen . . . could I have stopped it?
I will never forget the summer before our last year at college . . . I am sure he did not forget either. He would never know what happened then, but . . . I do. That night in Gable’s field . . . I still have never seen something so . . . even now, when I close my eyes I can still see the light . . . it changed his life . . . He told me he saw it again, the light . . . just a week before his diagnosis. I told him not to worry about it. I thought I had put it behind me and that he should do the same . . . I wish I could have told him the truth. . . It was meant for me; I’ll never see it again . . . Pain is the eternal symptom of the human condition. That is a fact that I know will never change.
Amanda was strong, more-so for Waylon’s sake than herself. Her second day of being a widow and she did not shed a tear. She had her friends there, what seemed like half of all the women in town; but still . . . one cannot undo that kind of pain. And little Waylon . . . There is never a good time to lose your father, but it cannot be worse than when you are 16. I can only imagine. When Nate asked me to be his God father I never thought it would come to this.
There were so many flowers: calla lilies, Nate’s favourite. The casket was blue steel; Waylon picked it out. Four little placards on the corners had “Dad” inscribed on ivy covered columns. They made me think back to when I first met Nathan in college. I put him in the blue suit Karen brought. White poplin shirt, white pocket square, his tie was blue and its stripes were green. On the lapel I placed his pin; Two stags and wreath, a field of five golden stars, and that single word: Balmoral.
He put the pen down and pulled open one of the desk drawers. From it, he took an ancient looking telescope, made of wood and tarnished brass. Holding it in his hands, he looked out the window into the sky. As his eyes scanned the heavens, the thumb on his right hand rubbed across the small engraving on one of the telescope’s brass rings. The three tiny words were almost invisible due to the constant erosion of his touch, but to his fingers, they were as clear as the day they were pressed into the metal. He sat back in his chair and said quietly to himself: “Only I know.”
Nanaimo, British Colombia, Canada
March 20, 2000
The front door opened quickly as Miranda Fense struggled to bring in the heavy sacks of groceries. The boy bolted to the door, trying to head off the running pup, but before he could stop her, the dog ran between the grown woman’s legs and was out the door. “Fala! Stop!,” he called. He ran after the pup, leaving his foster mother standing bewildered in the doorway.
He caught sight of Fala as she rounded the house, her bright blue eyes catching in the light as she looked back to see him chasing her. He ran after her, behind the house and then out of the yard. His tiny legs pumped against the soft earth, fighting to maintain the dog’s lightning pace.
“Fala?! Where are you?” A cool wind rustled through the trees and the moon’s pale light shown down intermittently through the clouds. The boy ran through the trees, his eyes straining against the darkness to make out the shape of the missing Samoyed pup. “Fala? Fala!”
The rubber of the eleven year old’s sneakers beat against the dew-wet ground. His heart raced as he finally caught sight of two hind legs dart behind a boulder. The boy pivoted instantly and leapt to stand on the boulder. Midair, he was thrown back, his body pushed away by the silent force of a blinding white light. He landed hard on the ground, his right arm cracking under the force.
The light turned the early morning bleakness into over saturated day. The boy, cradling his right arm, got up on his knees. His watch read 2:35AM. Getting unsteadily to his feat, the boy moved from behind the boulder. A silent but steady wind rustled his auburn hair. Eyes squinting against the prevailing light, he took a trembling step forward.
“Cameron.” A voice came from the light. The voice was robotic, yet still delicate and soft. It was deafening against his hears, but a violent whisper inside his head. “Cameron Cole.” “Who are you,” the boy said; his voice was barely a whisper, fear having taken almost total control.
“Cameron.” The voice inside his head grew louder and the light burned into his retinas.
“Stop! Who are you?!” The boy trembled as the light grew more intense. The natural colour of the landscape was drained away with the intensity of the light. Finally, the boy, having exhausted himself, collapsed in fear. Yet before his body could fall to the forest floor it was caught, held aloft by the light. The laces of his shoes dangling just inches from the carpet of fallen leaves above the soil, the boy’s body floated closer to the origin of the light. As his body went deeper into the white his eyelids fluttered, barely opening. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Fully enveloped by the light, the boy heard a golden whisper in his mind: “Because you left.”
July 12, 1996
Carrabasett Road, Franklin County, Maine
“One hundred and twenty-five miles to Portland, baby,” he said, reading the mileage sign to his daughter. “We’ll be there by dinner time.” His daughter smiled back at him from her car seat in the back seat of their Dodge minivan. They had just begun their trip home from their lake house on Flagstaff Lake. Amanda, his wife, was asleep in the passenger’s seat.
The sky was cloudless and made for a beautiful drive through the hills south to their home in Portland. Allen Adams rolled the windows down to let in the sweet summer air. As he rounded a bend in the road he turned off the radio, tired of the endless string of Clinton versus Dole advertisements that were plaguing the media that summer. He focused instead on his thoughts. He glanced to his right at the woman next to him. She had taken the test before they had left; it had been positive, but they were still being cautious. Amanda had scheduled an appointment with her doctor for next Tuesday, but until then they could only wait. He looked up into his rear-view mirror and caught his daughter’s eyes. They hadn’t told her about the test; they didn’t want to get her hopes up.
“Daddy, turn the music back on,” the five year old said from the back seat. He obliged and turned the dial just in time to catch the last seconds of a song by The Smashing Pumpkins.
“You just missed a good song,” he said to her, smiling. Suddenly his eyes were ripped back to the road as a great white beam opened up the sky in front of their vehicle. His breath caught in his lungs. He slammed on his breaks, tires squealing as the van tried in vain to stop before entering the light. He felt sure that the smell of burning rubber from the van’s tires would be the last thing he ever smelt.
In an instant it was gone. The air that had exploded with white light just moments earlier was now overcast and grey. “Amanda? Catherine! Are you okay,” he called as the van now came to a shuddering stop.
“Allen, what happened, did we crash,” Amanda yelled, shaken away by the forceful stop.
“I don’t know, babe. Catherine, are you okay honey,” he said, turning around to look at her.
“Daddy,” she said, “why are the signs spelled funny?” She pointed out of the window to a green sign that read: 15 SUD - MONTREAL 35KM.
Amanda gripped her husband’s arm: “Allen, where are we?”
He looked at her. “Not in Portland.”
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"Oh I Have Slipped
The Surly Bonds of Earth...
Put Out My Hand
And Touched the Face of God"
The Surly Bonds of Earth...
Put Out My Hand
And Touched the Face of God"
John Gillespie Magee, High Flier
The Surly Bonds
Part I
Prologue
The Diary of Karl Sargasso
Karl Sargasso locked the door of the funeral home. Nathan’s visitation had ended several hours ago. The last of visitors had left well before nine, but he had stayed until well after midnight. Walking to his car, he looked up into the sky. Though light pollution meant that most of the night’s sky seemed blank and empty, several of the brightest stars shone through, their light creating frescos across sky.
Sitting behind the wheel of his truck, he look up into the sky. The gentle Aquarius poured out his bowl, the water splashing down across the back of Capricorn. As he drove home, facing west, he found himself driving under Hercules; the mighty hero, protector of all. He looked up into his face, saw his club arm raised in battle. Ah he unlocked the front door of his hour, he saw Vega sitting in the palm of Hercules’ outstretched hand, the tiny dot barely visible reflected in the door’s glass pane.
Karl walked up the stairs of his house and into his second floor bedroom. He threw off his tie and unbuttoned his white poplin shirt. He looked at the great maw of his bed staring up at him, but instead of falling into it, he bypassed it and sat down at the desk under the window. He took out a slim, leather bound notebook and opened it to where the crimson ribbon bookmark held the page. He took a pen from the cup standing near the photo of his adoptive parents, and began to write:
Oct. 27, 2007
Nathan’s viewing was today; his funeral is tomorrow. It was so much harder than I expected. You would think that after 30 years of working in a funeral home I would be used to death. I will never be used to the sight of my best friend lying on my table. It’s not like I had not known it would happen. Cancer is a death sentence here - whether it is in three months or, like Nathan, three years. It was going to happen . . . could I have stopped it?
I will never forget the summer before our last year at college . . . I am sure he did not forget either. He would never know what happened then, but . . . I do. That night in Gable’s field . . . I still have never seen something so . . . even now, when I close my eyes I can still see the light . . . it changed his life . . . He told me he saw it again, the light . . . just a week before his diagnosis. I told him not to worry about it. I thought I had put it behind me and that he should do the same . . . I wish I could have told him the truth. . . It was meant for me; I’ll never see it again . . . Pain is the eternal symptom of the human condition. That is a fact that I know will never change.
Amanda was strong, more-so for Waylon’s sake than herself. Her second day of being a widow and she did not shed a tear. She had her friends there, what seemed like half of all the women in town; but still . . . one cannot undo that kind of pain. And little Waylon . . . There is never a good time to lose your father, but it cannot be worse than when you are 16. I can only imagine. When Nate asked me to be his God father I never thought it would come to this.
There were so many flowers: calla lilies, Nate’s favourite. The casket was blue steel; Waylon picked it out. Four little placards on the corners had “Dad” inscribed on ivy covered columns. They made me think back to when I first met Nathan in college. I put him in the blue suit Karen brought. White poplin shirt, white pocket square, his tie was blue and its stripes were green. On the lapel I placed his pin; Two stags and wreath, a field of five golden stars, and that single word: Balmoral.
He put the pen down and pulled open one of the desk drawers. From it, he took an ancient looking telescope, made of wood and tarnished brass. Holding it in his hands, he looked out the window into the sky. As his eyes scanned the heavens, the thumb on his right hand rubbed across the small engraving on one of the telescope’s brass rings. The three tiny words were almost invisible due to the constant erosion of his touch, but to his fingers, they were as clear as the day they were pressed into the metal. He sat back in his chair and said quietly to himself: “Only I know.”
Chapter 1
Because You Left
Because You Left
Nanaimo, British Colombia, Canada
March 20, 2000
The front door opened quickly as Miranda Fense struggled to bring in the heavy sacks of groceries. The boy bolted to the door, trying to head off the running pup, but before he could stop her, the dog ran between the grown woman’s legs and was out the door. “Fala! Stop!,” he called. He ran after the pup, leaving his foster mother standing bewildered in the doorway.
He caught sight of Fala as she rounded the house, her bright blue eyes catching in the light as she looked back to see him chasing her. He ran after her, behind the house and then out of the yard. His tiny legs pumped against the soft earth, fighting to maintain the dog’s lightning pace.
“Fala?! Where are you?” A cool wind rustled through the trees and the moon’s pale light shown down intermittently through the clouds. The boy ran through the trees, his eyes straining against the darkness to make out the shape of the missing Samoyed pup. “Fala? Fala!”
The rubber of the eleven year old’s sneakers beat against the dew-wet ground. His heart raced as he finally caught sight of two hind legs dart behind a boulder. The boy pivoted instantly and leapt to stand on the boulder. Midair, he was thrown back, his body pushed away by the silent force of a blinding white light. He landed hard on the ground, his right arm cracking under the force.
The light turned the early morning bleakness into over saturated day. The boy, cradling his right arm, got up on his knees. His watch read 2:35AM. Getting unsteadily to his feat, the boy moved from behind the boulder. A silent but steady wind rustled his auburn hair. Eyes squinting against the prevailing light, he took a trembling step forward.
“Cameron.” A voice came from the light. The voice was robotic, yet still delicate and soft. It was deafening against his hears, but a violent whisper inside his head. “Cameron Cole.” “Who are you,” the boy said; his voice was barely a whisper, fear having taken almost total control.
“Cameron.” The voice inside his head grew louder and the light burned into his retinas.
“Stop! Who are you?!” The boy trembled as the light grew more intense. The natural colour of the landscape was drained away with the intensity of the light. Finally, the boy, having exhausted himself, collapsed in fear. Yet before his body could fall to the forest floor it was caught, held aloft by the light. The laces of his shoes dangling just inches from the carpet of fallen leaves above the soil, the boy’s body floated closer to the origin of the light. As his body went deeper into the white his eyelids fluttered, barely opening. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Fully enveloped by the light, the boy heard a golden whisper in his mind: “Because you left.”
Chapter 2
Not in Portland
Not in Portland
July 12, 1996
Carrabasett Road, Franklin County, Maine
“One hundred and twenty-five miles to Portland, baby,” he said, reading the mileage sign to his daughter. “We’ll be there by dinner time.” His daughter smiled back at him from her car seat in the back seat of their Dodge minivan. They had just begun their trip home from their lake house on Flagstaff Lake. Amanda, his wife, was asleep in the passenger’s seat.
The sky was cloudless and made for a beautiful drive through the hills south to their home in Portland. Allen Adams rolled the windows down to let in the sweet summer air. As he rounded a bend in the road he turned off the radio, tired of the endless string of Clinton versus Dole advertisements that were plaguing the media that summer. He focused instead on his thoughts. He glanced to his right at the woman next to him. She had taken the test before they had left; it had been positive, but they were still being cautious. Amanda had scheduled an appointment with her doctor for next Tuesday, but until then they could only wait. He looked up into his rear-view mirror and caught his daughter’s eyes. They hadn’t told her about the test; they didn’t want to get her hopes up.
“Daddy, turn the music back on,” the five year old said from the back seat. He obliged and turned the dial just in time to catch the last seconds of a song by The Smashing Pumpkins.
“You just missed a good song,” he said to her, smiling. Suddenly his eyes were ripped back to the road as a great white beam opened up the sky in front of their vehicle. His breath caught in his lungs. He slammed on his breaks, tires squealing as the van tried in vain to stop before entering the light. He felt sure that the smell of burning rubber from the van’s tires would be the last thing he ever smelt.
In an instant it was gone. The air that had exploded with white light just moments earlier was now overcast and grey. “Amanda? Catherine! Are you okay,” he called as the van now came to a shuddering stop.
“Allen, what happened, did we crash,” Amanda yelled, shaken away by the forceful stop.
“I don’t know, babe. Catherine, are you okay honey,” he said, turning around to look at her.
“Daddy,” she said, “why are the signs spelled funny?” She pointed out of the window to a green sign that read: 15 SUD - MONTREAL 35KM.
Amanda gripped her husband’s arm: “Allen, where are we?”
He looked at her. “Not in Portland.”
Here's the next installment! 
