Menu
Forums
New posts
Search forums
What's new
New posts
New profile posts
Latest activity
Vault
Time Travel Schematics
T.E.C. Time Archive
The Why Files
Have You Seen...?
Chronovisor
TimeTravelForum.tk
TimeTravelForum.net
ParanormalNetwork.net
Paranormalis.com
ConspiracyCafe.net
Streams
1
Live streams
Featured streams
Multi-Viewer
Members
Current visitors
New profile posts
Search profile posts
Log in
Register
What's new
Search
Search
Search titles only
By:
New posts
Search forums
Menu
Log in
Register
Navigation
Install the app
Install
More options
Contact us
Close Menu
Forums
Paranormal Forum
Spirituality & Mysticism
Traveller's Tale
JavaScript is disabled. For a better experience, please enable JavaScript in your browser before proceeding.
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly.
You should upgrade or use an
alternative browser
.
Reply to thread
Message
<blockquote data-quote="taykair" data-source="post: 169621" data-attributes="member: 9418"><p style="text-align: center">Chapter Five</p> <p style="text-align: center">The Old Man (1982)</p><p></p><p>It was a dark and stormy night.</p><p></p><p>No kidding. It really was. It had been raining for most of the afternoon and into the evening. This wasn't one of the soft rains of Spring - the ones which make the green world seem even greener. Nor was it one of the quick, hard, cleansing rains of Summer. No. This was a cold, late Autumn rain. A miserable rain.</p><p></p><p>It was closing time at the little convenience store where I worked. It was past closing time, really. Way past. I had counted the day's receipts. I had put away the money in the safe. I had swept and mopped the floor. I arranged and dusted the items on the shelves. I swept and mopped the floor again.</p><p></p><p>I was killing time, is what I was doing.</p><p></p><p>I was killing time because there was only one more chore to do before I could go home. A chore which I dreaded doing on a dark and stormy night with its near-freezing, late Autumn rain. I had to stick the tanks.</p><p></p><p>Sticking the tanks involved the use of a long measuring stick to measure the amount of fuel in the underground gasoline tanks. I won't bore you with further details. Suffice it to say that this was not rocket science. The average elementary school graduate would have been able to do the simple math involved. Usually the chore wouldn't have been something I was reluctant to do, but for that damned rain. (Sorry. I should say "darned rain". Good Christian young men - as I was at the time - don't say "damn".)</p><p></p><p>Anyway, the longer I waited, the harder the rain seemed to be pouring. There was no way around it. I was going to have to go out into that miserable mess. I was going to get soaked to the skin even before I reached the tanks. I was going to be soaked to the bone trying to take a measurement, unsure where the wet marks of the gasoline on the measuring stick ended and the wetness of the raindrops began.</p><p></p><p>"Aw, shoot," I swore. (Fundamentalist Christians don't use the word "shit". Some won't admit to defecating at all. The rest will claim that theirs doesn't stink.) I grabbed the measuring stick and headed out the door.</p><p></p><p>I trudged slowly to the tanks. Why bother to run? I was going to get soaked anyway. I knelt down on the wet asphalt and began to work. I had just finished sticking the first tank and was removing the lid from the second, when I looked back at the store.</p><p></p><p>There was a man standing at the counter, patiently waiting.</p><p></p><p>'Aw, heck,' I thought. (We don't say "hell", either. Unless, of course, we are informing an unbeliever of his destiny.) 'What now?'</p><p></p><p>I started back to the store, becoming wetter and more angry with each step. I tried to open the door but it was locked, of course. I had locked it when I went out.</p><p></p><p><em>'Wait a minute,' I thought. 'I did lock the door when I went out. How did this guy get in?'</em></p><p></p><p>There was nobody in the store when I had left. I had spent the past ninety minutes in the store alone. I had covered every square inch with broom, mop, and feather duster. There was no place this guy could have hidden.</p><p></p><p>What the heck?</p><p></p><p>I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and made a valiant effort to simulate the patience of Job.</p><p></p><p>"I'm sorry, sir, but we're closed."</p><p></p><p>The man turned to face me. He was a little, old man. Looked to be in his late sixties, I supposed. White hair. White mustache. Friendly smile. He was dressed in what seemed to me to be a rather expensive gray suit. (How could I tell the suit was expensive? I had spent lots of time in churches. I could tell a fine suit when I saw one.) The man sort of reminded me of the cartoon figure of the man in the Monopoly game. The only thing missing was a top hat.</p><p></p><p>"Oh, that's alright," the old man said cheerfully. "I didn't want anything. You're wet." He turned back to look out the glass storefront. "Sure is coming down, isn't it?"</p><p></p><p>That did it. I was now officially teed off. (We fundamentalists don't say "pissed off".) Here I was, soaking wet, over an hour late in getting home, and this guy - all nice and dry in his expensive suit - was just standing there, wasting my time stating the obvious.</p><p></p><p><em>'Thou shalt not kill,' I thought.</em> However, what I said was, "If you don't want anything, then why are you here?"</p><p></p><p>I figured he would say something like he had just popped in to get out of the rain. Whereupon, I (being the rule-quoting prig that I was) would inform the gentleman that the store was closed and that only employees were allowed on the premises after closing. I expected there would be some mild arguing over the matter, but that the gentleman would ultimately relent and be on his way. Then I could finish my job and go home.</p><p></p><p>Instead, the man turned to face me. This time, his voice was different. I can't really explain it. Although he was not speaking any louder, it seemed to me that all the other noises - from the electric buzzing of the florescent lights and the soda machines to the constant beating of the rain on the parking lot - were fading away, and that the only sound I could hear was the old man's voice.</p><p></p><p>"Because you invited me, Michael," he said. "Don't you remember?"</p><p></p><p>At that point, three things happened almost simultaneously:</p><p></p><p>First, I recognized the old man's voice. It was the voice I had heard when I was in the Place of Light.</p><p></p><p>Second, I suddenly remembered that I had indeed invited him to visit me, even though I had no memory of such an invitation prior to his mention of it.</p><p></p><p>And third, I fainted dead away.</p><p></p><p>I awoke some time later - cold, wet and shivering on the floor. The measuring stick I had been holding lay beside me. It was broken in two. I stared at it for quite some time before finally getting up. Had I broken the stick when I fell? Probably. Why, then, did I have the oddest feeling that the old man had broken it?</p><p></p><p>Let us now pause to reflect upon the literary device known as 'analogy':</p><p></p><p>Analogy allows the writer to use a commonplace thing in order to illustrate or foreshadow a more important event. On the night the measuring stick was broken, I really didn't know what an analogy was. Now I do.</p><p></p><p>Before that dark and stormy night - before my encounter with the old man - I had a foolproof way of evaluating the universe. My God. My Bible. My faith. These were the measure of all things. In just a few moments, my measuring stick had been broken.</p><p></p><p>Analogy complete.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="taykair, post: 169621, member: 9418"] [CENTER]Chapter Five The Old Man (1982)[/CENTER] It was a dark and stormy night. No kidding. It really was. It had been raining for most of the afternoon and into the evening. This wasn't one of the soft rains of Spring - the ones which make the green world seem even greener. Nor was it one of the quick, hard, cleansing rains of Summer. No. This was a cold, late Autumn rain. A miserable rain. It was closing time at the little convenience store where I worked. It was past closing time, really. Way past. I had counted the day's receipts. I had put away the money in the safe. I had swept and mopped the floor. I arranged and dusted the items on the shelves. I swept and mopped the floor again. I was killing time, is what I was doing. I was killing time because there was only one more chore to do before I could go home. A chore which I dreaded doing on a dark and stormy night with its near-freezing, late Autumn rain. I had to stick the tanks. Sticking the tanks involved the use of a long measuring stick to measure the amount of fuel in the underground gasoline tanks. I won't bore you with further details. Suffice it to say that this was not rocket science. The average elementary school graduate would have been able to do the simple math involved. Usually the chore wouldn't have been something I was reluctant to do, but for that damned rain. (Sorry. I should say "darned rain". Good Christian young men - as I was at the time - don't say "damn".) Anyway, the longer I waited, the harder the rain seemed to be pouring. There was no way around it. I was going to have to go out into that miserable mess. I was going to get soaked to the skin even before I reached the tanks. I was going to be soaked to the bone trying to take a measurement, unsure where the wet marks of the gasoline on the measuring stick ended and the wetness of the raindrops began. "Aw, shoot," I swore. (Fundamentalist Christians don't use the word "shit". Some won't admit to defecating at all. The rest will claim that theirs doesn't stink.) I grabbed the measuring stick and headed out the door. I trudged slowly to the tanks. Why bother to run? I was going to get soaked anyway. I knelt down on the wet asphalt and began to work. I had just finished sticking the first tank and was removing the lid from the second, when I looked back at the store. There was a man standing at the counter, patiently waiting. 'Aw, heck,' I thought. (We don't say "hell", either. Unless, of course, we are informing an unbeliever of his destiny.) 'What now?' I started back to the store, becoming wetter and more angry with each step. I tried to open the door but it was locked, of course. I had locked it when I went out. [I]'Wait a minute,' I thought. 'I did lock the door when I went out. How did this guy get in?'[/I] There was nobody in the store when I had left. I had spent the past ninety minutes in the store alone. I had covered every square inch with broom, mop, and feather duster. There was no place this guy could have hidden. What the heck? I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and made a valiant effort to simulate the patience of Job. "I'm sorry, sir, but we're closed." The man turned to face me. He was a little, old man. Looked to be in his late sixties, I supposed. White hair. White mustache. Friendly smile. He was dressed in what seemed to me to be a rather expensive gray suit. (How could I tell the suit was expensive? I had spent lots of time in churches. I could tell a fine suit when I saw one.) The man sort of reminded me of the cartoon figure of the man in the Monopoly game. The only thing missing was a top hat. "Oh, that's alright," the old man said cheerfully. "I didn't want anything. You're wet." He turned back to look out the glass storefront. "Sure is coming down, isn't it?" That did it. I was now officially teed off. (We fundamentalists don't say "pissed off".) Here I was, soaking wet, over an hour late in getting home, and this guy - all nice and dry in his expensive suit - was just standing there, wasting my time stating the obvious. [I]'Thou shalt not kill,' I thought.[/I] However, what I said was, "If you don't want anything, then why are you here?" I figured he would say something like he had just popped in to get out of the rain. Whereupon, I (being the rule-quoting prig that I was) would inform the gentleman that the store was closed and that only employees were allowed on the premises after closing. I expected there would be some mild arguing over the matter, but that the gentleman would ultimately relent and be on his way. Then I could finish my job and go home. Instead, the man turned to face me. This time, his voice was different. I can't really explain it. Although he was not speaking any louder, it seemed to me that all the other noises - from the electric buzzing of the florescent lights and the soda machines to the constant beating of the rain on the parking lot - were fading away, and that the only sound I could hear was the old man's voice. "Because you invited me, Michael," he said. "Don't you remember?" At that point, three things happened almost simultaneously: First, I recognized the old man's voice. It was the voice I had heard when I was in the Place of Light. Second, I suddenly remembered that I had indeed invited him to visit me, even though I had no memory of such an invitation prior to his mention of it. And third, I fainted dead away. I awoke some time later - cold, wet and shivering on the floor. The measuring stick I had been holding lay beside me. It was broken in two. I stared at it for quite some time before finally getting up. Had I broken the stick when I fell? Probably. Why, then, did I have the oddest feeling that the old man had broken it? Let us now pause to reflect upon the literary device known as 'analogy': Analogy allows the writer to use a commonplace thing in order to illustrate or foreshadow a more important event. On the night the measuring stick was broken, I really didn't know what an analogy was. Now I do. Before that dark and stormy night - before my encounter with the old man - I had a foolproof way of evaluating the universe. My God. My Bible. My faith. These were the measure of all things. In just a few moments, my measuring stick had been broken. Analogy complete. [/QUOTE]
Insert quotes…
Verification
Post reply
Forums
Paranormal Forum
Spirituality & Mysticism
Traveller's Tale
This site uses cookies to help personalise content, tailor your experience and to keep you logged in if you register.
By continuing to use this site, you are consenting to our use of cookies.
Accept
Learn more…
Top