Old Dux:
Really superb work. Once I figured out where you were going with your story, my goose bumps got goose bumps and I suddenly noticed a slight chill lingering in the air.
A word of warning, the coronary Infarction was way too realistic. There was a tightness in my chest and felt I needed a nitro pill just reading about it. Yes, it might have been simple indigestion. Don't spoil the mood.
When you stood there over your own recently vacated mortal coil, I immediately thought of Boroughs, "Shades of John Carter rising from the fields of Falnders to find himself on Mars(Barzoom)." A wonderful idea, that.
Thanks to you, I have seen squadrons of uniformed ghosts rising slowly on whisper thin canvas wings. Up they climb, one by one from all the old air fields across England. As they climb, their fixed, and dilated eyes are gazing into the soft, dawn streaked sky. Each wispy, almost translucent craft bears just one recently departed soul rising at his appointed time and from his appointed place. Shivvver...
Each ghostly craft slowly leaves the cares of earth far behind and then disappears into the beckoning mists far above the clouds. There, I expect that "The Last of the Few" will finally meet their beloved comrades who have gone on before them.
Just consider for a reverent moment what shouts of welcome and sheer joy must ring out across all the heavens as each one makes his perfect final approach.
You touched a special corner of my mind that is usually reserved for private thoughts and nostalgic ramblings. Thank you for that.
As a completely startled newly wed wife heard her literary critic husband say to a beautiful, curvaceous young woman, whom he alone has just recognized as the author of a fine new book, "Thank you, my dear, for some truly exciting moments. And, might I add that you have a damn good tale."
Thank you Pete, you have written an excellent story well worth waiting for. Please consider honoring us with another.
May I add an inadequate yet sincere, well done, Sir, well done indeed, and the following:
The Anxious Dead
Oh guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions passing on
Those who fought their fight in time of bitter fear
And died knowing how the day had gone
Oh flashing muzzles, pause and let them see
The coming dawn that streaks the far sky afar
Then let your mighty chorus witness be
To them and Caesar that we still make war
Tell them, Oh guns, that we have heard their call
That we have sworn and will not turn aside
That we will onward till we win or fall
That we will keep the faith for which they died
Bid them be patient and some day anon
They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep
Shall greet in wonderment the quiet dawn
And in content may turn them to their sleep
The Anxious Dead, Maj John McCrae
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
By: Lt. Col. John McCrae, M.D., 1872-1918
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"Blessed are they who expect nothing.
For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"
[This message has been edited by Jolly Roger Too (edited 03-12-2002).]
[This message has been edited by Jolly Roger Too (edited 03-12-2002).]
[This message has been edited by Jolly Roger Too (edited 03-12-2002).]
[This message has been edited by Jolly Roger Too (edited 03-12-2002).]
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