Steven Douglas Womack - Legacy.pdf - Steven Douglas Womack - widez2

HOPE:

An Inspirational Anthology

Whiskey Creek Press Authors

Barri Bryan, Mary Eason, Loretta Jackson, Giovanna Lagana, Linda L. Lattimer, Janet Mills, Kathleen

O’Connor, Steven Douglas Womack

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

The 2006 copyrights © for each story in this Anthology are held by the authors of the individual stories. All rights

reserved.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely

coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or

mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN 978-1-59374-568-4

Credits

Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston

Editors: Katherine Smith, Louise Bohmer, & Giovanna Lagana

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

These stories are a tribute to all of those who need, or inspire, that magical emotion, hope.

LEGACY

by Steven Douglas Womack

Dedicated to Dr. Ronald Bushell of Framingham, Massachusetts, on the occasion of his retirement

He opened the door , entered slowly without hesitation, and the final day began. He heard the

familiar thud of the wooden door as it shut automatically back into its frame, a sound he had heard

thousands of times but never felt. But this time, the resonance crashed into his very being and the

sensation seemed to overwhelm him, as if the building itself rejoiced at the arrival of this day,

mocking his mortality with all the conviction of the non-living, which had nothing to lose.

But of course, wasn’t he losing everything? No, that was certainly a gross exaggeration, and

besides, he always knew this day would come. But did he really? Of course not, he realized with a

small silent laugh. It was only at the twilight of existence, from the vantage of a mountain of

hindsights, that one’s life seemed to follow an orderly, inevitable path to its ultimate conclusion.

He wondered if any of it had been inevitable, and he suddenly had a burst of random memories

explode somewhere within him, flashing through him like a sun going nova, the memories

accompanied by all the emotions that had gone with them at their original formation, each racing

toward his soul in a desperate attempt to touch his life one more time.

The feeling was lost as he coughed, voluntarily or not, he was unsure. He glanced to his left

and saw the small waiting room outside his office. In its emptiness, the few chairs, small couch,

well-worn children’s books, and the always-out-of-date magazines seemed trivial. Not much for a

lifetime of work, he thought disappointedly, a rather insignificant monument of memorial to him.

He entered the office and was greeted warmly by the two women who had been with him for

years. They had become friends as well as employees. He was glad the farewell parties, the teary

good-byes, the pledges of lasting memories, the flow of remembrances that had eventually dried to

nothing, had come and gone. He wanted his last day to be a day of work, in which he carried out his

responsibilities as a professional. He wanted it to be a day like all the rest.

But, of course, it was not. This was his final day.

And he thought of his first day, just yesterday, wasn’t it? No, no, a lifetime had come and

gone, but wasn’t it but a moment ago that he had anxiously waited the results of his entrance

exams, and when would he actually be admitted, wondered how in the world he would pay for the

schooling?

The tide of his thoughts pulled back and he refocused on the folder he was holding. And he

heard a voice. What was it saying?

“Are you going to the Fourth of July parade this Sunday, doctor?” It was Cora, his nurse, who

had just handed him the file he was holding, for the morning’s first patient. The name on the side of

the file was “Roberto Gonzalez,” but he couldn’t place the name with a face.

“No, I don’t think so,” he replied in a soft voice. He had always had a soft voice, a soothing

voice, a voice of calm and confidence that people listened to carefully. But now it was a weak

voice, fading with each new day.

“I haven’t been to a parade in years, Cora. Too old, I guess. Besides, parades are for the

young.”

Steven Douglas Womack - Legacy.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: