marie-t The worst thing about being lied to is simply knowing you were not worth the truth. - October 01, 2010 add/view comments (0)

Colleges and Universities

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Story #1
They met purely by accident, this soft-spoken, handsome brother and this wary, weary sister. It was a chance encounter, one that she could not have orchestrated, even if she had tried. It was a beautiful late summer evening and she was feeling restless. She'd been cooped up in her house all weekend, trying valiantly to meet her deadline which had, in truth, passed the week before. That was the most amazing thing. The more she worked the farther behind she got. Or so it seemed. This particular evening, she decided to walk down to the corner and treat herself to an ice cream cone at the ice cream shop. She took a moment to inhale the sights and sounds of the city around her. It had been such a long while since she'd enjoyed the simple pleasure of merely stopping to smell the roses, which grew in profusion up and down her block. On her trip back home, she stopped to sit on a vacant bus bench. Thoroughly enjoying her ice cream cone, she paid little attention to the man who took a seat next to her. So engrossed was she that she got careless and the ice cream toppled off the cone, falling to rest at her feet. As she looked down at the slowly melting ice cream, it seemed that all of the frustration and the stress of the past few weeks came rushing up from her feet to take root in the center of her chest. And without warning, she began to cry. Huge, gut wrenching sobs that she had no ability or desire to control. She cried as if her heart was breaking. And indeed, it was. She never saw him move, but almost magically, a handkerchief appeared in front of her face. She grabbed it as if she was drowning and this square of linen was a life raft. As her sobs abated, and she struggled to catch her breath, she slowly became aware of the man beside her. And as her awareness grew, so did her trepidation. She became increasingly appalled at her loss of control. Her hard earned and fine tuned composure that she was so proud of was non-existent. It took something really simple, like dropping her ice cream, to unleash the storm that had burst free from the very depths of her now ragged soul. As she dried her tears, she bravely slanted a glance in the direction of her still silent companion. He was easy on the eye and his silent support was a balm to her wounded heart. When she had composed herself, he cleared his throat, and then asked if she wanted to talk about it. Ashamed at her public loss of control, she mutely shook her head. Appearing to weigh that for a moment, he then gently picked up her hand and asked if she lived nearby and would she mind if he walked her home. He merely wanted to make sure she got home all right. Immediately she became suspicious. Frantically, she looked around for the nearest possible escape route. He chuckled and she realized that she must look pretty stupid. He was still holding her hand. She ventured to slant another glance in his direction and her wary gaze collided with his slumberous one. His eyes reminded her of warm cognac. And some instinct told her it would be all right for him to accompany her the couple of blocks up the street to her house. It was not as if she intended to invite him inside. They were both silent as they left the bus bench and started to walk up the sidewalk. Neither seemed in a hurry and there was a strange calm serenity between them. He had a million questions about this woman who, at the moment, appeared so fragile. Which is exactly why the questions would remain unasked. For now. He did not consider himself to be anyone's knight in shining armor and he wasn't really sure if this woman wanted or needed to be rescued. Everything in him said that she might be trouble, and because his life was presently unencumbered, and he had worked really, really hard to get it to that state, he wasn't certain that he wanted to get involved in whatever drama she had going on. Because he knew without a doubt that she had cried over something. Or someone. After walking a full block in silence, he spoke. "My name is Everett McCloud. Most people call me Mac. Only my mother is brave enough to call me Everett." Inwardly, she almost shuddered as his voice slid through her. It was as rich and as smooth as the cognac his eyes reminded her of. She had to clear a throat that was clogged with still unshed tears before she could reply. "I'm Sharlene Thomas. Thank you. For everything." He smiled down at her. "Not a problem," was his reply. "It is a pleasure to meet you Sharlene. It's not everyday I get to meet the proverbial damsel in distress. Even if I really did nothing but just sit there." She glanced up at him, realizing for the first time that he was at least 6-8 inches taller than she was. Quietly she responded, "Sometimes, that's all it takes." Looking around, she noticed that they were nearing her house. "I live here", she said, indicating the single story dwelling with the wraparound porch. It was in an older neighborhood and it had a shingled roof with a profusion of ivy climbing the walls. It had been her grandmother's house and she had spent many summers during her childhood here. When her grandmother had died, ownership had passed on to Sharlene's mom, and then to her at the time of her mom's death five years before. Mac looked around and said "I know this house. When I was growing up, there was a lady who lived here who used to put people to work. I remember she would find them jobs and she had a taxi service so that they would have a way to get back and forth to work. I was a little intimidated by her as a boy. I didn't see much of her after I went away to school and I wasn't here when she died. But I always remember her kindness to me and my family on one occasion when my father lost his job and we had a hard time trying to make ends meet." He ventured a glance at her and noticed she had a wistful kind of expression on her face. He wanted to know what had put it there. They'd come to a stop in front of the wrought iron gate. He took her hand, causing her to look up at him. His eyes traveled over her face before he asked, "What is it? Why are you looking like that?" Sharlene smiled, and the transformation took his breath away. She was really a beautiful woman when she smiled. "That woman was Sylvia Lawton. She was my grandmother. This house was passed to my mom and then to me." Outwardly, she was much calmer. But inwardly, Sharlene was a bundle of nerves. This fine brother, and she was not so upset that she did not notice how attractive he was, had known her beloved grandmother. He couldn't be all bad. She still had no intentions of inviting him inside. She turned to him. "Thank you again, Mac. You are a nice man which is unusual in these days and times." Because he was still holding her hand, he pulled her until she was in his arms. Immediately she stiffened, but he simply held her in a loose embrace until she began to relax. "You're welcome Sharlene. Glad I could help." He released her and stepped back. "Enjoy your evening." She stood at the gate and watched him as he walked back the way they had come. Ooooh the brother had a walk on him. Shaking her head, she went into the house.

Story #2
She will forever remember the day her life was changed irrevocably. She was driving home after a meeting when she saw him, poised at the rail of the bridge. At first, her attention swept past him but there was something in the way his body was tensed in anticipation that brought her attention skittering back to focus on the solitary figure. As he climbed atop the rail, she hastily reached for her cellular phone and instinctively keyed in 911 without ever taking her eyes off him. Surprisingly calm, she gave the emergency dispatcher her location and was assured that a unit would be sent immediately. The dispatcher asked her if she could try and talk to the man and keep him occupied until rescue arrived. Hanging up, she put her car in park, unfastened her seatbelt, and stepped out of her car. As she approached him, now perched on top of the rail, she was vaguely aware of passersby as they slowed down. She was also aware that no one actually stopped. She struggled to find the appropriate words. All she could come up with was, "Hey, Mister". He seemed oblivious to any and everything and, even as she drew closer, she realized that she was poorly equipped to deal with the situation. She stopped about six feet away from him and tried again to get his attention. "Hey Mister!" she called, at which he turned and pinned her with a stare that was so full of raw anguish that she couldn't breathe for a long moment. In her peripheral vision, she noted the arrival of emergency vehicles and she prayed that their arrival would not precipitate a rash move on the stranger's part. She spoke the next thing that came to mind. "Can I help?" He turned back to study the drop before him that would take him to the concrete highway below. Initially, she thought he might ignore her then she barely heard him say, "No one can". Moments later, to her horrified dismay, he plunged headfirst off the bridge. Unable to look away, she followed his descent most of the 300 feet but closed her eyes seconds before he made impact. She felt her stomach protest, the bile rising in her throat and the tears filling her eyes. Without opening her eyes, she turned her back on the scene, her ears filling with the sound of motorists screeching to a halt below her. She sat down abruptly on the side of the road and laid her head on her knees. As through a veil, she heard emergency personnel scrambling, sirens marking the arrival of more vehicles. She survived the questioning by police and was able to dodge being interviewed by the news station. An hour later, she arrived home, thoroughly sickened by all that had transpired. She took a shower then made herself a cup of tea, hoping it would settle her stomach. Finally, she went to bed. It was not until the following morning that she even learned the identity of the stranger with whom she'd had a brief, life-shattering encounter.


Poem #1
If you could see yourself through my eyes, this is what you would see. A good man, standing tall, erect, carrying the weight of those he loves on his broad shoulders. A proud man, refusing to be defeated by the shadows that reflect in his eyes. You'd see a man-child, who only wants to be loved and accepted for the raw uncut version of who he really is, not perfect by any means, but striving for perfection to cover up those sins he'd rather forget. You'd see a man who questions himself but puts on a stone face for the world's view. A man who wants to be held, to be rocked, to be loved, but who doesn't quite know how to reach out beyond the perimeter he has created for himself. If he steps outside his comfort zone, he may be consumed but what he doesn't realize is that fear has already consumed him. If he loves, he will be hurt. If he trusts, he will be let down. If he gives, it won't be considered good enough. If If If What if Never knowing for sure, but not having enough faith to take the chance again. If you could look through my eyes, this is what you would see. You'd see a fine man. A Godly man. A professional man. A father. A son. A lover. A friend. Well, what else would you see if you could look through the eyes of me. You'd see your reflection in every move I make, every thought I think, every breath I take. You'd see yourself in my dreams, in my aspirations, in my growth. You'd see a man that is so loved by a woman. You'd see my first true unconditional love. If you could look through my eyes You'd see YOU.

Peace...


 

Your Birthdate: February 11

Spiritual and thoughtful, you tend to take a step back from the world. You're very sensitive to what's going on around you, yet you remain calm. Although you are brilliant, it may take you a while to find your niche. Your creativity is supreme, but it sometimes makes it hard for you to get things done. Your strength: Your inner peace Your weakness: You get stuck in the clouds Your power color: Emerald Your power symbol: Leaf Your power month: November