The Magic Word
Copyright 1993 Christian Blake
www.ChristianBlake.com
This book is a work of fiction.
Names, places, characters, incidents, and locations are either from this writer’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to person’s living or dead is purely coincidental.
This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please visit ChristianBlake.com to discover other works by this author.
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Published by
Christian Blake
P.O. Box 166
Zephyr Cove, NV 89448
Christian Blake books:
Non-fiction
The Seven Moments In Storytelling
That Really Matter
The Seven Moments In Storytelling
– How To Use Conflict
The Seven Moments In Storytelling
– How To Use Discovery
The Seven Moments In Storytelling
– How To Use Reinforcement
The Seven Moments In Life
That Really Matter
Fiction
Fat Beaver and the Crucifix (short story collection)
Zippo
Banana Man (a novella)
Contents
The Magic Word
Banana Man (free excerpt)
Fat Beaver and the Crucifix (free excerpt)
The Magic Word
Then a man appeared.
Beside his truck he stood, outside his door.
Right out of nowhere, he was there.
And dressed up real nice too. A suit he wore; a shiny black, with a black tie.
He looked . . . morbid? Yes, he looked morbid. His face pale, drawn.
He awoke to the sun as he had done for years. It stole through the window and warmed his cheek as he dreamed. It felt good to wake up with the sun on your face, but not to him because he lost that feeling, that certain connection with nature, many, many years ago.
So instead of feeling bright and cheery, he repeated his normal morning of anger and grumbled his way out of bed, thinking:
Why Lord?
Why must you make me continue like this?
In this horrible world?
Let me die!
Eggs he ate. And he hated them the same as he always did each morning. The dog, however, he kicked harder today.
He dressed, then walked.
His finger, the usual one of course, he gave to the mailman who greeted him with his daily smile and, as always, laughed. Mr. Mailman called him a crazy 'ol codger too, same as always. The walk was brief today, however, for his chest pained him so.
It was now twelve. His nap over. Time for Twilight Zone. Again, same as always.
It was now one, Twilight Zone was over.
Up he stood. And ate lunch, chili dog and fries. And bitterness too, for dessert. He remembered thinking:
Why Lord?
Why must you make me continue like this?
In this horrible world?
Let me die!
His truck, he drove. To his son’s house. And Jane's house. That was his daughter-in-law, Jane.
The grand kids were there, as usual. And they shunned him, as always.
They ate dinner, which was nice. But not to him. He hated it much like he did every day.
He napped then for he was tired. So on the couch he lay just like every other day. But troubled sleep awoke him, and to his truck he went. Goodbye, farewell. So long, Jane.
The front door, he closed.
The sun was gone, so it was dark out. Clear sky above with a moon somewhat . . . blue? Yes, it was blue. My oh my, how strange that is!
Inside his truck he sat. After getting in, of course, the door he slammed.
Then he paused. The moon he stared, and again he thought,
Why Lord?
Why must you make me continue like this?
In this horrible world?
Please, let me die!
Then a man appeared.
Beside his truck he stood, outside his door.
Right out of nowhere, he was there.
And dressed up real nice too. A suit he wore; a shiny black, with a black tie.
He looked . . . morbid? Yes, he looked morbid. His face pale, drawn.
He was Death.
His shadowy arm reached into the truck.
The old man grew afraid.
Through the old man's chest Death's hand passed and grasped, his heart, and with a clenching fist, stilled it.
Death smiled. “All you ever had to do was say please.”