Writer's Digest Story Contest #83 -- Writing Prompt w/ max of 700 words

Short story writing prompt:

"A man is surprised to find himself feeling both pleased and liberated by the news that he will soon die."

700 Words Maximum:

Rick felt a gut-churning fear he’d fought all his life, ever since he got called to the principal’s office, or when his girlfriend told him she was pregnant. Riding a tumultuous, entrepreneurial roller-coaster put him in frequent high-pressure meetings in the clouds of downtown, called to dark-paneled conference rooms, where fate, future, and fortune hung in the balance. But coming to this specialist panicked him, and the fact that the doctor was so young (and female) twisted the knife in his stomach.

She’d spent half her life studying cancer, but the look on her face reminded him of bankers staring him down at a lender conference. Methodically reviewing testing procedures conducted at the world’s finest cancer facility in Houston, the sincerity with which she explained Stage 4 kidney cancer touched him deeply. It must be hard for any doctor, even one daily waging war against cancer to tell a man there isn’t much hope for a “successful outcome,” she said, as stiff as her starched lab coat.

“Are you talking years or months, Doctor,” urging more than asking.

“I’m afraid my best guess is months, Rick, I’m sorry to say.”

After swallowing the personal premise of pending death, he gulped again and sheepishly, in a childish way asked, “So, this treatment regimen is unbelievably hard, without any real hope of recovery? Am I just going to make an exit looking like a zombie?”

She responded earnestly, with piercing eyes, “We can prolong your life a significant amount of time if the tactics work well.” “But it will be extremely painful toward the end, depending how long your body can take what we drag it through.”

Raw, and emotionally spent, he left the Texas Medical Center disoriented. By the time he sat by his pool at home with his Labrador licking the sweat off of his calf and his hand wet from the chilled highball he held tightly, Rick considered mortality and the feelings of fear and hopelessness crowding his mind.

In business, he consumed numbers ravenously, and it seemed that a guy with only 1.5% left on his battery—maybe 8,000 hours of existence remaining, would be tossing around a dozen emotions; grabbing each one, tasting whether bitter or sweet? He’d lived a long time and lost many of life’s pillars: his wife through divorce, parents, a brother, jobs, houses, even a Cadillac repossessed in the eighties.

However, a strange calm came from the two emotions dominating his thinking: he was both pleased and liberated by the thought of leaving this world. His situation wasn’t preferable but these two tracks didn’t intersect or conflict as he pondered imminent death.

Whether enlightened or unshackled, contentment surprised Rick, heated by the sizzling sun and the hot concrete surrounding the pool. As odd and unusual as he felt, the reaction positioned him unexpectedly to be open to death and consider his life against what he thought he believed of the other side.

He studied the Bible growing up, and took his kids to an Episcopal Church in River Oaks because it was close to his home, but it was probably the hatred for Baylor athletics that skewed his religion to the left. He satisfied his liberal arts love for adventure by reading Revelation like sci-fi literature.

Rick dimly pictured the Lord, white-headed with flowing hair and robes, seated at the head table of a gargantuan banquet, where Rick’s anticipated mourning, crying, and pain passed away. He longed to see the amazing city called the New Jerusalem. Released from gravity, he gazed heavenward and contemplated the brilliance of his future home, as well as he could. Liberation and contentment came from a believer’s travel plans.

Three gates side-by-side, welcomed each named entrant to a wall of the square city, roughly the size of all of North America; each gate made out of a single pearl 2,200 kilometers high. Gold paved streets, translucent and clean, wove throughout a destination where nightfall never came. God illuminated every hour of eternal, joyous days; and in the middle of the biggest boulevard in the city flowed a crystal clear river. Rick planned on walking peacefully near its banks. ##

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Contest entered July 10, 2017

Fear

Our Constant Companion

Jesus repeatedly told his disciples and other people not to be afraid, yet humans deal with fear so often everyday that fear is almost our closest companion. As natural as breathing, apprehension can be a protective mechanism or a friendly motivator; but like food, too much makes us bulky and slow.

Like darkness invading nighttime, fear creeps into the day, ultimately blinding us from the reality of time. At the heart of each dawn is the possibility of a new day; however fear saps our joy and paralyzes our creativity. Can we be comfortable with distress like we are in our own skin, or will fear eat away at the soul, gradually corroding the mind from the inside out?

Constant Questions

We are constantly asking ourselves:

How do I look?

Do they like me?

Is she telling me the truth?

Am I late?

Did I forget about something?

Did I study enough?

Did I save enough?

How will I know what to do?

What’s going to happen to us?

Fear is even more basic than that; fear is connected to mortality, and the core question of our existence. We are afraid of other men, what will they think of us? We are afraid to die. We wonder after a certain age how much longer we have?

At the same time, fear gives us wisdom, discernment, perseverance, even intuition; in many ways it is our protective older brother but fear also takes charge and causes even the most rational to second guess.

Coping with Fear

Coping with fear is one of life’s greatest challenges. We sojourn to so many places in search for the miracle antidote. Fear is a toxic poison with deadly side-effects; it squeezes stress out of uncertainty instead of faith. Interpreting what John O’Donohue said, “stress is a perverted relationship to time,” I would add that stress is a perverted relationship to fear. Time and fear have overcome our daily routines, so that rather than being a subject of your own time, we become fear’s target and victim, lacking the control to stand up to these twin villains.

“For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God… for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power, love, and self-control.”
2 Timothy 1:6-7

Our Response by God's Grace

Instead of dismay, may I tremble at the Lord’s power to control the universe and his good intentions with my life and family? Rather than being overcome with anxiety, may I run to the biblical comfort of the Word made flesh, and rest in the admonitions of Jesus Christ? Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, but it is only the starting point. As we fall in love with the supremacy of God and the sovereignty of God, our peace grows to the point of resting in God and fearing no more the changes in our lives.

Without faith there is no meaning to life and no reason to conduct ourselves with courage in the face of fear. If death is merely a threshold onto another platform, and our hope is in a better place as we are promised in Christ, then we can dig deep into our well of faith and believe enough to push out the fear. This is done through the power of the spirit, with love and self-control.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Dan Chaon, author of Await Your Reply, on Fictional Identity | Word Craft - WSJ.com

Dan Chaon, author of Await Your Reply, on Fictional Identity | Word Craft - WSJ.com:

'via Blog this'

Fiction writers tell lies. They get inside the lives of others, whether real, nearly real, or imagined, taking the identity on a journey sometimes far different than what might have occurred in reality. People often ask writer Dan Chaon which character is the author in disguise? It depends. So much of what we write is part of our life experience, what we're comfortable with; however, the fun of fiction is that the author gets to steal the person's identity and convince the reader the new course is authentic.

As I discussed with my daughter/writer (Eliza) this morning as we observed a truck loaded down with the driver's ragged possessions: tied-down with very little twine, packed loosely, bouncing harshly with the road, and going nowhere fast, what was happening today? Did this chapter closing make it necessary to start the next chapter in another city, or was this person moving just across town? Are they upset, happy, or distracted by the traffic? We were creating fictional characters, depending on the commute, it could become a short story or a novel.

Mr. Chaon reports that researchers say this activity begins early in life. Infants imagine shapes resembling a face, nose, or mouth, and by 2-3 babies already have a complex entourage of fictional characters. By the time kids play with dolls, toys, and action characters, they often take up the voice of these personalities with incredible empathy. The question for professional fiction writers is how far outside their own experiences will they reach?

Authors like Pat Conroy, John Grisham, Stephen Hunter, Michael Lewis, Daniel Silva, and Emily Giffin, all seemed to have used significant portions of their life experiences to color their novels; however, Stephen King, Paulo Coelho, Cormac McCarthy, Don DeLillo, Larry McMurtry, and Charlotte Bronte bring material to their stories from utterly foreign places, from which they have no firsthand knowledge. [These names are quickly taken from my bookshelf, there are numerous other examples]. The point is that living inside the story can be rational and contemplative, at the same time it is an out-of-body experience. Always it is an attempt at empathy.

"How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn't they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for awhile? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it that no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?" Don DeLillo's White Noise (Viking Penguin 1985).

Abraham Lincoln frequently quoted a poem by William Knox called "Mortality" written by a Scottish descendant of John Knox the 16th-century Protestant reformer. The President recited the poem so much that some people assumed he had written it:

"For we are the same things that our fathers have been.

We see the same sights that our fathers have seen.

We drink the same stream, we feel the same sun.

And we run the same course that our fathers have run."

Writing is the authentic practice of empathy, making connections, sharing fears, following a story to its conclusion, even if that is one or two degrees off course. The secret to fiction writing is looking behind the disguise of the ordinary; what is obvious is boring. Fascination begins with the focus of the reader's attention, warding off distractions or over-writing, making the type connection with the reader that rings true but seems fresh and creative.

With fiction we might recycle some of the same courses of those around us, but the chance to reach up and out of our own existence, to expand one's mind to the point of going beyond anywhere we might know directly, is a powerful force rarely experienced. As Mr. Chaon writes, "Suddenly, you might get out of your own body, your own mind; it's a rare and powerful stimulant that makes it seem like writing true, utter fiction is totally worth it."

Twitter feeds:
@DanChaon
@markpills

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Do fish complain of the sea for being wet?

Do fish complain of the sea for being wet? C.S. Lewis asks, “How is it that we don’t feel at home here (on earth)?” If fish did, would it not suggest that they had not always been or would not always be purely aquatic creatures? Maybe then, it can be argued that there is something in us that is not temporal? As it is we are perpetually surprised by Time (How time flies, I can’t believe how old Johnny has gotten, you mean Jenny is all grown up and married?).

Divine immanence means that God is here, wherever we are, God is here. There is nowhere, there can be no place, where He is not. However, even as I write this, I cannot be omniscient, only God is everywhere; He is nearer than my own soul, closer than my most secret thoughts. Nothing I could share in writing a blog can approach all that He knows about me. It depends on my spiritual receptivity, not time. The scientific man explains and examines; the spiritual man worships and adores.

Are we not like the fish uncomfortable in the sea? What we see, hear, and feel is the reality of living in this world; however, we intrinsically know and want the eternity of heaven which is our spiritual home. The inner restlessness of a thoughtful man is that nagging truth that there is something more than this!? The dark night of the soul, the doubts, fears, and anxiety when the world closes in on us, is a powerful reality. Although, is there not an eternal world that comes alive when we begin to reckon upon its reality?

God and the spiritual realms are real, just as much a part of the world as the physical; the trouble is that I have established bad habits, sin clouds my lenses, ignoring the spiritual. There must be a shift from the seen to the unseen, from physical to other-worldly. God dwells in the world, but there is a gulf between this and the other side of it which is impassable; and for now while I am stuck here. The essence of being a christian requires I listen, see, and believe God’s redemptive revelation in Scripture, just as much as what I get from the "real" world.

No one should fear the voice of God. Even though modern "church life" seems filled with noise, activity, bluster; when caught in a tempest as I was last night, the best advice seems to me: “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Ps 46:10) Doesn’t this mean that our strength and safety lie not in noise but silence?

Last night lying in bed, I carried an inner burden. A.W. Tozer calls it “the burden of pride.” Don’t we all carry the burden, continually, challenging every word spoken against us, cringing under every criticism, smarting under each fancied slight, tossing and turning if someone else is rising above us on the corporate ladder?

The meek man is not a weak mouse afflicted with his own inferiority, instead he knows he is as mortal and helpless as God declared us to be; at the same time, he knows that God’s power is alive in him, content with God’s values in place of the worlds. Emptying myself of prideful anxiety and filling myself with the confidence of God’s work is not an easy task. All I could do last night was pray for help! It is a helpless place to be, wringing out worry like a dish towel. Doubt and fear crept around like late-night ghosts.

Wanting to appear as better than we really are is the pretense upon which so much advertising is based. Many bright people are insecure, fearing they might assessed as “common,” be out of fashion, or say something stupid. Even Christians live artificial lives often as unnatural and sad as anything in popular pagan culture. But Jesus tells us to become like little children, truly worshipping God on our knees. This surrender pleases him, it's a necessary meekness in a narcissistic world.

Because of my restlessness last night I come to him today seeking rest, praying for the blessed relief which comes when we accept ourselves for what we are, and stop the pretense of being what we are not. I look at the beautiful blue sky of this winter day and give praise and thanksgiving, all to God’s glory, in faith. Faith is not a one time act, but a continuous dependence and gaze upon the heart of God. Passing through the darkness, redirecting my vision into God’s focus, this is a purifying faith. I hope you can find it also today.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Texas/Oklahoma football game in Dallas

TX/OU Red River Rivalry:
writing ©Mark H. Pillsbury

image credit: djbfootball blog

Introduction:
One of the biggest games of the year is coming up in college football this Saturday, between the University of Texas and the University of Oklahoma. In this storied series, the Longhorns have a record of 59-41-5 against the Sooners; however since 1945 the series is very close. The game is played in a sunken bowl in the middle of one of the largest fairgrounds in the country, on the second Saturday of the Texas State Fair. The Cotton Bowl is an icon of Dallas and the historic Fair Park complex.

image credit: Wm. Lile

Every year in Dallas Texas, as summer wanes and the State Fair gains momentum; there is a happy confluence of sound, smell, weather, excitement, and football. Over a hundred thousand revelers converge on the Cotton Bowl, which is surrounded by food vendors, Midway games, and the bright sunshine of a north Texas morning. The smell of diesel fumes, horse manure, and fried food wafts through the air, mingling with the sulfur residue from OU Ruf-Nek shotguns and UT Smokey's pre-game cannon shots. Attendees stand in massive lines for overpriced staples such as corny-dogs and cold domestic draft beer, often the best medicine for the preceding night’s alumni party. The Cotton Bowl seems like the Dallas version of a Roman Coliseum on this day; some faithfully make the pilgrimage every year.

Fair Park, circa 1960

Construction began on a stadium in Fair Park in 1930 on a site once occupied by a rickety wooden football stadium. Two Dallas-area high schools fought the first game in the new stadium in October 1930. Initially it held enough seats for 45,507 spectators, and in 1936, the name officially changed to the Cotton Bowl. This Mecca has grown and been renovated numerous times since its construction, setting a new record for attendance of 96,009 fans at the 2009 Oklahoma vs. Texas football game, known as the “Red River Shootout” or the “Red River Rivalry” if you agree to use the politically correct name. This rivalry sits at the top of the list of college football “mega-matchups,” always televised, sold-out, prognosticated, and reported by the media. The Cotton Bowl is almost equidistant from home fields in Austin TX or Norman OK, and before conference realignment, it amounted to a “bowl game” placed right in the middle of the regular season.

[In addition to the Red River Shootout, the Grambling State University Tigers and the Prairie View A&M University Panthers play each other at the Cotton Bowl in the “State Fair Classic,” the weekend before the Texas-OU rivalry game. Also a neutral site for both teams, the game is played at night and the atmosphere is completely different at Fair Park.]

The Ramp:
Walking down the Cotton Bowl ramp/tunnel as a player evokes strong memories; emotions and excitement which can’t adequately be described in words. This stage is for the best young football talent in the country squaring off in a stadium equally divided between the teams, right down the 50-yd. line. Before trash talk and thuggery between players in the tunnel occurred like a prearranged gang fight, the seats on the side surrounding the tunnel were always crimson and crème, a sea of Sooner fanatics. The Texas players got as much abuse from the Sooner faithful above them in the stands as they did from the opposing team.

image credit: NewsOK

The Texas fan base on the other side of the stadium always arrived at their seats a little later than the Sooner nation, their party style a bit more sophisticated, and showing up “fashionably late.” You can count on a few things from those Okies: they’d be there early, drunk, loud, and wearing crimson. Some players endure slashing tirades, hateful haranguing, and pitiful taunts from slightly above their journey down the tunnel. Wearing your head gear seemed reasonable because you never knew what would fly down out of the sky.

Locker room jitters are part of being a football player. An old warrior who played in the game said that Head Coach Darrell Royal told the men it was their time; to focus on what they worked on that week in Austin. He doesn’t remember the words exactly but when they were given the final OK by the TV Guy to leave the locker room and head down the short flight of steps to the top of the tunnel, he recalls vividly stepping out into a frenzied, surreal, confusing world of childish taunts and inverted "Hook ‘em" signs (among other finger signs) being hurled from the walkway above. The following eyewitness account comes from an old veteran’s war story, told in my own way:

“Stadium security personnel in cheap yellow windbreakers and dark-blue cops from the Dallas P.D. loiter along the tarp-covered gate behind us. I recognized two of the motorcycle cops who led the police escort through the streets of Dallas a couple of hours ago; an officer with a large helmet and aviator glasses smiles as he gives you a quick salute and a loyal "Hook ‘em Horns!" You return the salute and mouth a quick, "Thank you" to the cycle-jock standing by his police Harley.”

The players hold at the top of the ramp, one more interminable TV break before they swell down the opening and burst out on the field of green. There's no breeze ... it's hot.

Looking around the crazy world of the State Fair of Texas, strangely, above the chaos drifts the dull din of bus engines, motorcycles, and the screaming siren from a ride on the Midway accompanied by Billy Squire’s rockn’roll. Beyond the gate clicks candy wrapping machines in the Salt-Water Taffy booth. Across the walkway, someone steps out of a black limousine just outside the gate, quickly escorted by Texas DPS troopers through the gathering and hurried down the ramp. Must be the governor or a senator; or Willie Nelson.

The warriors can hardly see over the glare of the glistening white helmets shining in the harsh October sun. Almost obscured is the long orange “horns” in the middle and stretched numbers on the rear of the white hats. The weather hardly feels like fall on this weekend. In fact, it more likely resembles August, baking the players on the small concrete landing at the top of the tunnel.

image: Earl Campbell

The ticketless, orange-clad well-wishers behind the chain-link gate, trying to get a quick look or a fingershake from a player or coach are the only friendly voices you hear at this small enclave of the Cotton Bowl. This end of the stadium holds the Big Red one, Boomer Sooner; a clan boisterous and loud like sailors on shore-leave.

image credit: J H Jackson

"Get after 'em, Darrell!"

"Go Horns!"

"Anybody got a ticket?!"

"Can I have your chinstrap?"

“Players are taught to focus, look toward the light at the bottom of the tunnel. As we moved slowly downhill, wedged so tightly together our feet barely touch the ribbed, dirty concrete, we slowly floated down the ramp suspended among fellow teammates, moving like a herd of cattle. In the shade of the tunnel, beneath the stomping, screaming Sooner fans in the south end of the stadium, the cauldron subsides slightly, but I had trouble catching my breath. I couldn’t help but steal a glance at the opponents as they also assemble to move down the ramp on the opposite side. Even during pre-game warm-ups, looks are exchanged with all the misguided former high school teammates who wandered across the Red River.”

“Suddenly, and this instant sears into my mind, I clearly recall the crimson helmets with the white interlocked "OU" really piss me off at this point, emotion surges in the back of my throat. I feel like I might lose the steak and scrambled eggs I ate four hours ago in the quiet banquet room at the Hilton Inn on Mockingbird. I might puke on my teammate's back!”

“Instead I begin to yell out an unintelligible guttural sound. I feel better and other Longhorns join in, the sound reverberates in my helmet – ringing in my ears. My dry mouth sticky, chest pounding; all of a sudden, the uniform squeezes too tight, I feel enormous, I would love some Gatorade® right now; a huge ground swell of noise begins to engulf us we move closer to the light. Louder and louder. So glad I have this helmet on, not because you think one of those sloppy, jeering Okie rednecks will lob a corn dog, but the head piece makes me feel secure and impervious. I manage to reach my hand up and snap the chin strap tightly as we move into the sunlight at the bottom of the ramp. The swirling breeze on the floor of the stadium finally gets to the back of my neck and cools me slightly.”

Selmon dives for Akins

The roar echoes and reverberates around the base of the tunnel coming to a crescendo as the TV engineer holds the screaming, snarling warriors. This is the ultimate college contest, War Between the States; one of the oldest, fiercest rivalries in the game. Almost one hundred thousand people are here to enjoy the gladiators in battle, but millions are watching on television, often focusing closely through a lens on the fearful eyes of the boys engaged in this contest. It makes for great television! Only a few college football players will ever make this journey into the arena for such a matchless game. This day is now part of the history of the Texas/OU civil war, reenacted every October.

image credit: NewsOK

“The tears welled up in my eyes, and my throat choked up as my heart pounded out the rhythm of fear. Did the young soldiers landing on the beaches in Normandy feel the same physical symptoms that I do?”

“The players started cursing at the TV Guy to let them go, but he mumbled something about a baseball playoff game running long, and just hold up a little bit longer! You should’ve heard the stuff the players hurled back at him about what he could do with the baseball, they were instructing him about physically impossible tasks.”

The combatants surge forward, frenzied and frothing. "Coach Royal appears just to my left. He looks alone in his thoughts, jaw set against the task ahead of him this afternoon.

I wonder if he hears the taunts, “Traitor!” A fat, red-clad woman waves a crimson pom-pom in his face. If I could grab her straw-blonde hair and pull the skank down into this fracas, she would not last long. Her boyfriend yells, “Darrell, you ain’t sh#*!” Perturbed as we are at the delay, Coach Royal merely nods."

image credit: djbfootball blog

“Finally, the human dam breaks; TV Guy fends for himself. He might have been trampled; we don't really care by now. Smokey blows a huge cannon blast; its perfect smoke circle rises above the sweltering grass field. I imagine a football sailing right through the center of the white smoke circle emblazoned against the clear, blue Texas sky. The band blares "Texas Fight" at what seems like an impossibly fast tempo. Running out together for the last time here, my teammates are jumping all over each other at the other end of the field encircled by a sea of screaming orange-clad fans. My eyes swell with emotion, I am not alone feeling this way. The noise carries us into battle; the day culminates as we enter the Cotton Bowl, the game awaiting is an unknown. I will never feel such a release again; this is the best moment of the season, the highlight of my career at Texas. Hook ‘em Horns!”

©Mark H. Pillsbury

image credit: SI (1959)

[Game note: since 1945, considered the post-war era, one or both of the two teams have been ranked among the top 25 teams in the nation coming into 61 out of 66 games; the series is very close with Texas holding a three-win lead, 33-30-3 since 1945. This year the game will be played Oct. 6th in Dallas at 11:00am CDT and the Sooners are favored.]

Texas wildfires: the escape (fiction ripped from the headlines)

Part 3: The Escape

Ironically, Gregg Allman’s sad dirge, “Midnight Rider” played on Sirius/XM® radio as Rick cranked the Tahoe’s ignition. “Outlaw Country,” Station 332 suited him fine as they wove their way through east Texas to find the ranch.

The lyrics, “I’m not gonna let ‘em catch me no/not gonna let ‘em catch the Midnight Rider,” inspired no confidence as both the weather wunderkinds focused on the red tail-lights of Clay’s truck which sped out the front gate kicking up a blinding dust cloud all the way onto the road, away from the wall of fire.

Nature’s fury has myriad forms, whether 100-feet below the ocean as a rushing current or approaching a massive tornado; Rick and Jessica knew intimately the harm that can come from the physical world in a matter of seconds. Even recognizing how fragile one holds to human life, like everyone they rarely feared imminent death; although frequently exposed to it. Nevertheless, today on a rural road in Texas, they finally took a right-turn which turned out to be a dead-end.

“C’mon Rick; catch up!” cried Jessica.

“Babe, look at the computer, and let me drive,” replied Rick, intently. “See if there is something to tell us where these fires are!” They fled at high-speed but their bandwidth for internet was dial-up slow.

image: Clint Harrington

After zooming down hilly back roads straining the capacity of the Tahoe, clinging to the contrails of Clay’s truck; they swooshed up-and-over a rise in the road finding him pulled over on the shoulder, brake lights glowing devilishly red through a cloud, like evil eyes. Rick didn’t know how far they'd travelled, only that they sped generally in a southeast direction. Both jumped out, approaching the driver’s side of the pickup.

“Can you see down toward the bottom of that next clearing?” Clay said as he looked forward through the windshield, not exactly asking a question, “I see flames and smoke rising above those trees?! Izat what you see?!”

photo credit: Idaho

“Could there be another T-intersection down there before we hit the wall?” Rick responded with panic in his voice, almost a shout; squinting a look down the path, silently agreeing with Clay’s observation.

“Can we at least try 9-1-1?” Jessica pleaded, “Maybe they could bear down on our GPS; tell us which way to turn?”

This turning point hinges on the decisions they make in the next two minutes; however each of the drivers eagerly wanted to get back behind the wheel, with itchy pedal-feet like a gunfighter fingering a holster. The traditional Chinese character for crisis (wēijī), widely abused by western motivational speakers, allegedly means the intersection of danger + opportunity. Danger is there alright, but the secondary word is more of “crucial point,” than opportunity. Crisis visits these young people through dark, hot, encircling flames, and no real exit strategy. As hard as it was to fathom, they are lost on an obscure back road in rural Texas without a credible opportunity for escape. This is the most crucial point in their young lives.

To be continued in Part 4....

©Mark H. Pillsbury (6 July 2011):
This is a work of fiction, and similarities to real individuals or other copyrighted material on cable TV or satellite radio is merely a coincidence