Bio: While continuing his 30+ years involvement in the diamond tool industry as technician, engineer and manager, John Taylor is simultaneously sinking deeper into the insane diversion of writing fiction, a tragedy that befell him in the spring of 1995 for reasons He still does not understand.

His wife, two adult children, and especially my 17 year-old son, sigh and shake their heads at his mental state, but John ignores them and soldier on. Being 66-years-old, this state-of-affairs can not be attributed to "mid-life crisis." Perhaps "geezer grapple" would be more descriptive considering his entry into the "golden years".

So far, John has completed 3 novels and over twenty short stories during the twilight of his mental health. None have been published but I keep on trying, thus the insanity. I have just started entering contests but have had only a few responses so far.

 

Stones, New and Old

 by John Taylor

Plain stones, one atop another made the walls—windows without glass, openings without doors, a single modest room where the old man and his daughter lived and worked.

“New stones for such an old story,” he said with a heavy voice as he gazed wistfully out the stone arch, down the gently sloping gravel path—memories of new and old.
She turned her face to the old man and smiled.

“Did you have a nice dream sweetie?” He mumbled as he scraped the mud off his shovel.

“Dream? Why do you ask if I had a dream, father dear?” Eterna asked.

“Because you’re smiling.”

“This is not a dream. It’s much too wonderful to be a dream.”

“Don’t you see how they look . . .  all falling apart . . . all alone?” His scowl was amazingly complete, as if his eyebrows had been squeezed together in a press.

“Why do you say such a thing? They’re so close to each other, I’m sure they chatter constantly. And the day—there's the sun, the roses are still fine, golden-brown to the grass, a nice stiff breeze—a delightful autumn day. How could this be a dream?" a gust of cool wind spread brittle brown leaves across the path.

Enjoy your dream while you can. Time will catch up with you soon enough, he thought.

“Oh, you old curmudgeon. You know that’s only half-true. Try to smile for the next ones will you please dearest father. My, what a dress! I love it! Big flowers all over it! See?”
“Disgraceful! Not proper.”
“Oh, pooh! You’d spoil a five-year-old’s birthday party. Come on, father, get with it.”
“For you I’ll try. The stones are . . . OK, I guess.”

“They sparkle with celebration! Fatel did them.”

“Oh, no wonder. Didn’t know she was still in the business.”

They approached slowly, talking, gesticulating, laughing. The old man shook his head in silence wondering where the decorum of his past had gone, how such behavior could even occur to people. As they came closer, he fidgeted intensely with his gray beard.

“Now father, this time I want you to listen. And I mean really listen without making any judgments. Please. If you love me.”

“You know I love you dear . . . but I’ll listen.”

“Now shush . . . here they come.”

Six in the entourage: two women, one old, one young; two men, one old, one young and a boy of ten carrying an infant.

Curiously, their chatter stopped as they approached the stone house. The old man looked at them sadly.

“Her gown . . . white, with so much fancy lace . . . oh, it’s so pretty, so new,” effused Eterna.

“The turnaround’s too quick. They need a few more thousand. . . .”

“Be nice,” she whispered. “Hello. Welcome to another round. You look so wonderful . . .  beautiful, handsome!” Eterna’s dark eyes glowed with excitement as life’s never-ending resurgence flowed past, oblivious to the old man and his daughter.
 

©John Taylor