The Storm (Ch 2 part 2)

Grandma Langer held him in her arms as they both shed tears of sorrow. She knew this moment would come but she had never anticipated it would feel like this. Her heart broke for Colton who cried for the mother and father he never knew. He rested his head again her chest as he calmed himself to a steady sob. The rain still fell on the other side of the glass. The wind whipped the willow fronds through the air. The weaker ones broke off and were sent into the street and neighboring yards. The house rattled just a little whenever there was a rumble of thunder. She shared Mother Nature's emotions. All the memories of that day were stirred to the surface for her as well.

It had been a calm day, much like that of any other for the Langers. Grandma was in the kitchen baking a chocolate cake and Grandpa was looking after their pride and joy. Colton was only 3 and they loved the chance to look after him while his parents took a vacation. He sat in the middle of the living room floor surrounded by his cars. He would drive them from one of the room to the other, circle back around and bring to park beneath the coffee table. Grandpa tried to makes revving noises and race the cars, but Colton was an orderly child. He carefully drove the cars, never crashing them. The cars didn't make any noises because, "They aren't real, Grandpa. These are toys." Grandpa was surprised at the amazing logic and frankness of his comment.

Dinner was served around 4:30 just as the last few rays of sun peaked out over the hills in the West. Their was a strong chill in the air, even for late January. Grandma had placed a large bowl in the center of the table followed by a smaller basket, before setting three plates on the side. She reached forward and scooped a big portion of spaghetti onto a plate and set it in front of her husband. She repeated with a much smaller amount and set it down for Colton. She knew it was his favorite, as it was for her son, Hollings. Lastly, a portion that's size was somewhere in the middle for herself. She placed a piece of bread on each plate and retrieved two glasses of water and a cup of apple juice from the kitchen counter. She took her seat and Grandpa instinctively bowed his head and said grace.

As she reached for her fork, the phone rang. She smiled sweetly at Colton and motioned with her head in the direction of the phone. Grandpa Langer pushed his chair back and stood. He disappeared into the living room for a moment.

"Who is it?" she called from the table.

"Hold on. If you wanted to know, you could of answered it yourself."

He rarely spoke back to her. But he greatly disliked things coming between him and his dinner.

"Hello?" he answered as he placed the receiver next to his ear.

She continued to smile across the table as she waited for him to return before beginning the meal she had cooked.

"Marjorie, you better come in here."

She quickly placed her napkin on the table and pushed back her chair. She stepped lightly toward the phone.

"Now Ed, what is it, we're sitting down to dinner."

And that was how it happened. The airline had called the Langers with the tragic news. The plane took off as scheduled, but approximately four hours into the flight, attempts to reach the crew were unsuccessful. There was no trace of the plane, and it was feared that it went down somewhere over the North Atlantic.

For the first two or three weeks it was easy distracting Colton. His parents were supposed to be on vacation. His grandparents held onto the hope that somehow there son and his wife, Angela had survived. But days turned into weeks and months, and nothing was ever found. No debris, no bodies. Nothing. The airline, police, aviation experts, the media. No one was able to explain what had happened. There was no way to reach a conclusion. But time went on without the younger Langers. Colton's fourth birthday came and went. Then his fifth. He went off to kindergarten. Then his sixth. His seventh. His eighth. Grandma and Grandpa Langer had held out for some form of closure. Something. Anything, for a long time. But the hope of an answer faded with time. They raised Colton as their own, working to give him everything he needed. Most of all, they wished him happiness despite his circumstance.

A flash of lightning broke her concentration, and she remembered where she was. Colton still rested in her arms, but had drifted to sleep. He looked so peaceful though his cheeks remained red and his eyes were wet. She dried his face with the apron she always wore. He loved it because it smelled of strawberries and chocolate. She left him on his bed, propping a pillow under his head and placing a blanket over his legs. At the door, she turned back, flicked the light switch down and wiped her own tears from her face. She paused a moment longer before pulling the door closed and returning to the kitchen.

The Stories Within

Every creative mind draws its inspiration from somewhere. Something drives them to create what it is they love to do. Whether it be in the things we see, the people we meet, the places we go, or the experiences we have, there is a root, a driving motivation to the passion in all of us.

For me, it has been increasingly evident for quite some time. You could ask me to explain it but I just haven't been able to put my finger on the reason yet. So what is it? Glad you asked, otherwise the remainder of this blog would be rather pointless. I find passion and inspiration in the music of The Classic Crime. Simply pressing play and letting one track filter through the speakers on my stereo or weave its way through the cords of my earbuds and ideas begin to flow. Something grows out of nothing. Walls fall in my mind. I maintain focus. Words come. My talent may be rudimentary at best, but my writing serves a purpose greater than for you to read. That topic has been addressed a few months ago though.

Let's get back on point. For me the music just paints the picture of the story I want to tell. Each one of us has our own personal story to tell from the journey that is life. Yet for me, it's much more than that. It's not about just telling my story. Or perhaps, even telling my story at all. It's about all those other stories that are there. They are there, deep within me, just waiting to be released. Waiting to be assembled in the right format. Waiting for me to tell them. Waiting to reach the right audience. And with the proper cue, all this will be achieved in time. It comes back to the simple key that unlocks all those hidden pathways and sets those ideas free.

As time marches forward, I hope you'll continue to journey with me as the stories within me reveal themselves and take the form of written word.

The Search for Words

It's been a while. So long I feel almost as if I've forgotten how to string together a coherent and eloquent sentence, much less a paragraph or piece worthy of an audience. The familiar melodies and beats of my favorite inspiration reverberate from my stereo as I lie mostly strewn across the sectional in the corner of the living room with the beady eyes of 20 fish looking over my right shoulder. Am I lost? Has my ability, my way with words, my tendency to create disintegrated? There is much to write, and yet I cannot begin to piece together what it may be. The only Storm that I can imagine is that which crashes through my thoughts and disrupts my means of writing interesting literary discourse.

Perhaps I'm thinking too much. No. That can't be it.

Perhaps I'm just worn out from the hours upon hours of overtime spent at my less exciting, albeit financially necessary, job.

Perhaps I'm not trying hard enough. Is my mind really in it?

If you have any idea, please, I seek advice. I'll be here, eating unhealthily, watching TV and trying to assemble the thousands of words that lie before me into a puzzle that in its completion depicts something worthy of your attention.