Ghosts' of November

Chapter 11. The Other Side

> The shrieking sound of thunder exploding against the tree echoed against the storming sky. The sound of the tree shattering made more of a shriek, but the echo howled with pain. The dreams that held me captive inside of their fear had no choice but to let go as my eyes opened. My eyes stare out the window as a dull red can be seen against the raindrops falling violently from the sky. The wind could be heard blistering the raindrops against the window, and each time it blew the dull red would become brighter. Finally out of bed, my eyes get lost in flames that are consuming the tree. The Old Man was in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. It wasn't so long ago weather like this would cause The Old Man to try and drown himself.

> The radio was on that preaching channel again, some guy reading someone else's words pretending they were his own. It made no sense to me, when The Old Man pretended to be someone else, he listened to men tell him how bad he really was. When he was who he had always been he sang songs about how much he hated who he was. Maybe he hated himself as much as he hated me. With nothing much to do except read my eyes begin with:

""Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things—trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones.""

My time going into that sacred world was coming to an end. The pages turned effortlessly as the words created a world that was never make believe for those that believed. Only the Last Battle remained, as King Caspian both died, and was changed back to life by Aslan's blood: The Power of Redemption on display for the final time

> The wind blew from east to west daring our corn to break, taking with it, its' sisters. There was a rumor that a knife had already been seen in the persimmon seed; winter was coming quickly and it would be harsh. It would be just our fool's luck to have a freeze before the harvest and just after our second began to flower. The rain eventually became rocks being thrown from the sky with enough violence to bend the windows. The Old Man left before the sun could rise, as if he were concerned for the condition of the fields. He had left breakfast on the stove again, never enough, but it never would be. Who he was trying to become was just another version of who he had always been, only he pretended to not know it.

> On his way out, he had taken out the chicken wire and did his best to protect some of our crop. There wasn't much for me to do; except clean up the green leaves eaten by mother nature again. The world was the best at eating what it created. As my footsteps echoed off the sidewalk as my words muttered: "You know it seems life sure has a way to push you around". There is this little pond. It's a place where old men sit and play chess for hours. It was owned by some family that lived up where Miss. Longfellow's grandparents lived. There was a comic in my hand, and if luck would have it there wouldn't be anyone around. The wind was blowing gently through the treetops, but by now the sun had broken free.

> There was a bridge that connected the two sides together, and a big turtle sitting on some rock just a few feet from the shore. There was this one bench just up on the corner that would allow the wind to blow into my back. There had been moments in my life in which the boy behind the water stopped looking like me and began looking at me. It was like he expected me to do something about the situation we were in. It was like he knew that no matter how loud we screamed it would never be loud enough. He sat there watching me, watching him. Sometimes his mouth would move like he was trying to say something. Today there was something like shame in his eyes. He could see how much of The Old Man was in me.

> Before the boy in the water could make any more accusation, the comic book becomes a distraction. The pages of the comic had been read well, but protected. There was a practical joker who didn't understand how to be serious. His name was harder to say than it was to spell, and he came from the fifth dimension. He was one of the first villains to show that Superman had the body of a superhero, but the mind of a man. It was Superman who discovered how much like a villain heroes eventually become. There is a ripple as a fish catches a mosquito hovering just above the water. It caused just enough of a diversion that my gaze got lost in the water rippling gently against the shore.