Wish

I listen to her walk across the kitchen linoleum. Any second now, the screen door will open, and she’ll interrupt my morning. I know she doesn’t intend to, but you would think after thirty years, she would know this is my special place. Back porch, hot coffee, a buttered English muffin and, hopefully, a morning sky painted by the sun; fiery orange streaks crossing the horizon — this is my place.
This morning the sun is lurking behind gray clouds. A promise of Christmas snow? It doesn’t happen often, but you never know. A good snow would be nice right about now, it might take the bite out of the sad news. I can hope.

The weighty clouds are keeping Winter’s bite out of the frigid cold that rolled in Thursday night. I don’t tolerate the cold anymore. Hot coffee used to be enough to lubricate, get the parts moving, you know. But the older I get, well, nothing shakes the cold away. I have my Carhartts on over my pajamas. My granddaughter would not approve of this muddle of fashions, but she’s not here —probably a good thing — she’s not going to take the news well.

The old hinges on the screen door complain, proclaiming my wife’s arrival. “You’re up early.” She chimes. She carries two fresh mugs of hot coffee.

I’ve been getting up at the same time for as many years as we’ve been married. But I say nothing to her. Her memory is getting sicker every day. The doctor said it would be a slow process, the memory loss that is. He was wrong.

She hands me a cup and then plants a kiss on my cheek. Her hand comes up and wipes away lipstick that isn’t there. She believes it is, a habit of many years.

I don’t waste any time, recognizing she will likely forget everything before lunchtime, “The dog is dead.” I say quietly.

She says nothing. She’s just sits there in the twin rocker, smiling at the morning.

That dang dog. It was a gift last Christmas, for my grandson. Becky, that’s my wife, was determined to get the boy his first puppy. She hadn’t taken sick yet, and Christmas was still the most special time of year for her. The pup wasn’t much. As a matter of fact, it was free. Free was good. The past three years have been tough. The government makes it harder and harder for a farmer to make a decent living. I hoped things would be better when the republicans took over, and it was for a short while. But last years’ crop was hit hard by ear rot, no politician could stop that. Anyway, not much money was put in the bank.

Becky was at the Walmart when she first saw the dog. A little girl and her mama had the pups in old cardboard box, there were six of them in there. Of course, my wife would pick the runt. That little whippersnapper couldn’t run three steps without tripping over itself. But that didn’t matter to her, she wanted it for our grandson. We left there with one more passenger sitting in my pickup truck and a fifty-pound bag of dog food in the bed. That puppy pee’d twice on the way back to the house. I fussed about the smell, but she just rolled down her window a little more; her and her smile never parting ways.

I glance over at her, sitting in that rocker. She has that same smile on her face. She doesn’t understand that Wish is dead.

“Wish” was the name my grandson tagged the puppy with. His daddy, my son-in-law, the democrat, didn’t think the notion of a puppy for Christmas was a good one. It’s probably because he still lives in an apartment building that’s not big enough for a family, much less a dog. What my daughter ever saw in him is mystery to me. But she appears to be happy, so I keep quiet. That’s harder to do than you might imagine. 

Becky told her son-in-law to pipe down. “It’s a Christmas wish.” She said. “A Christmas wish is the greatest wish of all. It’s made of snow that’s never melts, touched by an angel sent by God. Every child is granted just one Christmas wish, a hope that will last a lifetime. Andy, (that’s our grandson) wished for a puppy. You can’t take away his one and only Christmas wish, can you?”

I recall watching my son-in-law squirm as I waited to hear his answer. That might have been the best part of Christmas day for me. He relented under his mother-in-law’s smile, agreeing to the puppy. The problem was that the puppy couldn’t go home with them. There was a “No Pets” policy at the place they were living. My wife, always smiling, said “No problem. Wish can stay here on the farm with us until you have a real home.” That must have stung a little bit, but I don’t think she did it on purpose.

That’s how Wish ended up staying here with us. He wasn’t much of a dog; looked like he was made up of a dozen different breeds. Mixed together like that, makes him a mutt. That dang dog chased me everywhere, always underfoot. I took him hunting with me once, maybe he could find a use. He scared away every confounded turkey within a mile with his prancing about. He would run back over to me, where I sat in the small make-shift blind, with that stupid dog smile on his face, as if he had just accomplished a great victory. 

For a dog, he had no sense of direction at all. He got lost in the cornfield more than a couple of times. Becky would send me out before it got too dark to look for Wish, if he hadn’t made it back by supper time. I ate cold potatoes too many times because of that dang dog.

Getting lost in the cornfield is what ended up killing him.

The dog also laid claim to my place. I’d come out in the morning and there he would be, all curled up in front of my rocker. I’d gently nudge him with the toe of my boot until he moved away, just enough to let me sit down. Wish would just sit, watching me drink my coffee and eat my muffin. He was waiting for me to drop a crumb or two; when I did, he’d be all over it faster than you can say pickled pizza. Wish was the only dog I ever met that liked orange marmalade more than bacon. 

Our grandchildren would come to visit three or four times a year. Wish would greet them with dog kisses, jumping up and down like a mad man. That was about the only time that dang dog wasn’t under my feet. And now he’s dead.

“What happened?” It was my wife. She slowly rocked back and forth in the chair. A single tear rolling down her cheek.

I thought she must be talking about the dog, can’t be for certain these days. I didn’t know how much to tell her. All she needed to know was that Wish was dead. Our grandchildren would be here later today. Wish wouldn’t be there to greet them. It was going to be hard.

I found Wish this morning. He had been out all night. I guess that was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention and Becky hadn’t noticed that he was still gone come supper time, so she didn’t make me go find him. There are many things she doesn’t notice anymore — but I should have.

When he wasn’t sittin in front of my rocker this morning I headed out to the field. Last night the temperatures had dropped below freezing, but not too cold for a dog. If he had gone into the field… 

Well, he did. That’s where the mountain lion got him. Wish was dead when I found him, but it looked like he had given that big cat a helluva fight. I buried him on the north end of the field. The soil there was soft and easy to turn. No crops would be planted there for at least two more years. I said a little prayer for that dog before coming back to my place. I don’t know if dogs go to heaven or not. But if marrying Becky Cross taught me anything, it was that prayers have never hurt.

“I still have mine.” Becky said. She had stopped crying and was looking out at the dwindling cornfield. Where was she at? Her mind tends to wander away from reality without any warning.

I put my hand on top of my wife’s. “You still have what, baby?” I asked her.

“My Christmas wish.” She whispers.

For the next twenty minutes my wife spoke to me like she hasn’t since becoming ill. She said that when she was a little girl, she would always save her Christmas wish for the next year. Her family was dirt poor, farmers with brown thumbs. She said she always felt guilty when contemplating her wish. She knew she should wish for something her family needed, but being so young, wasn’t sure what that might be. As she got older, she had stopped believing in Christmas wishes, and before long forgot about them altogether. Until now.

She finished talking, reaching over she ran her hand over my gray whiskers. She smiled, “I love that sound.” She said.

Becky stood up and walked back into the house. I sat slumped in my chair, thinking about that dang dog and her story. The day was getting colder. A wind had picked up, making the brown corn stalks dance to and fro. The sound they made was soothing and my eyes felt heavy. I got a blanket out of the old cedar chest that sat next to the rockers, and settled back down. I could hear Becky moving around in the kitchen, she was singing a Christmas song that I hadn’t heard in years. I pushed back in the rocker and closed my eyes. I dreamed about my back porch and orange skies. I dreamed about my wife. I even dreamed about that dang dog.

I sat up, startled by the sound of my grandchildren running through the house. I heard the boy calling out, “Here Wish, come here boy”. I remembered the dog was dead. I need to go in and tell them, but I didn’t want to. This is why I never wanted dogs! They die, and somebody must tell the children about it. That somebody was going to have to be me, and I didn’t want to. Dang dog!

I never heard him coming. I opened the screen door, seeing my daughter and her family standing in the middle of the kitchen. Becky was hugging our granddaughter, brushing her long blond hair out of her face. The dog ran past me, almost knocking me on my butt. “Wish!”, my grandson yelled. The dog jumped up onto the boy, (he did knock him on his butt) and slobbered dog kisses all over his face.

I could only stand there staring. The dog was dead. I was certain of that. I looked at my work boots, I could still see dirt from the north field. I had buried that dog. I couldn’t understand what was happening. 

Wish had no signs of the fight he had lost to the mountain lion. In fact, his coat looked brighter than ever. My grandson was laughing, trying to push the dog off. My daughter looked at me and smiled, “Merry Christmas, Dad” she said. I just stood there with my mouth hung open like a musician’s trumpet. Becky looked over at me, her smile was so beautiful. “Christmas wish.” She whispered. “Now, let’s make some pies!”.

                                                                      ∞∞∞

It’s Christmas morning. As I look across the field, I think about holidays passed. The dead corn is blanketed in fresh snow. Christmas snow. It doesn’t happen very often, but you never know. The coffee is good this morning. My English muffin sits untouched. I don’t have much of an appetite. 

Wish is curled up at my feet. He ignores the muffin and marmalade too. I wait to hear her footsteps on the linoleum floor. She will come out, disturbing my place. She’s been doing that for more years than I can count. I guess it was always our place.

But she won’t come. 

Two nights ago, the eve of Christmas eve, I guess, I was sittin right here wondering about the chances of a white Christmas. My grand-kids would sure love that. I don’t think it ever snows in southern California. I heard a crash come from the kitchen, then my daughter screaming, “Mom!”. She was on the floor when I ran into the brightly lit kitchen. I knew right away she was dead.

The doctor said it was a brain aneurysm. She probably didn’t feel a thing. That’s good, I guess. She was baking Christmas pies, or at least she thought she was. The counter top was covered in flour, white as Christmas snow. It was on her face and her apron too. Her pretty face. But nothing else. No pie fillings, no pie pans…nothing. She died thinking about me.

A freezing wind blows across the porch. Wish moans and curls against my boots. I pat the dog between his ears, “It’s okay, boy.” I tell him. I close my eyes trying to remember.

It was too long ago to be sure. Christmas day, when I was just a boy, usually meant doing the work my old man was too drunk to do. If I had a Christmas wish, I am sure I would have used it back then.

But what if I didn’t?

I close my eyes. I see Becky’s smile.

I wish…

           

The Last Storyteller. Hot off the presses!

My latest collection of short stories will be available this week in paperback and for your e-reader. This collection took more hours to create than I had thought it would. I am not complaining. These were wonderful hours spent on my back porch in the small town of New Braunfels, Texas. If you have never been there, my back porch I mean, then you may not appreciate the alone time I spend there. The stories and pieces of prose (with a poem or two to boot) found in "The Last Storyteller-A Collection of Back Porch Ramblings & Surges of Sensibility" were a joy to create, write and share with you. I sincerely hope you will consider taking this journey with me. You can find more about me and the other books available at J Hirtle Author's Page
If you find yourself travailing down Interstate 35 and through my town, just give a holler. I will sweep of the back porch, put on some coffee and listen to the ramblings that come with being me.

Beautiful Dying [excerpt]

“Jacko, you think you’ve had enough?” He asks while pouring two fingers of Wellers on top of the fresh ice cubes he just dropped into my glass. I follow the dark amber liquid as it cascades over the crystal cubes; I didn’t like that he picked up the ice with his fingers instead of a scoop, but I don’t say anything. I don’t like that he calls me Jacko, no one else does, it’s not my name. But again, I don’t say anything. Ice with fingers, names that don’t belong—those are unimportant things, things that don’t matter anymore. Not when your falling away and fading out.

“It’s a beautiful thing.” I say again, lighting a fresh smoke with the glowing end of the dying one. I’ve been a smoker for more years than I can recall, but I’ve never chained-smoked, until tonight. There’s probably a Freudian diagnosis buried in there somewhere—but I don’t really care.

“What’s beautiful, Jacko?” Micky smiles while pulling a draught of cold beer for another suffering patron. Counting Micky, six other people, strangers without faces, have found Finnegan’s Rock on this cold Saturday night. Five years ago, the place would have been packed wall to wall with millennials spilling drinks, telling lies and dancing to the sounds of the night. Not anymore.  People move on. They want louder music, cheaper booze, more chances.

Available in paperback Beautiful Dying by J Hirtle 

Hug Your Addict...Later

Today, Dayton’s mayor opined that opiates are a “natural disaster.” Two days ago, a “Commission” asked the President to declare opioid addiction a “national emergency”. The American Society of Addiction Medicine reported more than 20 million people suffer from addiction to opiates. They conveniently omit that the suffering is self-imposed. By my unscientific reckoning, I calculate this would result in more than 60 million people being effected by the sycophantic muck every addict leaves in their wake. Husbands, wives, children. Mothers of the addict. Fathers of the addict. Every day they dodge the slime carelessly flung by the addict's every move.

Because the addict is family.

Millions of family members must deal with the addicted because it is the right thing to do. But so many are doing it the wrong way. Just as the media overflows with stories focusing on the woeful addict and how sad their condition is, placing blame on anybody except the addict, family members are secondary in the struggles of the addicted. And that is wrong.

These family members, I pause here remembering also the stout heart friends of the addict, alter their own lives in hopes of changing the life of the drug abuser. To carry-on, these saints must come to realize putting themselves first is not a sin nor an act of selfishness—it is a necessity!  Their love for the addict will become obligation by taking a secondary role. Their servant’s heart will instead bleed the pain of a slave. A slave to the obligation. A slave to the addict. The sacrifices made will become forfeitures forgotten.

Hug your addict but not until you have put yourself first.

I learned this lesson the hard way. For years I chased the hopeless dream of one day hugging a drug-free wife. I consistently made too many addict-first decisions. My day of realization came when I recognized I was losing everything...because of something I had already lost—myself.

My transformation came through God. My conversations with Him didn’t require choosing words carefully so as not to offend or provide an ill-perceived reason for her to go numb. If you are living with an addict and have come to a crossroad where one sign reads “Them” and the other reads “You” know it is time to take the high road. Yours.

Some who read this may not choose the same path I did, a path forged by God. I pray that you would, but if there is another path you prefer which leads to recognizing the foremost importance of being true to yourself before the addict, then take it. Take it with no hesitation, with no regret with no looking back. You will be stronger. You will survive.

Then, hug your addict.

You can read my story at

http://www.amazon.com/Going-Numb-Jim-Hirtle-ebook/dp/B00U49091M/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1448837662&sr=1-1&keywords=going+numb+j+hirtle

Don't Come Back

My days impersonate minutes. You plundered my time, you marked my end. I encountered the unknown, suffering your dark presence. I listened to the healer’s words of scrutiny, promises of hope. I don’t want you to come back. A hidden savior; I cried her name—Crystalline Elixir. Beneath her chaotic destruction, she pushed away your deadly grip. Closing my eyes, baring my veins to a new nightingale, avoiding her cold stare. I embraced her miracle. Waiting. Enduring. Because, I don’t want you back. Six months, twenty-four needles. The Healer declares victory. A new future, he promises without corruption living inside.
For a short while I inhale the rising sun, I see morning flowers bloom again. The song birds serenade my soul. Silver linings on every cloud. I hold hands with the moon before closing my eyes, my prayers of thanksgiving lifted to a merciful God.
And then one early morn, I feel your embrace. Just as before. A nimble caress deep inside. I tremble believing you have returned. Night after night I lay awake with secret knowledge—you have rebounded. The Healer will confirm my greatest fear. So, I will avoid him. Knowing. I don’t want you...

God's Breath [4]

Timothy Fender stood over Lori watching her hands dance above her stilled figure. Her mouth was open as if screaming. Fender removed his ear-buds, assuring himself that her screams were only in the land of God’s Breath and not something overheard by anyone nearby.
Timothy lowered his too skinny frame, tucking into a crisscross-apple-sauce on the concrete floor. A bony knee only inches away from Lori’s hip. Something was awry. Different. Her journeys on the waves of God’s Breath had never been interrupted by a scream. Not even a silent scream.
Lori never remembered her trips except to describe them as waterfall serenity.

“I was standing behind a waterfall. The sound is muted. All you see is cascading water. Water so blue you know only God’s hand could have painted it. Once, I reached out and touched the blue wall of water. I knew I shouldn’t. I wasn’t afraid, there is never fear there. Have you ever seen something so beautiful you knew if you moved, closed your eyes, or touched it, the beauty would die? Yeah, but I wanted to touch it. More than anything I have ever wanted, I wanted to touch it. I needed to touch it. Part of me knew if I didn’t, if I let the wall live, it would deliver like it always does. Timothy, it changes. The wall always changes. It gives me things that no one can know. Beautiful things. God things. But it always takes them back. The blue water washes away any memory of what it has revealed. That’s why I wanted to touch it. I wanted her to know how much I loved her. I wanted to remember all the things she shared with me. If I touched her, maybe she would trust me. Maybe it would let me remember. Then I could bring it all back with me, Timothy. Then maybe, I wouldn’t need to go again.”

Timothy stretched his fingers, tracing her cheek. She was so beautiful. He could touch her and she wouldn’t die. He could touch more of her. She would be gone for at least five more hours. He always recorded the times. When she inhaled. When she came back. He could do anything he wanted. But he wouldn’t. Not yet.

“I reached out, stretching my fingers, touching the wall. It was cold. Ice cold. At first nothing happened. Then the cold moved through my fingertips and up my arm. If the cold traveled to my heart, I knew I would die. I wasn’t supposed to touch her. And then the water wall shattered. The blue wall, the beautifully silent waterfall exploded. Looking up, I saw the blue soaring into the black sky. The night sky inhaled, taking in the blue minim, filling cosmic lungs that no one knows exists. The black sky opened his eyes, ten thousand stars—twinkle, twinkle little star—the blue was back, falling from the sky. Ten thousand tear drops. I made the wall cry.”
“I turned my palms up to the sky, hoping to capture the drops. They danced away as if avoiding my touch. That made me sad I and I cried. I looked at the dirt below my feet. The drops crashed onto the hard ground but their shape didn’t change. As each drop fell, music sounded, a child’s toy piano, as if in concert with their descent. I knelt, wanting to hold them. To love them. I saw inside the blue tear drops, a face. A baby. The baby was laughing and reaching up. And suddenly the drops were floating, like the world had flipped and it was raining up. The tear drops ran together, restoring the waterfall. And then I was walking into it. Becoming part of it. It was so wonderful. God’s Breath, Timothy, is so beautiful.”

Lori believed the drug created the images, the waterfall, the stars, the tear drops, the baby. She wouldn’t understand, or accept as true, what Timothy Fender knew to be the creative authority. God’s Breath, while extremely powerful, was not a hallucinogenic. The design, by the young Mr. Fender, is to tap the unconscious. To reach in deeper and with greater purity than the conscious mind is capable. God’s Breath mined the mine for memories long ago abandoned by life. Memories would surface without definition or tags of origin. The offender of the drug (for that’s what they were from the beginning) would only experience euphoric chaos. And as testified to by Lori’s awe, almost worship-like admiration, they believed God’s Breath was a Creator. Fender knew otherwise. The drug acted more like a pissed of administrator, flinging old file folders across a room, allowing the forgotten contents to settle and mingle as fate provided. God’s Breath was a wimp compared to the powerful human mind. An unanticipated bonus, or side-effect of the poison was the prolonged near-comatose state of the abuser for long hours. Fender, genius and drug designer, did not understand, nor did he concern himself, how the protracted advantage performed. In the end, her endless journey was his addiction.

God's Breath [3]

“Do you think it’s a sin to call it God’s Breath?” He asked her.

“I don’t think so.” She laughed. “But I will tell you when I get to hell.”

Lori closed her eyes.

                                                                                                                                          

She waited. That was okay, the wait was worth it. And Lori knew it wouldn’t be long. It wasn’t like the first time she had inhaled God’s Breath. Then, the drug had slammed her within seconds of having entered her lungs, expanding the small air sacs, moving along the highway of capillaries to the pulmonary vein. From there, the drug-rich oxygen moved through the heart—to the brain. Seconds, no, micros-seconds was all it required the first time. Now, each time it takes longer. She didn’t complain, the trade-off meant longer trips, higher highs. Lori hoped the day would come when God’s Breath would take her away and never return her. An everlasting high.

God’s Breath arrived. Everlasting. One of her father’s words. Everlasting life. He that believes… How many times had she heard those words? She was soaring above the stars. So many lights. So, bright. She tried to close her eyes. But she couldn’t. He was in control now. She was falling. Stretching her arms out like the Christ on his cross.

She's standing on glass. Beneath the glass, came the familiar sound of her father’s voice.

“Lori, it’s your turn, baby.”

She looked down through the glass. Where was he? The glass began to pop. Pop, pop, pop. Black and silver squares formed with each popping sound. It was a chess board. Her father’s chess board.

“Lori!”

The black horse (Lori, it’s a knight, her Daddy scolded her) stood beside her. His breath was warm. Coming rapidly. She looked into the black horse’s eyes… Black horse.

“It’s worse than black horse.” Timothy said. Someone she couldn’t see asked, “What’s black horse?” “Heroin.” Timothy answered the voice. Who was he talking to?

The eyes rolled back into the great horse’s head. They looked like two white balloons. Balloons over-inflated by an over-zealous little girl. The balloon’s skin was too thin. Lori waited for them to explode. She knew they would, they always do. The little girl would cry. “It’s just a balloon. Don’t be such a big baby.” The eyes exploded.

The sky was filled with colorful confetti; floating down, landing in her hair. Thousands of colors. Some had no name. They were so beautiful. She twirled around like a ballerina, staring into the sky, feeling the confetti dance on her cheeks. The only thing missing was the music. Just like that Bohemian Rhapsody blared from unseen celestial speakers—Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? –God’s Breath! Just think of something and it comes. Easy come, easy go. At her feet, the black horse lay dead. Bottomless black holes where the eyes had been. Black holes in a black horse. Little high, little low

The confetti continued to fall. No, it’s not confetti. It just colors. Colors falling from the black sky. Lori ran her hands through her hair, feeling the confetti…the colors. She looked at her hands. Through her hands. They were transparent. The skin was too thin. She saw the colors through her hands. No. In her hands. The colors were in her hands. Filling them. Over-inflating her hands. The skin is too thin!

Her hands exploded. More color. Red. Scarlet. “though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.” Her father was preaching from beneath the glass floor. His words frightened her. She’s too young to hear about sins. Too little to understand the blood that cleanses. He shouldn’t say those words to little kids. She didn’t want to hear him. She put her hands over her ears…where did her hands go?

Lori screamed.

God's Breath [2]

He sat up in the bed, seizing the bible from the bed stand. He turned the pages until he found the ninth chapter of Mark’s Gospel. He read the words for the hundredth time that day— “I believe; help my unbelief.”
He closed his eyes and prayed.

                                                                                       
                                                                                                   

Lori was the first one to call it God’s Breath. The stimulant had a half of dozen street names but was most often called TF12; TF stood for Timothy Fender, the 12 was the number of hours that the user would be high…more than high. TF12 is a synthetic opioid created by an eighteen-year-old genius, Timothy Fender, in his father’s garage. He knows more about pharmaceuticals and chemistry than Stephen Hawking knows about quantum physics. What a fucking waste of genius.

Fender had met Lori at a mutual friend’s 4/20 party. She had asked him if he wanted to drag some weed. That was all it took. Not the weed, he didn’t get high. Protecting his genius-level brain cells was invariably the priority. It was that she had asked him. He was a nerd, and he knew it. He didn’t try to disguise it either. Two inches beyond six feet, weighing in at one hundred and three pounds, he wasn’t an attractive physical specimen. His long black hair was always greasy and seldom combed. Pimples had not learned the news of his eighteenth birthday, and new ones popped up frequently as if he was still a budding pubescent. His wardrobe comprised of black tee-shirts and black jeans, a 1990’s goth holdover.

Twenty-five people had been at the party, twenty-six counting Timothy Fender. Twenty-four didn’t seem to know Fender existed. A covered-in-black wallflower. When Lori made her offer to share a joint, his synapse fired releasing something described as, in non-technical terms, a crush. The crush was so immediate and powerful that he had almost accepted her invitation to blaze. But a fear of lost control was even greater than the unexpected crush leading to his polite “No, thanks´. But she didn’t seem to care, nor did she criticize him for declining. And later, when he spoke about the mechanics of marijuana, cause and effect of the euphoric trip, she had listened. He knew he sounded like a nerd. A nerd who was utterly out of place at a 4/20 party. But she didn’t care. And so, he talked…and talked.

Seven months later he had developed the formulation for TF12. From some unknown, deep, sick region of his Einsteinium mind, he wanted Lori to try if first. She did.

Three weeks afterward, she was addicted to TF12. “Timothy Fender, you will be a friggin millionaire!” Lori told him, sitting on one of the wood cable reels that purported to be furniture in the garage/laboratory of the same Timothy Fender. Her prediction wasn’t wholly accurate, but over the next three months he had manufactured and sold enough TF12 to put almost eighty-thousand dollars in and old suitcase. He was happy. Lori was high. And TF12 was winning the attention of the police. And the coroner’s office.

On the anniversary of their first meeting, April 20, Lori instructed Timothy that TF12 was too scientific sounding. “It needs a new name.” She told him with her eyes closed and on her way to carelessness. “God’s Breath. That’s its name. God’s Breath-it will blow your mind and suck your worries away.” Timothy wondered what “worries” Lori had.

“Do you think it’s a sin to call it God’s Breath?” He asked her.
“I don’t think so.” She laughed. “But I will tell you when I get to hell.”
Lori closed her eyes.

Going Numb by J Hirtle

God's Breath

Below is the beginning of a new story I have been bouncing around on sleepless nights. It is a story about addiction, faith and God. Three of my favorite subjects. I have written about these before in two non-fiction books, "Going Numb" and "Addicted to Faith". But I've wanted to enter into my new favorite theater, fiction, and create a story with my favorite subjects, for some time now. 
I hope this story, as it come to life, will help some one who is facing addictions through self or for someone they love. It is a daunting task, one I hope to accomplish before I go Home.
I thought that I would reveal it here-letting you see it as it grows. I covet your feedback and critiques, hopefully mixed with a little prayer.

Thomas placed the old parchment bound bible on the nightstand. He knew sleep wouldn’t come tonight; there was so much to consider. No, consider wasn’t the right word. Believe. So much to believe. He turned the small plastic knob on the bronzed lamp one click, dimming the bulb but not yet extinguishing it. There are four walls separating his room from his daughter’s, but they weren’t adequate to drown out the thick bass coming from Bose speakers he knew were sitting on her desk. He recognized the song,” Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd.
He closed his eyes remembering the first time he heard Floyd ask, “Is there anybody there?”. It was 1979, he was in the garage of his closest friend, Larry Kirk. His parents allowed The Kirk (as he was known by friends and enemies alike) to convert the garage into a studio. Long black lights had hung from the ceiling illuminating posters of Hendrix, Clapton, and of course Pink Floyd. A Yamaha custom drum set commanded the center of the garage; a gift from The Kirk’s parents for his sixteenth birthday. A half of dozen folding chairs, the kind you would see at pool side (which is likely where The Kirk had stolen them from) were the only other furniture in the studio. Music always pervaded the atmosphere. The air always reeked of weed. They had smoked a lot of weed. They were kids. Kids growing up post-Viet Nam, post-campus protests and at the end of an era that included the greatest rock-and-roll bands of all time. Nothing else to do, so they claimed—weed.
Thomas opened his eyes. The song had changed. He didn’t recognize this one. It was new and belonged to her generation. In 1981, Thomas enlisted in the Marine Corps, putting, for the most part, his weed smoking days behind him. He smoked a few times over the years, at concerts, once at a high school reunion, but it wasn’t part of his life. Even as teenager in the 70s he hadn’t been as enchanted with getting stoned as most of his friends were. He tried nothing harder. He recalled seeing a kid named Eddie get hit by a truck after wandering out onto the highway; he had just dropped purple microdot. In 1993, he became a Daddy. Since, Thomas had not gotten high, drunk or anything else. He didn’t have a problem with people getting high, doing their own thing. It was their business. Legal or illegal, it was their choice, their consequence. Unless it came to his daughter.
She called it God’s Breath. It will take you higher. You will be there longer. It will blow every fantastical cell in your mind. When she spoke about it she chattered like a late-night infomercial hawk, not an addict. “It will suck your breath away!” She left out the piece about killing you.
She was an addict. His daughter was addicted and he could do nothing about it. Except, blame himself.
He’d introduced her to Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, ACDC, Eric Clapton. He even had an old turntable with all the vinyl an ex-rocker needed. He told her stories about The Kirk and his garage-studio. About the weed they smoked and the fun they had. He did this because of insatiable love for music and hoped stories of his misspent youth would be received as a warning. Not a role model.
He sat up in the bed, seizing the bible from the bed stand. He turned the pages until he found the ninth chapter of Mark’s Gospel. He read the words for the hundredth time that day— “I believe; help my unbelief.”
He closed his eyes and prayed.

To Prepare a Place

She wept. I could only sit still and wait. The damage evoked suddenly, yet innocently. The words I had prayed would sooth her pain had failed. Indeed, in speaking to her I instead pushed her sadness to anger, her anger to hatred. Her hatred, to now, a deep stillness interrupted only by her heartbreaking sobs.

Shattered glass sprayed across the inexpensive carpet now stained with cheap wine, glittered under the cruel incandescent lights. I thought I should clean it up before someone cut their foot on the sharp fragments. But everyone was gone. They had left when her anger had exploded, perhaps in fear of more soaring wine glasses. I could not help but to stare at that damn broken glass. It was simpler than looking at the broken woman who sat across from me.

“Why?” She asked me again…

To observe the death of a loved one, to hear the dying one’s final breath rattle into silence, to watch their eyes close for the final time, is an encounter of great difficulty. Even I, having stood at countless bedsides, recognize this burden as leaden with a deep melancholy that will not soon vanish. I have advantage in distinguishing this business of dying as not an end, but a glorious beginning. Yet for too many, such as the young woman I address, the certitude of extinction is overwhelming and singular.   

Her name is Isabella. A beautiful name, indeed. Her father called her Bella from time she was born. It is his death that has dealt her burden; his death that has brought me here. My purpose has remained constant, never changing. To soothe. To recall hope. To listen. All the other pieces completed by the One greater than I.

Death is instant. A moment which one cannot measure in time. It is the path to death, which all too often tarries. A prolonged duration will surely agonize the lost and the living. Such was the case for Bella and her father. His body penetrated by cancerous cells. These Lilliputian intruders attaching themselves at will to vital organs without care, laying claim to that which did not belong to them. For over two years he bravely fought an untenable battle. Bella sat at his side each week as the “We Care People” delivered the chemicals designed to destroy the invaders. Moments of hope were sparse for father and daughter. His body, now under attack by invader and ally, slowly eroded.

The day came when a decision must be made—should the therapy continue a crusade that had brought about greater damage than healing?  Would ending the treatments mean a sudden end to life? For one, the hope rested in the affirmative. But for Bella, the thought of her father dying robbed her of sleep, tore at her heart and decayed the foundations of her hope. Against her will, the treatments ceased. Her father abandoned the antiseptic whiteness of the hospital room, returning to the empty bed where his daughter had been conceived so many years before.

“Why?” She asked me once again. Her eyes red from depletion and ten thousand tears. “Why would God allow suffering for so long, if the love you speak of is so great?”

There was more for her to say, so I waited. Peering at the small window, clad not with curtains but with a bed sheet cut to fit the opening, I detected the sun surrendering to the evening sky. Time was running out; soon I must depart, for others lingered at Death’s doorstep.

She spoke, “If he has prepared a place.” She hesitated before speaking to the empty room, “He has had more than two thousand years to do so. He should have finished by now. He did not need to let my father hurt so much. He could have taken him before the suffering began.”

“Whose suffering?” I asked.

She stared across the abandoned room, only silence followed her gaze.

“There was more to be done.” I said.

“Then why did he die? Why did he take him now?” She cried.

“Not there.” I finished. “Here.”

Isabella stood, and walked over to the small window. More tears, amazingly more tears. It seems an inexhaustible flood of tears, comes from not understanding. Some may believe the source is sadness, but sadness stretches across arid plains, soon purging the tears of the saddened. But to not understand…

“Isabella, did you know Laura?”

The girl drew back the homemade curtain, peering into the cloudless sky. “My father’s nurse?” She asked.

“She is the one I speak of. Sit, I will tell you her story.”

She waited at the window.

“Laura was much more than a nurse. She elected to care for the dying. Now this is a noble choosing; to be surrounded by grief and hopelessness, despair and misery. Why, quite often the one cared for by the benevolent caregiver is not even aware of their presence. Laura was inclined to lead such a charitable life, but that was not her reason for choosing.”

Isabella turned from the window, walking to her chair.

“You see Bella, just out of Laura’s grasp, was faith. She would close her eyes at night bowing her head, seeking to pray. Behind her closed eyes, she would see all the people she has cared for. She would recall their great suffering. She would think of the terrible diseases that destroyed their beings. She remembered their names. She would see their loneliness. The late-night images would suck-in the life of her prayer before it ever began. Then she met your father.”

Isabella lay her head on the table, closing her eyes.

“Every night, Laura sat by your father’s side, waiting for him to sleep. Many nights, her wait was not long, his pain eased by the medicines she administered. But other nights, dear Isabella, his pain was too great for the elixir’s charm. On those nights, Laura held his hand and listened.”

“Why are you telling me this?” The girl whispered.

“She heard you father pray. As the end neared, he could no longer find sleep. She listened to his prayers, over and over.” I gazed down on Isabella, wanting her to hear, “He prayed for others. Not once did she hear him pray for relief. Not once did he turn his words against God. He prayed for those he loved. He prayed for you, his Bella.”

“Why…”

So many questions.

“Before He prepared a place, He prepared a plan. He had a plan for your father. You see, until this plan was complete, the place would not be. Laura was God’s plan for your father. She heard his prayers each night. The faith that had been so close, became clear through your father’s words.”

“Isabella, the moment Laura, reached out to God; finally, after fifty years of not understanding, fifty years of searching. In the very moment, she accepted Him— your father went home, his reason completed. Home, to a place prepared for him.”

Isabella sat up, looking around the empty room.

“Father,” she cried.