In my pocket I have a Saint Gaudens twenty-dollar gold piece with the date worn to obscurity. For some, this will assuredly not suffice as any kind of proof of this story, although perhaps inherent reason and logic will furnish adequate confirmation of what took place. 1
*
The house could have been any Washington Heights apartment building. But to me it was mine; where I had always lived. The color of its brick was off-white. It stood on the corner of 178th Street and Cabrini Boulevard on the upper Westside of Manhattan, across the street from the immense George Washington Bridge which spanned the Hudson to Fort Lee, New Jersey. 2
On hot summer evenings we would bring folding chairs downstairs to the corner and sit up late into the night with neighbors, enjoying the breeze from the river, keeping cool.3
Old Mr. Collins, who had been building superintendent at one time, was almost always there. A big man, and former U.S. Marine who had fought in the Spanish-American War, he was a retired mounted policeman and one time keeper of the small red lighthouse, situated on the rocks of the Hudson beneath the bridge. Mr. Collins was the nucleus of the group and I felt a special importance because he lived on our floor, around the bend in apartment 4A. 4
Mrs. Berman, from upstairs on the 5th floor, was almost always in attendance as well. She was getting very old and quiet and I cannot recall anything to characterize her beyond: Mrs. Berman, 5th floor, upstairs.5
There were also the Millers and the Schweds, ground floor neighbors who were best friends and whose children enjoyed the additional convenience of receiving ice-cream money or jackets through windows without having to go inside. 6
Others passed by and stopped to talk but were by no means regulars. They were only, not unfamiliar, faces; neighbors who never sat down, outside on the corner, with us those hot summer nights.7
I had spent many a summer vacation away. How odd the six-story house seemed when I returned. It was not strange, because it was so familiar. It was not different. The apartment house had not changed at all. That seemed odd, because I had changed and it had not. It occurred to me that I had moved, been away and grown while the house had not. During those late, hot, dry summer days, the building stood, as always, tall and quiet, on the corner, off white. Each window was an old friend, as was each pavement crack, the scratched and painted initials on the bricks, chinks and notched crevices in the cement between. They were all still there, as I had left them. Nothing had changed. Yet.8
In time, a long expressway would be built; some blocks east, a bus terminal. And the house (at that time) on Cabrini Boulevard was razed. Only memories were left of its cool image in the early evening blue, waiting as we came back from Broadway, the taste of a chocolate soda still on our lips. Hours later, its early morning smile would reflect the sun’s glare. But now its familiar, informal reign on the windy corner for 25 years was over. 9
I had been away and alone and had on occasion been obsessed with thoughts of the old neighborhood, particularly the house. I pictured the corner, the street and the sidewalk in front of the building. And it was during one of these mental excursions I focused on an almost forgotten detail. 10
In front of the apartment house, built into the sidewalk, was a black, iron trap door. It opened on a coal chute to the cellar and was used exclusively for the delivery of coal. The major difference between this and other neighborhood coal chutes was it was on the sidewalk, not vertically built into the side of the building. It was smaller than the iron doors found on street freight elevators and could be opened with a single finger or crowbar inserted into a hole across from the hinge. The door was about two feet square.11
Shortly after the new expressway was completed I had been back to the old street and found in place of our house, a pleasant bit of park, raised and set back several feet. Around and above the little park area ran the expressway. Otherwise, except for a breezy emptiness, everything was the same. I had not noticed anything more.12
I came to wonder if they hadn’t done away with the iron door. Most likely they had, although I did not recall any apparent change in the pavement and why alter the street since the little park was built a considerable distance back from it? It was then I became preoccupied with thoughts of the coal chute and thought, if it was still there where did it now lead? I had seen where, many times as a child.13
It was on a vacant day in September, I decided, out of a peculiar mixture of nostalgia and curiosity, to revisit the site of my old beloved house. It was a long walk from the Fort Washington Avenue bus stop, made even longer by the emptiness in the streets, the lack of familiar faces; the bowing warp of time. The walls of the buildings still standing, the well-known landmarks, seemed mute with the shyness of a child who has not seen a friend in a long time. The warmth in the air waited to be shook by the shrill call of one boy to another or the whipping swing of a stick-ball bat putting a pink ball high on a flower-potted fire escape, or the song of the huckster selling fruit, cashing clothes or sharpening knives. 14
Looking up I could see the apartment where Ross used to live. Behind it, I thought I saw Ross and his mother and father, his big brother Irv, and myself, sitting in the living room waiting to go downstairs. On my left was Bernie’s window. There was no shade, no curtain hanging. I knocked. It was dusty and black on the inside. I waited. No one came.15
The house was only a half block away. On the corner was Biderman’s grocery store. I could see it was closed but I quickened my pace, nearly breaking into a jog, because in Biderman’s you could get salami on a hard roll, ice cold Doc’s Root Beer and fresh chocolate or vanilla frosted cupcakes from the box. Jack the postman was often inside eating lunch, sitting on the one wooden and wrought iron stool that stood forever before Biderman’s marble topped counter. Lenny the salesman, stopping in on his way home, would tell a funny story while buying groceries, and Harry, Biderman’s assistant, pencil behind his ear, leaning on the counter top was, on slow afternoons, good for a coin trick, catching flies, or moving his ears. To his left were neatly placed boxes of Joyva Halvah, chocolate-covered jellies and marshmallow twists for two cents apiece. I stood before the mini-flight of three concrete steps leaning into the store. Years ago, when Biderman’s was in its heyday, and nearly everyone in the neighborhood shopped there to some degree, I overheard someone say it was a goldmine. Since Biderman’s son didn’t want any part of the place and Biderman was aging, some people jealously remarked about Harry’s good fortune as heir apparent to the place. After all, he wasn’t even a relation; just a hired young man. Now, some hardware and a few pairs of workman’s gloves hung on the door-window. 16
Across the street were the park, the emptiness and, not seeming strange at all, just where it had always been, the iron door. I stopped in front of it, and through the rainbow emanating from the park, paused to dream of slug, bike rides, scooters and skates and the grinding racket their wheels made on the concrete sidewalk. I could envision a little boy standing on that very spot. For a moment I thought of going home, but the notion gave way to scanning the area. Was I being observed? It was then I reached down, as if to tie my shoelace, and inserted a finger through the hole opposite the rusting hinge. The door was heavy but opened easily as if it were not I who was lifting it but the winds of the past blowing it open for me.17
The opening disclosed a gaping blackness. Of course, I expected nothing more. Sitting on the edge, my legs dangling in the hole, I took hold of one side and swung down into the pit, none too deftly, landing on a heap of coal. The shock of falling made me stop moving for a moment. Time itself seemed to have come to an abrupt halt. Then, as I attempted to step down, the coal gave way and I fell backward. Objects in the room began to swirl gently as they came into focus and took strange shapes. It was as if time and space were moving together, backward and away. It was not unlike eyes getting used to the dark.18
When I got to my feet and stumbled down off the coal heap I could make out the room. The contour of its dimensions was vividly familiar. It was the last of a chain of rooms and storage closets in the cellar of the old house. Were the others still intact as well? I could make out a door ahead. Certainly, I reasoned, the door led somewhere. It was splintered, dusty and forbidding, but it had another side. As I reached for it, I realized the knob was gone but I managed to get the door open, like the sidewalk door, with a finger. One room led to the next. And not unexpectedly, they were all there: the carriage room, the boiler room, the storage room, the laundry room, the workshop, the incinerator and then, finally, incredibly, the elevator.19
A rush of memories returned to me: Willie the handyman taking what seemed like weeks to paint my little red car white; Henry the elevator man bringing the car up to the apartment, where I then quickly outgrew it and it was relegated to becoming a receptacle for newspapers and magazines. I saw myself watching the final cycle of a washing machine, helping my mother hang clothes, and years later, exploring the dark basement labyrinths with a friend after school…with the aid of matchbooks. The explorations had become less exciting when we began using what we thought would be the more efficient candles. Nothing could equal the pressure and urgency, the chill of the blackness and nebulous danger when the match burned down and out. And nothing was as inevitable as the brief life span of the paper match, hardly equal to the two elements in our explorations that always loomed before us. Always presenting hidden danger, always possibilities that could frighten us to death, always lurking were: the superintendent…and the dog. We bravely stood ready to deal with them but our progress, that is, the high tech move to candles, and later to flashlights, not only lessened the surprise of these dangers and softened the challenges of our underground explorations, they dampened the entire experience, and soon put an end to them as well.20
As I rang for the elevator I watched the red arrow, which pointed down, begin to glow. Through the round glass window in the door I could see the cables move and faintly was able to hear a hum from within the elevator shaft. Other than that persistent sound everything remained probably as still as it had been for the past two decades. I had to wonder where the elevator was coming from. I knew there was no house. The building had been taken down years ago. Yet I was following what seemed to be a logical sequence of events. Was this making sense? The hum stopped and the inner elevator door opened.21
I pulled at the outer door and, stepping in, recognized the peculiar designs on the walls. There were old scratched and worn black buttons. Everything was exactly as I recalled and the words, “coincidence,” “nightmare,” and “hallucination,” came to mind. I wiped perspiration from my face, my legs felt weak and shaky; my body began to shiver involuntarily. And already, without being aware of it, the thought had crossed my mind, terrifying me. There was one supreme test, one inevitability, one place to go. With some reservation, but yet determined, I pressed the fourth floor button.22
As I ascended, the light which came through the little round chicken wire hole became brighter with each floor. The car came to a stop at four, the inner door opened, and I pushed at the heavier door to step off. 23
Across from the elevator was a large hall window. Outside, below, was the courtyard littered with glass, paper and small planks of wood. It was a treasure trove for young pirates, who would, despite informal prohibitions, be sure to climb daily through the ground floor access windows to sift through the debris. Sun suffused the six stories above the yard, shining on the refuse with gleams, increasing its apparent value to the impish hunters a thousand fold. 24
I crossed the floor parallel with the stairwell to the first apartment on the left of the elevator, 4E, my old apartment. For a moment I stood before it. Everything was, or seemed, as it had always been: the brown door flecked with gold paint, the fading welcome mat, the protruding bell,(the only one on the floor which had not been painted over)our name beneath it. I distracted myself with thoughts of the Collins’ around the bend in 4A, the Millers downstairs, and Mrs. Berman above, on 5. So far, however, I reminded myself, I had not seen a soul. Numb, I stood transfixed. Then I pressed the bell. I remembered the ring. 25
“Who is it” a small but pleasant sounding voice asked from behind the door. I hesitated.26
“A…visitor,” I replied. And at once I had a startling recollection. I had experienced a similar incident when I was a boy. Someone had rung the bell and when I inquired as to who it was the voice responded with, “a visitor.” Although I had repeatedly been instructed never to open the door to strangers, I recall having had a contrary compulsion to do so. It was almost as if I had known my own father was there. The door opened wide.27
Speech seemed to catch in my throat.28
“Hello,” I managed. The boy was me as a child, about eight or nine years old. I couldn’t take my eyes from him. I wanted to grab him up and take him with me, show him everything I knew and teach him a thousand things. I felt compelled to give him countless warnings. I wanted to bestow on him all my possessions. Beyond the boy I could see past his yellow slip-over sweater, through the little foyer and into the living room along the furniture I knew so well. Each piece was in its proper place. I wanted to touch every article; sit at the table; turn on the lamp; feel the chairs again. Instead, I could only stand, immobile, in my place. 29
“My mother isn’t home,” the little boy said, his eyes clear and blue. For an instant I saw myself staring out into an adult world of truths and perplexities however modified by my own childish concepts and feelings. I had the feeling of understanding him completely.30
“Well…,” I said softly, “it doesn’t really matter. I have something I want to give to you.” 31
In my pocket, I always carried a gold coin which was given to me when I was a young boy by the stranger whom I found standing at my door that afternoon. He had paid his visit for no other apparent reason. I remember being struck by the word “Liberty” engraved on the coin…and its being solid gold.32
“Keep this and don’t lose it,” I said. “And don’t let anyone take it away from you.” He took it and fondled it.33
“Thanks,” he drew out as he admired it. “Can I really keep it?”34
“It’s yours,” I said. “Perhaps I’ll see you again.”35
Then I left. The elevator was waiting. I pressed “B” and took it to the basement; I ran through the cellar rooms to the coal bin, climbed through the iron door and pulled myself up into the street. On my way to the Fort Washington Avenue bus stop I turned around but once, only to see the blowing leaves in the park on Cabrini Boulevard.36
Some years had passed. The memory of the coin faded, almost as if I never really owned it. The trip to Cabrini Boulevard could have been a dream. I never went back. The days were fraught with depression and loneliness, at times, an empty coolness draining warmth and life from the body.37
It was at the end of a day, on an evening particularly laden with chill, that I answered a knock at my door. I had, for sometime now, been residing in another city, far away, and kept to myself. So when the elderly gentleman at the door, whom I had never set eyes upon before, addressed me by my first name, it was not without surprise.38
“I think,” he said, “you must know who I am. Or you will.” A kindly smile pushed his age aside. 39
“I’m sorry. I don’t believe I do,” I replied. “Can I help you?” The old man kept his eyes focused on me as he spoke but seemed to take the opportunity of my reply to peer beyond me and into the apartment.40
“I used to live here myself,” he paused. “I find myself missing those days quite a bit now.”41
Smiling, I said, “You couldn’t have lived here, this building is brand new.”42
“Is it?” said the old man. I suddenly realized who he was. He knew I had and he grinned again.43
“How is it there?” I gulped out, hardly able to manage clear speech.44
“It’s the same,” he said, “a little lonely.” 45
I was seized with an energy I could not contain. Questions I could not frame as I sensed a certain urgency about him. “Could I go back with you?” He looked about with venerable eyes and said:46
“Yes…and no.”47
“What do you mean,” I asked, my heart pounding? 48
“You cannot go back with me,” he said, “but you will go there. Alone.”49
There was very little light left in the hallway. It had all drained away through cracks and nooks, doors and windows. The old man stood on his side of the threshold in his overcoat, I, on my side, in my shirtsleeves. Behind me, the apartment, darkening, gaping, empty. He put his hand into a deep pocket.50
“Incidentally,” he said, “I came back here to return this to you. I believe you left it somewhere along the way.” He held out the gold piece. It was the St. Gaudens with the date worn away. 51
“Where did you get it?” I asked.52
“An old man gave it to me nearly 35 years ago. You know it’s yours.”53
I looked at the coin’s face. The word “Liberty” on it had hardly worn. It was exactly as I had remembered it.54
“Keep it and don’t lose it,” the old man cautioned. He grinned, took a last look beyond me and then disappeared across the hall.55
“Will I see you again?” I called after him. He didn’t answer. “I’ll see you again,” I muttered under my breath. But he was gone. Fingering the coin I stepped back into the apartment and closed the door. 56
Through the open window I could discern the orange image of the faceless sun floating above everything. The air was still but once in awhile some refreshing breeze filled the room.57
A contest entry
- The Big One by Oblivion Kitty God.
11165 points, ended February 6, 15 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - Randomness YAY by Vampiric souls.
100 points, ended August 27, 13 entries
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - Lie To Me by Valkyrie.
850 points, ended September 26, 7 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - Prompts! by moonwriter.
600 points, ended November 13, 13 entries
• next story in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 32 of 32
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Hi Gary
Lots of description in this story. A very interesting tale. That gold coin really made the rounds and apparently stayed in the same person's hands
. At first I was a little slow getting into the story, but as it went on, I was drawn in. I was really surprise by the old man who gave the coin back to the main character. I'm not really sure how that works. I will say that over all I enjoyed this story.
Andy
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And...I hope you RETURN...for more!
Thanks for checking this one out, Andy. I'm delighted that you were able to "wade" through the slow moving open...and get "drawn in." It is further gratifying that your were somewhat surprised by my little twisty ending! I try!
Thanks again, glad you enjoyed this tale!
GA
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I have to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed this story. It was riveting and held my attention from start to finish. I really love your detail to description. Here-and-there, I spotted a few grammatical errors, but didn't 'pounce' on them as I thought that perhaps its only the 'difference' between the way an American and South African would construct a sentence. Thanks for recommending that I should read it.
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Gary,
A great ghost story - not the spooky types of ghosts, but the ghosts of memory - and you wrote a story that showed their tangibility by bridging the gaps - in two places.
I enjoyed this story very much (you know me, this is my type of story). You knitted, of course, your vivid reminiscences into it, and it is better for it.
I assume the photo is of you. Correct?
para 6 - "jackets"? - are these like potato skins?
para 8 - "It was..." I think sometimes you deliberately see how far you can stretch commas to elongate a sentence. I think this was a little long.
para 9 - the first sentence is predicting the long expressway being built, while the next sentence looks back. It isn't altogether inappropriate, but I wondered if you wanted to simplify and say "In time, a long expressway was built;"
para 13 - last sentence needs something for flow - how about a comma after "where", or perhaps invert the sentence.
para 14 - a particularly nice paragraph, friend.
Highly enjoyable - probably one of my favourites now!
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It started off a little slow, but then you picked up the pace and I realised what a great piece of writing I was readining, very well done!
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Oh, oh, and I forgot to add that the background buttons on the left of this screen look like elevator buttons. Yeah, I thought that was a great touch!
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Oooooh. Such nice imagery! I liked especially, above all the rich detail and colors of the piece itself, the description of how time and space were moving similarly to eyes getting used to the dark. That was the best description ever, and it so clicked in my head!
I
the time travel stuff, the trading back and forth of the coin! Not sure what to think about the apparent gap in time between when the fellow gives the coin back to the child-him, and then gets the coin from the old-him...where was the coin held during that time frame? It seems no one had it, and yet, there it was! Hahaha, hilarious!
This is so a great tale. Definitely--wait for it--"awesome".
Editorial commentations:
P21 in tact = intact
P24 some commas around "stepping in"
P25 little and chicken and wire and round, all for the word hole, wow. It doesn't seem to flow quite so well to me; maybe if you put "round" before "chicken wire"?
P27 in the list of things that seemed the same, the phrase "the only one on the floor which had not been painted over" is in commas like the things in the list; maybe use dashes around it instead
I remembered the ring. - sounds like you're suddenly talking about proposing to someone inside. maybe you could say "that ring", or word it some other way?
P31 "Beyond the boy I could see past" kinda repetitive there with beyond and past both in there
And the picture actually has photographic evidence of the house and the grate! Proof, proof! See? There it is! Surely this must be a true story, every scintillating word!
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Your descriptions of the people and the area made me think I was hearing the story from the horse's mouth. The beginning was a bit slow though. But it caught up in the middle when the hero fell into the coal pit and I found myself intrigued and asking what's going to happen next. It was a strange story, I must admit. It seems there's some sort of unconscious time travel going on with the stranger always ending up giving the coin to a much younger himself .It's weird, but I must commend your imagination and creativity in writing, to convey that weird feeling for the reader. Good job!
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wow this was really, really good and you did a great job. It was interesting and really greatly written. Great job and thanks for entering!!!
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This story is definately a good read and great thinker. Where did this coin come from and who gave it to the guy?? i love the twist of him giving it to himself...very interesting. thank you for entering.
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Man that made me think, at first i was confused until I realized he was giving the coin to himself each time. You write amazingly well and the description and imagery i picture in my head are wonderful!
Ala
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Interesting.
The one thing I couldn't help but wonder is how the coin exists? He gave it to himself both times, but the coin never came into his possession except from himself. This is not a negative side of the story, I'm pointing this out to show how the story made me think. Does the coin really exist if it was passed down from future to present? then Present to past? Is there a reason it was a coin? The second time around the old man could have given the younger any item from the future?
The story is fantastic, and now it has me thinking. Any story that leaves me really thinking and questioning something is special. Thanks for the great read.
If you think about it... the coin as much exists for eternity as it doesn't exist at all. Since the character received the coin from himself, then gave the coin to himself, did the coin ever truly exist? Another thing to think about it... The coin exists from the time he is x years old to 35 years later. Then goes back in time to x years old again, then 35 years later is handed down back to x. Is the coin forever in existence? Its a paradox! But a damn good one.
Well done.. Rewarded 8
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GA- are you trying to kill me? Seriously, you make my heart race so much with your sheer talent that I think it must be some plot to end my life. Is it because I stole your fritos?
I agree, this should have been more than bronze for the heart galloping mighty creativeness alone! Matter of fact, I think we should construct a new trophy- a..
A Frito Trophy! Yes! And you shall be the winner of said trophy! Yes! And then I shall eat it! YES!
I mean no!
. Rewarded 8
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Very good! You've made the whole thing work very nicely.
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Hello,
I was just searching across those that were online. I came upon your name and scrolled down the list of story entries that you've made. My interest for science fiction convinced me to choose this story to read.
Your writing is very detailed. Yet, I found the very beginning a little...dull. I'm not really sure that that is the right word. Maybe I'm completely wrong. However, I think that maybe, you can begin the story by making it more enthralling, to convince the reader to keep reading.
I didn't spot many writing mistakes (of which I find many in my own writing). I did notice that you had some missing comma's. Also in some sentences, you use conjunctions, and then in others, you don't. Can there not be more consistency?
I picked a random paragraph...
"Across the street were the park..." (Paragraph 18)
Doesn't the word, "was" suit this sentence more?
"...wheels made on the concrete sidewalk And I could envision..." (Same paragraph)
Wouldn't it flow better if you had a period after "sidewalk" and then remove the "and" ?
I think that many of your paragraphs are long. Even though it may seem inconsequential, it's much easier to read the same thing, with smaller paragraphs.
There are places where I would have phrased things differently. Though, I'm a different writer.
Overall, I really liked your story. I liked how the character traveled through time, remembering and being confronted with memories dug deep in the recesses of his mind. Finally, how it all connected to his present life.
I too write in first person. Maybe you can read some of my writing some time. It's not great, and is full of mistakes but I can still call it mine.
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bronze??? only bronze?!?!?!
desecration!
you should have won gold!!!
i loved the story, ive always thought things like this!!!
it was a very nice read!
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I enjoyed this story. It was interesting, and I like the way you did it in "first person" which, I think, makes a story more realistic, as it's as if the writer has really been there. Anyway, good job. :-)
. Rewarded 4
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This is a very, very, very good story. Although, I must say your hook wasn't very good. I was a bit bored in the beginning and sometimes I got bored and just wanted to turn away. But then I decided to keep reading to be nice, (because you paid for us to view this), and I was really happy I did. Although your beginning isn't strong, as it progresses, it gets sooooo much better. The intensity is very good. I love your wording, and I did not see any grammar errors! That's a good plus! Keep on writing stories! Lol!
Keep up the good work,
-Brian.. Rewarded 8
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Outstanding
Very well done. There have been few stories that I've read on this sight that have been so finely crafted as this one. I can see why you got a trophy from the Big One.
Someone seemed to think it was too detailed, but I disagree entirely. The details are necessary to allow the memory to become real once again.
I really enjoyed the convoluted sentence structures. The sentence describing Harry had so many commas, yet was well structured and made sense all the way through.
The whole thing was very Twilight Zone - esque. I like the added twist of the future self visiting the narrator after the past visit was nearly forgotten.
And then there's the mystery. Where did that gold coin really come from if he gave it to himself and always had it? Hmmm
Thanks for something great to read. ttfn -
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Good to have Perceptive Readers
Thank you, not only for the accolade, but for your understanding of the form of the story and your enthusiasm. I thought Plumeister had a point...perhaps there was a bit too much detail, but it did serve a purpose...and I'm glad you confirmed that. (I'm going to check that "Harry" sentence (lol!) now) Thanks again for your perspicacity. Glad you enjoyed it. You obviously understood it ALL!
GA
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too much detail
too wordy and doesn't move quickly enough to keep my interest. Laborious is how I'd describe the reading experience. Too much information too soon without moving into action. Even if it gets great later on, it doesn't matter if I put the book down because I'm tired of reading. Trim it to just what is necessary to tell the tale of what is immediately at hand, tying information to events. Information first and then events doesn't work. People don't like to have to refer back to pertinent info, tie info into present experience and lock it into the reader's mind by what is happening and using only what is relevant to what is happening at present. Starts too slow and you lost me. THat's my honest opinion if you are interested in it. I suppose I could doll it up a little and lie to be more agreeable to ego, but that just wouldn't be me. I hope you enjoy my honesty because that's "what I think".
al
p.s. the picture detracts, makes it feel old and dusty at the get go.. Rewarded 8
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wonderfully written. i love the descriptions.
again you show why your on the best authors on this site.
another masterpeice. the twist is m. night like. haha. ;-)
. Rewarded 4
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Great!
Hello! I came back to comment! :]
I will admit that the beginning starts off slow, but I think that it goes with the story. I really enjoyed your description of the house and the grocery store, and the nostalgic feeling in this piece is something that I really liked. And the little twist of the boy, the old man, and the coin was great. Great job!
-jj. Rewarded 6
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i feel bad for having deserted this the first time around. It really is a very nice piece. I love the concept, and the scifi twist is really cool.
The only reason I think I didn't finish this the first time I looked at it is because it starts a little slow. I can see why now, of course, with the ending the way it is. But at first glance, there is very little action that occurs in the present. Most of it is in the characters memories.
There's nothing wrong with this, of course. It is extremely detailed and a guaranteed good read.. Rewarded 8
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At the beginning of the story, I wasn't quite sure where it was going--but once I started getting into it, I loved it. The idea of seeing your past and future selves is frightening and very cool all at once.
I like the role the coin plays. It's like a messenger that gets passed around and is the only thing that truly remains unchanged. I think that, in a way, it symbolizes the very core of a person; no matter how much time passes or how the person might change, something deep within them will always stay the same.
This is a wonderful piece. Thank you for sharing it!
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Nice story
Your story was a nice trip down memory lane with a twilight zone twist. I enjoyed the details and the story.
. Rewarded 4
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Beautiful!
I absolutely loved this! I think it is one of your best works by far. A lovely tale which puts a reader in the narrators shoes and keeps him on his feet.
I loved the descriptions of the building, it reminded me of when i lived overseas. The neighbours and our family would do the same thing every night during summer, but we'd sit on the roof instead
The characters were excellently described too. Although you don't use too much description, a reader finds himself feeling as though he has known every one of them.
Another excellent piece Gary! Glad i read this, keep writing!
Yrs.
Azaradelle.
P.S. The picture is my favourite of all your pictures. It's gorgeous
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For the record
Just for elucidation, clarification and as a curious note, for those who may read this tale...the above photo shows the house (on the left) alluded to in the story. BUT...if one looks very carefully, along the center of the left hand edge of the photo, on line with the carriage, a tiny dark tab is revealed. This is a corner of the iron trap door! Really!
GA
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as always your plot flows along, with easy to follow prose, clear dialogue and interesting characters.
Wonderful story, if I were tempted to dissect it and try to understand your deep thoughts, I might say that you portray Life like a revolving door, and since it never really ends if one locates the portal, they can find themselves at any point in time. The youth, the adult, the ancient, each returning to recapture just a moment of past memories--a fabulous concept--of course it also means one could relive tragedy…not so pleasant a notion.
Gary, as always your plot flows along, with easy to follow prose, clear dialogue and interesting characters. You really had paid attention to detail; I could picture each scene that went through your narrator’s mind.
The corner, a host for the neighborhood conventions and lively conversations such a pity they have given way to today’s food courts. All those people and friends gone but not forgotten--smile. I imagined I saw the old store with its proprietor and patrons. I even tasted the chocolate he remembered. And saw the jacket coming through a ground floor window.
I see you have entered this in a contest. I certainly hope you win. It seems to fit the criteria as set down.
So good luck,
Geri
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Great!
Gary,
This is the best of your work that I have read.
I won't challenge any of the detail (like finding his way through the underground rooms without a flashlight), they don't detract from it a bit.
I enjoyed it a lot and expect to reread it numerous times.
Great job.
Lou
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I got goosebumps. I loved this. To me it was just what I was looking for. Thanks for writing this for the contest.
Thanks entering and good luck in the contest.
Brooke -
I truly admire the professionalism and discipline in your writing. This is quite an exceptional story. You took me with you through all the many doors of your story. A wonderful read.
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