dord (dôrd), n. density of mind; chiefly exhibited by one who attempts to demonstrate supposed knowledge --adj. dord'ish


The Turning Point

The man stood motionless in the dusk, staring forward, lost in thought. Tomorrow would be the anniversary of that terrible day, so many years ago. He hated to think about it; and yet, somehow, he had come again to revisit the place—and its memories.

He looked up at the tree. Its branches hovered solemnly overhead, just as they had twenty years before. The tree was older and now grander with the passage of years, but it was still bent—no, deformed. The gash seemed to be staring up at him with a hideous grin, as if to tell him, “It was your fault. It never would have happened if it weren’t for you.”

He hated the sight of that old tree, and usually did all that he could to avoid driving by it. Why it had survived he could not see, unless to torment his memory. But the tree wasn’t the only reminder. He looked down at the scars on his arms...

He had made many wrong choices in his youth. After falling in with the wrong crowd, he began a life of petty crime. Petty, that is, until he decided to rob the bank. He knew that it would devastate his parents when they found out. He knew that his brother and sister—hard-working and law-abiding—would feel betrayed. What he did not know was that his brother was on duty that night.

As he held up the bank, the emergency call went out. His brother answered. The flashing lights appeared in his rearview mirror as he pulled away in his car. A high speed chase followed, and continued until, about three miles outside of town, he missed the bend in the road. His car careened into the tree. The police car pulled up behind as his own car became engulfed in flames. Memories of what followed were scattered... his brother walking into the blaze to pull him out... throwing him down on the ground... smothering the scorching flames... shielding him from the explosion...

The man shivered. The night was cold; the darkness, colder. No longer at the side of the road, he stood in the cemetery, weeping. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder. “I thought I would find you here,” his wife said. “The children were worried.” The man lifted his gaze from the gravestone in front of him. “You know why he did it,” she whispered. “He was at peace with God; and he knew that you were not.”

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Blogger Jason said...

A few of you asked for more short stories after I posted my last one. I don't have many, but I found this one from about four years back and gave it a quick re-write, particularly to add a few details. Hopefully it has a good balance: continuity without becoming bogged down in details.

5/10/2008 12:20 AM

Blogger Laedelas Greenleaf said...

But--but...did the bank robber find peace with God? Apparently his wife has...

Excellent story. Ever thought of sending yours to magazines to see if they'd be printed?

Jocular Youths Want Nothing Until January

5/10/2008 1:40 PM

Blogger Megan said...

wow Jason,
It was good. I liked it. And what I liked about it was that you don't necessarily need to know if the man found peace with God or not. I think leaving that hanging like that serves as a question not only about his life but about the reader's life as well. It could be a good evangelistic tool.

thanks for posting it. And I would encourage you, though you may not have the most free time in the world, to keep up with the writing.

5/10/2008 3:39 PM

Blogger The Stranger said...


5/10/2008 11:29 PM

Blogger Jason said...

Wow. Thanks for all of the feedback. Please don't shy away from any suggestions and critiques, as well.

No, to be honest I haven't. What kind of magazines are you referring to?
P.S. Do you want your first question answered? Or do you prefer to be left wondering?

Yeah, I really wish that I had more time for writing. It's one of those hobbies that has been hard to find time for. But hey, that's one of the reasons I love blogging.

5/11/2008 5:06 PM


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