Through a Darkened Pane (page 3)

When I moved to this new and fresh neighborhood, freed, it was hoped, from all lingering doubts about who I truly was, I immediately sensed that a new leaf was being turned over on my behalf. Not that I had to force myself through the rigors of what my folks called "putting on the new personality," but that some cosmic entity [this is as close as I'll ever get to the deity concept] shuffled through a humungous bushel full of old autumn leaves and, miraculously, found a brand new leaf, turned it over and stamped my name upon it. Well, so to speak. The high-mountain landscape was appealing to this coastal kid, and the architecture of our expansive but extremely well-tended community was second-to-none. I felt on top of the world, like Hilton's full moon rising over Shangri-La, touching each mountain peak in succession, like some celestial lamplighter.

Back to earth, my new leaf and I were ready, willing and able to settle in and get cozy.

musky

I wonder if among the leaves, there were perhaps one that was not new,but aged and blown here from another location.One upon which your name was also stamped? a leaf which looks familiar,and not so easily forgotten?

Just wondering

compound complex

Musky:

Your question leaves me wondering if the new leaf is truly new ... We are, after all, considering dual personalities. So basic to storytelling. Two leaves?

Thanks for the twist.

CoCo Split

compound complex

Settled in, physically; cozy, never.

A guy wishes for something higher than himself, with or without his parent's religion or his country's ideals, right or wrong. My mother's books and their faraway places had my spirit soaring to dizzying heights and, conversely, plummeting back to the world's cruel realities, such as experienced by the short-lived, now eternally dead masses of un-pitied humanity. Initially, I did pity the un-mourned living dead, because my imagination supplied their storybook, cardboard character a hero's frame and a saint's heart. There was no obstacle that this refuse of the world could not overcome by dint of their own innate courage or personal conviction that might does not make right. Courage of convictions is scarcely the possession of a so-called superior race. Was all this merely a story in my idealist's head, the inflated head of a hapless dreamer? When I reached my real-life assignment in the asphalt jungle, I believed I would lead these humble people to their cherished goal of emancipation from tyranny.

I didn't. I wanted to forget them.

My new life and bucolic surroundings cannot shut out their cries ...

Kudra

The first two installments on this thread remind me on Stephen King's writing. He always has some sort of sinister presence residing in places or locations.

compound complex

Thank you, Kudra, for responding.

The sinister locations in question here are the mountains of the American west coast and the asphalt jungles of New York, New York.

Gratefully,

CoCo

musky

Maybe the cries can be silenced with different books with different faraway places?

Thanks for sharing your story.

compound complex

Ah, the denouement! You may have a part in the story's outcome, Musky. BTW, do you know that this is a mini-roman a clef and that you may just hold the key?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roman_%C3%A0_clef

Many thanks,

CoCo

beksbks

Might it actually end up a bildungsroman CoCo? Maybe not your story, but the players here.

Through a Darkened Pane

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