This book of short stories is called fiction, which is often considered the result of a person's unbridled imagination gone berserk. But it is much more than that; fictional stories allow one to freely examine that which is not accepted as a truth or not considered a real possibility without the fear of reprisal from society's convention. The maxim offered by the great philosopher of Samos suggests that one seek his own truth and not that of another. To actively seek truth for one's self will give an accepted truth from effort and not merely acceptance. How can one seek his own truth? This book is founded on many stories that are pure fiction, although a few contain a bit of truth. Two of them, however, are exactly true without a shred of fiction or imagination attached. Read this book and find them. I t is a demonstration called: seeking truth. Consider the principle theme called metempsychosis offered in many stories contained in this book. Millions of thinkers deny it a possibility. A few thinkers offer the notion from ignorance that one returns from death as some kind of animal, however, once human, always human. Pythagoras only claimed to have returned as human. If you acted like an animal in human form, then you would return as an animal in human form. All cultures and religions once accepted transmigration as fact which was and is held as truth by billions of thinkers. Do not allow another to think for you. Great numbers of believers in any direction cannot offer an absolute truth, one only need look to fanatical mob mentality to see this is a fact. Perhaps this book will stimulate your thinking.

Love is Stronger Than Death

By Donald E. MacKay

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Donald E. MacKay
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-5513-4

Contents

1. I'LL REMEMBER.......................................12. THE ELEVATOR MAN....................................73. WHEN LILACS BLOOM...................................184. THE SWIMMERS........................................265. THE CONVERSION BY INVERSION.........................316. THE BLACK HOLE......................................507. BELOW THE ICE.......................................578. IS THERE NO JUSTICE?................................699. THE SAFFRON ROBE....................................7410 THE LADY NEXT DOOR..................................9211. CELIA, CELIA!......................................10212. THE SACRIFICE......................................11713. QU LSTIMA (WHAT A SHAME).........................12514. THE MANIFESTATION OF THE JANUS.....................13315. THE COLD, STONE WALL...............................14516. THE GREAT COAT.....................................16317. THE ORNATE CUP.....................................18018. THE PHILOSOPHER....................................19419. D-FLOOR............................................20520 A FATAL MOMENT......................................21621. MY CONFESSION of LOVE..............................22222. PERMISSION.........................................225

Chapter One

I'LL REMEMBER

Before reading these words one should read the bible version of the "Song of Songs" then you'll understand it perfectly. How often do we see old people in nursing homes staring out at nothing, thinking their own thoughts, but what do they think about? Do they in fact think at all? Perhaps it's just a vacuum and nothing moves between their ears, and yet they had a life, did they not? Do they dream or are they too far gone into senility to feel anything or dream anything? Consider that old man sitting over there; a slight stroke has him sitting in his chair on wheels. The spittle he can't control runs down his chin as if it has a mind of its own. He seems to like to sit near the open window gazing, gazing out at what? Sometimes he smiles. He appears to be thinking, but thinking about what? Perhaps it would not be a sorry condition of conscience to listen to the thoughts he may have. Could we intrude without disturbing him?

We need to understand about the state of old, for it comes to us all if we are lucky enough to survive to this man's age. We need to know what to expect as time reaches an ending and the journey on the river of life that's flowing to the unknown sea that has almost been completed for this old man. What can he know that we need to know? "He's just a stupid old man", so you might say. You think to say that he has worn out his welcome reaching well into his eighties; surely it's time to vacate his place in life, perhaps he also thinks this is so? But let us peer into his mind and see what value may be gleaned. Let us see, that we may know; that we may understand. Our turn comes, does it not?

The cute little nurse in a bright blue, rather stiffly starched uniform wheeled him near the open window; it was a daily routine. When the sun reached on high, unless it was raining, she would then take him out on the patio. All morning by the open window he watched the clouds passing over head on their way to somewhere he knew not where. The sun was warm on his face, and he felt invigorated by its rays. Gazing out the open window was a daily pass-time as he rested after breakfast. The trees were moving by an unseen hand, and the birds were singing their joy. How really fine it is to feel life so close and vibrant. The lilacs were in full bloom once again and the scent they offered was nearly suffocating in its magnificence. Even at eighty three he still felt the magic of nature.

As the spring sun continued touching him and warming him, he let his thoughts roam at will, but soon, very soon, the pictures he longed for began to form in his mind. The familiar scenes began to take on a reality of their own, and he let them take him back, back in time, to another place; for a moment it seemed so long ago, and yet it is now as new as it once was, just as exciting, and just as powerful; he remembered when the lilacs were in bloom and the last dance they had.

Once again, in his mind, they were dancing to a slow melody, a slow Irish waltz it was, and they held one another close; the fear, the real fear that she would disappear and loneliness would fill the void again. But he would not let that happen, not this time. Please not again, not again, let it play on and on. The visions he so desired slowly began to form ever more clearly, and he closed his eyes that he might better see.

He's old and failing now, but when he was younger he often played Celtic music on his classic guitar, which they both loved. Their favorite of all was the melody called: "My Mary of the Curling Hair". Even though his love had been ill for some time and very weak, she had insisted he take her dancing, and to please her, and, against his better judgment, he took her. Of course, he made sure his Celtic friends would play the waltz his Mary so loved. "Play it slow and long," he had asked his friends, "for she is not well and she wants to feel the music." He knew she was one of those very strong willed individuals who refused to admit the need to see a doctor for some tests, but at last she relented. She never told him the result.

She devised a plan to instill in his mind something that would be impossible to erase from his memory. It had to be really daring, something beyond the usual or common; she knew exactly what she must do. Not being able to do much to please him physically; it was all she could do. The first thing she did was put on her long, red dress that swings provocatively as she walked, which stimulated her man; the earrings, long and swinging from her lobes, were visions that touched something in his male psyche that did magic things for him; she had no idea why. If you should ask him, even he did not understand the why of it. The swaying red dress and the long earrings said to him, without need for spoken articulation, 'Come to me.'

The waltz he had ordered began to play. Holding his hand, she carefully led him out onto the large, darkened, dance floor. She proceeded to steer them to a shadowed, more private corner. She held him with both arms and he steadied her with his strong hands, and she whispered that she had something to tell him.

"What is it?"

"I'll tell you later, but right now I want to give you something so you will remember. You must promise me you will remember." Her shaking voice betrayed her, but she held on to him and let the sweet music calm her.

"Ok, ok, no need to get emotional on me. I promise; I'll remember."

The Celtic music was again playing in the old man's mind. It seemed to penetrate into the very marrow of his bones and the sweet, delicate sensation he knew could not last, indeed, would not last. He would make it last as long as his mind would permit from sheer will power, but he knew how it worked. Perhaps he should be grateful for what was given and not demand more. Still, he held to the sensation and let the moment carry him along not unlike a bit of flotsam on a gentle stream moving toward the darkness of the unknown sea. Surely he will soon approach the sea and be swallowed in its depths, as it is the unwritten law that must be obeyed by all living creatures. He opened his mind and let the current carry him where it would.

They, from necessity, were not really dancing but simply moving together to the music in a swaying motion joined together as one. "I want to give you something so you'll remember."

"What do you mean by that? Remember what?"

"Don't worry my love, you'll see"

She moved back away from her love, but just a few inches so she could reach down to her desire. She was gentle and soon, moving in time with the waltz, her efforts gave the expected results. He attempted to stop her or to engage his own hands in exploration, but she would have none of that.

It was her moment and she had no desire to become distracted, and so she forced him to hold her with both of his strong arms and let her have her way with him. The fiddle player was singing their sweet song as the first surge of pleasure struck his brain. His knees went slack with the increased movement, and he buried his face in the enticing cleavage of her partially exposed breasts in order to avoid his pent up need to moan loudly as surge after surge created a failure and his knees began to fold in his momentary condition of weakness, but she held him, and they continued to sway to the music until he was able to recover. She closed the opening with care.

He stumbled momentarily; she tried to hold him, but she was too weak, and he slipped to his knees; he held her legs in an embrace of pure desperation. He managed to regain his feet with her help. He recovered his strength and began to brush the hair from her ear, moving the swaying earring with his lips and whispered all the words he knew she wanted to hear. How honey sweet her lips were as he tasted them as if for the first time; how could he know what must be? How could he ever forget this dance; what did she mean by all that?

The music stopped and they carefully walked back to the table and joined the other couples. She held him for a moment and told him she would be waiting for him on the other side. "I went to see the doctor yesterday; just remember what I'm saying to you. Never forget, never forget."

"What are you talking about? You know I'll remember this dance. He smiled. "Did you say on the other side, the other side of what?" She would say no more. He couldn't think for a moment. The Irish beer clouded his mind a bit, and the dance was too much in his mind and the music was far too loud to hear every word exactly or allow other thoughts to intrude that would allow complete understanding.

He soon found out why he would need to remember; two weeks later he knew. He stood gazing at the little earthen hill, as his solitary shadow fell on the disturbed plot of soil that served as her blanket where she slept. The little drops of moisture fell on the earthen mound, and as he wept, he knew the intensity of a word he had feared above all others; how does one dance alone? As the years passed into old age, each day in his wheel chair he would sit by the window gazing at the azure sky and remember the last dance. It was all he had left

This was the picture story that played in his mind over and over. He sat in his chair on wheels and once again gazed at the clouds as they meandered under the blue haze, and the trees, still swaying by an unseen hand, and the birds singing their joy as life instilled the energy necessary to exist in a world so filled with pain and suffering. And yet love, this burning, violent, often painful emotion, is the one thing that made all the suffering worth the effort that is and was the toll that allowed one to exist in this life that is often given to suffering.

All the cruelty and hate and murder and brutality offered by the loveless, violent, severely lonely members of mankind cannot destroy his picture story, and he waits each day to gaze out the window and feel the breeze touch his face and the scent of spring's blooming lilacs and a nearby pine tree that were carried on the wind to invigorate his failing condition. He can no longer walk unaided, and the little girl in her blue uniform takes him out on the patio and into the bright, warming sun in his chair on wheels and reality once again swoops over his mind in a devastating motion forcing his picture story from his mind. He knows the moment of transition nears, and he longs for it to arrive. He whispers to the blue sky: "When lilacs are in bloom, surely I'll remember; I'll remember it all; how can I forget?" The little girl in her blue uniform thought she heard him speak, but it was just the mumblings of an old man lost in his senility. She continued to arrange a nice spot in the sun to warm his old bones. He was just lost in some morass of nonsense old people often slip into. She was sure it was so; old people don't actually think, do they?

He remembered his love's last words to him: "I went to see the doctor; I'll be waiting for you; always remember the last dance we had."

He cried out in a voice clear enough to be understood: "I remember! I'll always remember!" The little girl in her blue uniform just smiled at this out burst. He was often given to such as that.

He knows she waits for him on the other side; did she not say it would be so? She has been gone for some time now, but what is time? Time only moves for the living. He knows she wants to dance with him again; she'll wait for him. Perhaps it will be so, for this old man now lodged in his wheel chair, surely it will be so. He knows love is stronger than death.

THE ELEVATOR MAN

His day started like most of them have of late. The clock urged him to get his mental stuff together and get his butt out of bed. It was another day just like yesterday and the day before that and as far back as he could remember in his new civilian life. Life sucks as he sees it, and the wonder of it is: Why didn't he just lay his dumb ass down and give up. That is the question that drives him nearly mad. The need to put on his happy face and venture out into the cold, bitter world and enjoy interacting with all the horse's asses he must come into contact every day is a fact of life. Every day they appear from some crawl space or dirty hole in the ground; for the love of God why cannot there be at least one decent person out there? Do they all lie and cheat and embrace corruption? Is greed not branded on their black hearts? Is there one human being that has anything else on his mind besides his own ass or lust for money? The same song is heard over and over again and again: "I want; I deserve; I demand."

Charlie is one of those humans that cannot see goodness in members of humanity. He faces the mirror, as the daily task of shaving is performed. He asks the reflection the same questions he has asked since his days in the military; he was just a kid; he was forced to shave the peach fuzz off before he marched off to war with the rest of the expendables. Wars were and are necessary because evil exists. "The forces of good must confront the forces of evil", so they said. The questions he asked his reflection seldom varied more than a syllable or two of constructed speech. 'Why is there evil in the world? If God is all goodness, why did he create evil? God created all things, did He not? Why, if this Deity that supposedly exists or actually exists, does He allow His children to murder and rape and rob one another?'

Everyday Charlie asks the same questions, and the same answer of nothingness arrives. Is it possible that the actuality of nothing is actually something that we simply cannot see or hear? As an aggressive life-insurance salesman, he had met all the various elements that mankind had to offer. He knows how to cheat and lie and present an illusion that seems to satisfy, as he saw it, the most crafty, greedy, penny pinching individual. The system he works for has rather sticky fingers when it comes to money. The system reaches out and touches humanity's hard earned money, and the money clings to their greedy little fingers; they don't really care about anyone's welfare; it's just money. Charlie is part of the system now, and he knows all the tricks. The fearful are easy to convince; they need him and what he offers. He knows his business well. Yes, he learned his trade from experts. Charlie looks for evil in his fellow humans, and his conscience is clear, as he sees with his mind's eye no goodness in humanity, and that factor allows him to steal money from people who cannot afford the illusion he sells. Charlie feels nothing but disgust for the suckers. They, in fact, almost demand that he take as much money as he wants. Greed keeps all of his customers asking for him to take more, and Charlie is willing.

Charlie has new suckers today, and he must constantly tune up his spiel. The big, rather heavy "DEATH" word is the ace he uses to effect. Everyone is afraid of dying, and the wife is terrified that she might be left to survive on a paltry two thousand a month. No, no, she needs at least $500,000 in life insurance on her beloved's life to keep the wolf from the door. The other ace he holds back until the husband is finished with his argument of pure logic, and then, Charlie strikes with out warning like a cobra. He has all the venom ready to inject.

"What kind of husband are you? Do you want to die and leave this poor woman defenseless and at the mercy of the cruel world? Would you have your love go hungry and suffer from all the bills that will come rushing in when you expire?"

That argument always works. Before he knows he has been had, the sucker signs the contract, and the money begins to transfer from his pocket to Charlie's company and eventually, some of it is deposited in Charlie's pocket.

In war, Charlie had to kill men, women, and children. War is not a nice occupation. War is the ultimate evil, for it allows men to let their brute side emerge without reserve. Things like kindness and gentleness and love for one's fellow man cannot live in war's intense, bitter, cold blooded atmosphere, at least it was so for Charlie. He remembers the first one he was forced to kill in war. Almost every night in dreams this vision returns: The enemy soldier struggled, as Charlie held his hand over the poor bastard's mouth, so no alarm could be sounded. The knife slid ever so easily over the man's throat, and the warm, sticky liquid flooded Charlie's hand. He held the struggling man's shirt front, as the enemy fought for one last breath. Charlie killed so easily. They sent him off to war as an innocent child; he returned to society far from innocent. He hated society for what they had made him do. Charlie was going to make society pay; they would pay, and they would pay with the one thing most precious to them all: their money.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Love is Stronger Than Deathby Donald E. MacKay Copyright © 2010 by Donald E. MacKay. Excerpted by permission.
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