Autumn in New Hampshire. The air is crisp, the moonless night still. Bonnie and I tilt our chairs back against the rear deck railing and take in a brilliant celestial canopy. How can there be so many stars? Were they hung there just to remind me of my own insignificance?
A satellite hurries by overhead, scurrying like Alice’s rabbit against a grand backdrop of distant suns. Its frenzied pace seems almost comical – a Charlie Chaplin hustling among the slow moving gods and goddesses of the heavens.
A meteor streaks across the sky – a thin line of sparks that disappears in the blink of an eye. Bonnie says it comes from Orion’s club. Did I really see it – or only imagine I saw it?
I feel tiny, just an old man on a little back porch of a small farmhouse in a tiny town on a speck of a planet in a speck of a solar system in a speck of a galaxy remembering bits and pieces of a life of almost; almost rich, almost famous, almost brilliant – now almost done.
Most of what I write comes from the actual people and events of my life. Every so often a piece, like this one, springs full grown from my imagination. All these works are dedicated to those who’ve loved me back – and the remaining few who might love me forward.
Enjoy – Peter 9 Bowman
P.S. – If you enjoy these short stories you might try my novel Armilus: It was the best of times; it was the End of Times also available on Smashwords.
