Once shy

[C3POLaf]

It must have been him, little doubt about it. The hair and eyes, tone and posture, quite sure you'd be hard pressed for a mistake here. Still, the hands, nothing like before, articulate and sensual no more.

Autumn does that to people, or so it seems. In September, winter comes crawling into the shadows, cast longer as the year draws to a close.

And it had been a year or two.

One could only wonder at causality. In general one would argue against judging reality by any such measure, but then, given that Thomas had never been a fighter. Typified by a love of old books and a passion for learning , he savoured life through others' eyes.

The dying light of autumn had stated its purpose. September merely hints, October wreaks havoc.

Marcus took to his affairs and left the chance encounter to slowly fade from memory.

[This message has been edited by C3POLaf (edited 06-15-2000).]

[Eddioboy]

His fingers traced the "T.H." carved in the old cafeteria table he and his friends used to call "Sanctuary." It sat in a corner of the schoolyard behind a red brick wall that blocked the Monsignor's view of them. The fingers responsible for those initials belonged to a boy who was virtually carefree, and certainly happy. Of course, Thomas thought, I never knew I was happy, I never gave it a thought, which I suppose is what it is like for happy people.

A few sudden gusts whipped his black coat violently away from where the setting sun was being enveloped by thick clouds. The dark blue light in the deserted schoolyard made it alien to his memories, because his childhood was so full of sun, so long before he moved on to haphazardly build his life. The church was closed in 1970. Only recently did he know, or even wonder about, why the diocese never reopened its doors to the flock.

[C3POLaf]

The cold expressionless features of Monseigneur Battista and his flock of black robed jesuit companions had never revealed that much, anyway. In the latter years of the troubled ninteensixties many of society's certainties had crumbled. Time seemed to pass seamlessly regardless for Thomas, Luke, Marcus and Desmond, mere toddlers at 4 when entering the gates of St. Ignatius School for Boys, now attempting to elevate themselves to manhood at 14. There was something about the old school, a sturdy time tested vessel, undisturbed by the surrounding currents of the changing world.

[blank]

Thomas stood up. He felt like a seagull in the desert. He slowly moved one foot in front of the other until he was walking. Walking towards the redest brick building of the lot. It was red not like a red rose or the bull sees before murder, but red like the sunset he'd been enveloped with, sinking downwards in a ceaseless neverending loop of life.
The building that scared him the most was this one. He touched his hand against the large black door handle and pondered whether this was the best idea. The door creaked with every movement that Thomas made. He wanted to hide, hide from the norm, hide from society, hide from all time that existed.