JT EVERGREEN SHORT STORIES

As told by Charlie Morgan Death seems so final. That’s a dumb thing to say . . . it is final . . . so very, very final. It’s the end of everything that really matters. It’s like driving into a brick wall. I’ve never driven into a brick wall but I assume the impact is the same as having someone die in your arms. It’s like closing a book you’ve been reading for more than twenty years. You remember everything you’ve read but you can’t open the book again. You set it on the table and stare at it – a tin cylinder filled with ashes. Everything that has gone before suddenly stops and you’re alone. It wasn’t sudden. I knew it was coming and thought I was prepared, but I wasn’t . . . no one is. I didn’t realize until the light faded from his eyes and his body relaxed that he was truly gone and I was alone. It dawned on me at that moment – I had been loved every single moment of every single day since we met in that stuck elevator and now it was over, and I was no longer loved. Friends

Grace Clarkson had seen The Olde Book Shoppe before but never had the time to go in and browse. She had been too busy with last-minute details in the publishing of the book she had written. Today, however, she missed her train home to Arlington Heights and had some free time before the next train. She browsed the display window of The Olde Book Shoppe for a few moments but found nothing that caught her interest. She could, however, vaguely see hundreds of books lining the walls inside the dimly-lit shop, and … there was a narrow stairway to a loft with many books stacked willy-nilly on the stair treads. She smiled to herself as she decided there was bound to be a treasure hidden somewhere in this ancient funny little bookshop. As she entered the shop, the tinkling bell above the door surprised her and made her think of the little girl in the film It’s a Wonderful Life , who said, every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings. She quietly closed the shop door and slowly walke

Karl Malone woke with a start and sat up in bed, breathing hard, his pajamas were soaking wet. He threw the bedcovers off and put his legs over the side of the bed.  The clock on his nightstand glowed 2:15. The hall light came on.  “Dad?” “It’s ok, Sweetie.” “Nightmare again?” “Yeah. Did I wake Sonny?” “Yes, but I told him to stay in bed.  He’s worried, and so am I. Can I get you anything?” “No, I’m all right. Just going to sit here awhile. You go back to bed.” “Call me if you need anything.” “I will. Thanks, Kathy.” He rubbed the back of his neck and put his head in his hands. ‘What in the world is she trying to tell me?’ He hadn’t told anyone the truth of the matter because it was so strange. His dreams had been of Hilda, his late wife. It was the same dream over and over. ‘Find it.’ She kept telling him, ‘Find it.’ ‘Find what?’ He couldn’t imagine what she was referring to if it really was Hilda trying to communicate with him. But why? She was gone and beg