There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old's life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs.
Short Story: Passing the Torch
The old man focused on his breathing.
In. Out.
Timed to the beat of one of the many machines in his room.
In. Out.
He could hear what they said when they thought he was asleep: He's suffered enough; He's lived a full life; and -- his least favorite -- He'll be passing soon. This man will not pass. He will die, but not yet. He has one more thing to do, if only he could remember what it was.
In. Out.
But he will sleep for now.
#
The old man awoke to the priest thumbing his forehead with oil, mumbling the words absolving him of sins. Hours? Days? He knew not how long he slept.
He coughed.
"Good afternoon, Bill. I'm glad you're awake."
The old man nodded. The priest was his only regular visitor. His wife died decades ago and he'd outlasted all his friends, even his children.
