by R.J. Shie

Created on: October 09, 2008

3,618 words

The Awakening

As Michael Bevy strode across the lawn, the crunching of the dry leaves under his feet made an enormous sound. The wind was brisk and steady, heralding the coming of winter and biting his nose. Michael didn't notice though. He didn't notice how immense the blueness of the sky was, or that the temperature had dropped since this morning; he did however turn up the collar on his suit jacket as he journeyed on across the campus of the University of Maine. Normally these things would have been engulfing him and forcing him to stop to write about them. But today was not a normal day; it was one of great urgency. The beauty of the autumn trees and the sky would have to wait for another time.

Michael carried a book in one hand. Not an ordinary book by any means, it was quite obviously very old with a faded cover and raised spine. The yellowed pages were brittle and he knew that it should not be exposed to the wind like this, so he tucked it under his coat and picked up his already brisk pace. Michael found the book in the basement of his parent's house. He and his sister were going through things, getting ready to sell. His parents had been killed the week before in a car accident.

Michael thought about the day of the accident. He was giving a lecture and Marcy; his TA came into the room to tell him that he had an urgent call. He should have gone then to the hospital and said goodbye.

He fairly ran up the steps of the grey stone building which housed the literature department and then swung open the door. The heated indoor air stung Michael's cheeks as he made his way through the corridor. The sign on the door read "Professor M. Bevy-American/English Literature". He inserted and turned the key gracefully as he had done it so many times before. Then he pushed the door open, stepped in side and locked it behind him. He flicked on the overhead light and crashed down in his chair.

Clicking on the desk light, he pulled the book out of his coat. It was a faded orange color, tired, like an autumn leaf gasping for its last breath. Michael opened the book. It was hand written, a journal he thought, but it wasn't his mother's handwriting. It certainly wasn't his father's. It read "Chapter one-Michael".

"He came to me one stormy night, wide eyed and full of wonder, an empty vessel, expecting me to fill him." Michael wondered about the author. He turned the book over and then turned to the inside back cover. There was not a clue as to who wrote it.

He continued

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