August 1, 2016

Fiction by Charles E.J.Moulton: "Whenever He Thinks of Home"


CHARLES E.J. MOULTON has been a stage performer since age eleven. His trilingual, artistic upbringing, as the son of Gun Kronzell and Herbert Moulton, lead to a hundred stage productions, countless cross-over concerts, work as a bandleader and as an acting teacher. He is a regular contributor for Idea Gems, has written for Shadows Express, Cover of Darkness, Vocal Images and Pill Hill Press. He is a tourguide, a big-band-vocalist, a filmmaker, a painter, a voice-over-speaker, a translator, is married and has a daughter. Charles E.J. Moulton's passion is creative versatility. His short story collection, Aphrodite's Curse: 21 Tales of Love and Terror can be purchased by clicking the link. Homepages: http://www.reverbnation.com/charlesejmoulton/ 













Whenever He Thinks of Home



The water was clear. Actually, it was clearer than he ever had seen it before. It seemed he could look straight to the bottom of the lake. The fish, the plants, the occasional sunray that shot down from the heavens and hit the aqua. The calm. Yes, that was it. The calm. It was hard to define this calm, but it had to do with her ... right?

Right?

That strength. That incredible strength, so monumental that it seemed to transcend time. It was like when he wrote, he, the eternal author. A story would sort evolve within itself, carried by his guardian angel, the medium, and words that he wrote that somehow seemed familiar, like words that he had written just a moment before. But he hadn’t. He often checked his paragraphs. Had he written the word “seemed” just now. Maybe he had, maybe not. In any case, it was familiar.

He looked down into the clear water again, shining, brilliant, wondrous. Familiar.

He had gone fishing here, right? Three years ago ... in June. With his beer buddies. Sitting here in that large white boat and laughing, screaming out sexist jokes.

But then she came, that baby girl.

His beer buddies disappearing, his old ways just ... what was the word? Disintergrating. Now, memories of holding that little baby girl in his arms, now two years old, at infancy, seemed like a wonder, his wife resting in her bed, his baby girl so fragile, his own self ... new.

Papa.

Someone that called him ... “Papa.”

Man, that crazy lunatic of yesteryear, drunk on everything but speed, now so calm, so ... restful. So honest.

The hut was still there. The hut he and his buddies had rented for the fishing trip three years ago, a hut overjammed with beer and cigarettes and booze and smut mags and what-not.

And then, the phone-call. His girlfriend calling him on his smartphone.

“I’m pregnant.”

George sat there in his little rowing-boat, watching the waves gently splash against the wood, realizing this was sort of a ... what was the word? A paradigm shift. A shifting of ideas. A new set of responsibilities. Yes. Indeed.

So, George had spent hours in that hut, watching his hands, shaking his head, making his beer-buddies wonder why that girl-crazy casanova of yesterday now suddenly found himself becoming responsible. Maybe it was the cork surfacing the water, like the fishing-hook he would never use again. Realization. He couldn’t be a speed demon all his life. Sooner or later, trust and faith wins.

So, George sat there in his boat, on that lake, knowing he had come back here for a reason, knowing that he was going to marry that choleric and crazy bride of his – with his two-year-old daughter of his as a bridesmaid – and that he had told Tonya that he wanted to say a final good bye to all that sexism, all that craziness, just to make sure that the water was still clear, that the smut mags thrown away, that the alcohol all used up ... and the water clear.

Trust.

“The water is clear,” George heard the angel whisper. “Now it’s time to go home.”

And you know what?

George never turned back.

“God lives inside you.”

George married Tonya. They fought like crazy, but they loved each other, their daughter remained happy ... and George smiles whenever he thinks of home.

~Charles E.J. Moulton

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