Author’s
note: Many years ago (don’t even think of asking how many) I read
a book by David Gerrold, published in 1973, called, The
Man who Folded HimselfIt was a very different novel, and was actually nominated for a
Nebula and a Hugo Award. The idea for this came from that book.
Chapters 1 and 2 are loosely based on the beginning, but after that,
it goes it’s separate way.
This
is a story that will be added to when I have time, so please don’t
expect it in any particular schedule.
Thank you to Malady for editing this.
--Rosemary
The
Letters - Chapter 1
Chapter 1
It
had been a long time since Gregory had been to the home of his
grandfather.
I
know. Lots of stories start this way, but this is somewhat
different.
Let’s
resume.
Greg
took the key out of his pocket and looked around. He turned a
complete circle as he surveyed the property. There was nothing there
except weeds. The mailbox was destroyed entirely. It appeared as
though someone had driven by with a baseball bat and smashed it at
high speed. The post still stood, although the top was jagged, but
the mailbox was nowhere to be seen. He unlocked the door and entered
the house.
On
his twenty-first birthday, he had gained ownership, which was
strange. He hardly knew his grandfather. He would have thought that
someone else might have been willed the home, or the old man could
have sold it. It should have paid off all debts, but strangely, he
was the only beneficiary. There didn't seem to be any bank holding a
mortgage, or unpaid taxes. He wasn’t going to argue.
John
and I had a fantastic night. I got up in the morning and sat down at
my piano. I hadn’t played in some time, and just let my fingers go,
regarding all the feelings I had been experiencing with this crazy
situation we found ourselves in.
