The Blank Page

The Blank Page                                 3-7-2012

 

Troubled I face the blank page, my palette yearning to be filled.  The very emptiness a barrier.  For I must fill not with colors of water’s pigment or brush marks in oil, but with letters linked carefully…words.  Times when mind driven, the words come quickly riding the passion of thoughts clear.  Other times slowly they flow as the feelings must grow…mature…clarity not yet fully realized.  The words themselves adding to the life and the concepts.  Too often the words escape from the dark places where pain hides.  Places of past hurts and future fears.  Those words better saved for another page…that blankness would soon disappear as letters tripping and stumbling race for light and life.  Now I face the blank page wishing to cover with words of puppy dogs and sunny afternoons…of joys and victories…of laughter and best times.  Lifting myself, not easily done, yet a task worthy.  The beginning most difficult, courage and determination required.    Having something to say would make the page grow smaller.  But what value can I share on this blank page.  What bit of sunshine, have I to give…taught perhaps by life’s professors…which may brighten another.  I face a blank page…and wonder.  Out of the fog a single word forms, a title perhaps…but more…an idea.  One line complete…others will follow.  Soon fingers knead language as the idea springs forth with its own life.  The lines, brother after brother, march downward, the blankness slowly replaced.  Words, the seeds, shape a notion as slowly it grows.  Finished, not certain of satisfaction.  It will for others to determine whether what is finished is better than just another blank page.

 

(271 Words)

 

"E"

“E”                       3-19-2013

By John W. Vander Velden

The wind bit Paul’s exposed flesh.  His face took the brunt, as he walked with his hands thrust deep within his jacket’s pocket.  Turning up his collar had not helped much.  A stocking hat would have been nice, but for crying out loud it was supposed to be spring.  And for that matter the car should have taken him home.  How could he know that the fuel would run out the instant the needle touched the “E”.  Paul had heard so many stories of people driving hundreds…well maybe twenty miles all while they watched the gauge plummet so far beneath the lowest dot, resting upon the peg until their car reached a station selling cheap gas.  No one ever ran out of gas.  It just didn’t happen.  But knowing his luck, Paul shouldn’t have been surprised.  To make matters worse…if they could be worse…he had found himself at the side of some country road in the middle of nowhere…if nowhere had a middle.  Paul had politely knocked on the door of the first house he reached.  The lady there was no help what-so-ever.  She wouldn’t even open the door.  What was this world coming to?  Her voice wasn’t too clear as he listened at the door.  Something about “go way” or “not today”.  When Paul, certain the lady of the house had been unable to hear of his problems, began shouting.  That resulted in “please don’t hurt me” and “If you don’t leave I’ll call the police.”  Sheesh, who calls them police these days.  That was nearly forty minutes ago.  It was still light then…well sorta’.  Maybe he should have let her call the police.  Paul felt certain that cop cars had heaters and right now he could use some heat. 

So Paul walked on certain he was the unluckiest kid in Donner County.  Just as he decided the situation could be worse…after all it could be raining…it began raining…hard.  Now this was ridiculous.  Shortly after turning onto his own road, only two miles remained, more or less, headlights came from behind.  The old dark colored pickup pulled alongside.  Paul looked down as the man rolled down the window and shouted. “Get in.”  Paul didn’t argue.  “What happened?”  His father asked. 

“Car trouble.”  Paul’s answer.

“What broke?”

“The gas gauge….”

(388 Words)  

The Old Church

The Old Church

By John W. Vander Velden                          

 

 

Once proud on the corner, the monument of gray stone stands abandoned.  Now silent, how many years its great bell called, echoing throughout the town.  Long ago built with sweat and pride…long ago the center of many lives…long ago a sign of God’s presence…long ago….  Only the old remember; their eyes tear at the sight.  Scrappers have stolen the brass from her doors.  Vandals have broken the stately window of glass stained.  Stone has fallen from high up her walls.  Surely the roof no longer seals storms pounding rains.  Yet within perhaps something remains…something of the dignity…of the honor…of the truth.  Perhaps the scent of wax yet can be found among the dust and cobwebs in that place where so many lives began and others sent homeward.  The empty shell stands lonely, crumbling; the end of old dreams for God’s glory now in slow decay.  Most scarcely notice, moving past in life’s crush.  Many do not care…an eyesore, nothing more.  But to others there is nothing sadder than the old church.

 

(179 Words)