Don Barston rubbed his eyes as he prepared to get off the train at Longview Station. He thought many thoughts and saw imaginary scenes he hadn’t recalled since his boyhood. These old steam engine really bring back a lot of memories of days when I was a kid: hot steam, the moaning whistle, the smell of the train, growing up in this prairie town.
        He opened his eyes wide and tilted his hat back on his head. The coach lurched as the train pulled slowly into the small station. Same old building; same old depot. Doesn’t need painting though. It’s squeaky clean with new paint. How was it back in those days? Oh yeah! Once a year they paint the station building. They wash it down first then paint it mostly tan with yellow trim. It needs painting now.
        The train stopped. He looked at the station sign: Longview, Illinois, and right under the name of the town, Population 16,000.
        16,000 what? he thought. People? Yes, people. Good people, Yes, good people. Dear and friendly people? The best in the world. His thoughts faded as he saw Mack standing leaning against his taxi. Good old Mack. He waved at the man he had known as a friend most of his life.
        Mack smiled and moved slowly toward Don. He opened the rear taxi door and reached out for Don’s valise. “How are you, Don?” Mack asked.
        “Tired but otherwise, OK. And you?” Don asked as he settled into the backseat.
        “You’re working to hard again.” Mack climbed behind the wheel and slammed his door shut. “Where are you going this time? Third visit this month, ain’t it?”
        Don yawned and shook his head. “You got that one right. Third time this month and I’m really tired. Got more legal papers to have signed.”
        Mack started thedrove out of the station’s parking lot and headed into the downtown section of Longview. “Where abouts you going?” He knew that Don was a well-known lawyer.
        “The Habrecht Farm,” Don said and yawned again.
        “OK,” Mack said as he turned. He drove into town. “Do you want to see the old houses again?”
        “Of course,” Don said. “It’s always a pleasure to come back and see these Victorian mansions. Some of them have thirty, some have forty rooms....like you didn’t know, Mack.”
        Mack laughed. “Yeah. Don’t you remember when we were kids how much fun it was when we played hide and seek in the O’Brien’s house, your folks’ house and my parents’ house.
        “I’ll never forget those days,” Don said.
        He felt a calmness as Mack turned another corner and headed down a wide street where the mansions stood like proud and stately monuments to a time that would never come again. Don brushed a tear from his eye and didn’t want Mack to notice him. He saw two young boys near a maple tree in a fenced yard. He noted that the fancy wrought-iron fence wound around the entire vast expanse of the yard.
        “Isn’t that the old Markham house?” he asked.
        “It sure is...”
        “But, Mack they didn’t have a fence around their house, when we were kids...”
        “Nope! It’s new.”
        “Mack, slow down!” Don wanted to see what the boys were doing. Puzzled for a moment, he quickly realized that one boy was about to climb the tree. “He’s gonna’ shinny up that tree trunk. I wonder why?”
        Mack kept his eye on the street, empty of all traffic, and chuckled, “they’re after a kite. It looks like a kite up in the tree.”
        “You’re right, Mack.” Don roared. The boys enjoying their play, pleased him. “Do you think they’re gonna’ get the kite?”
        “Well, you and I got our kites, didn’t we? Heck, Don. We always tried and died trying, didn’t we?”
        They laughed together and Don said, “You can pick up speed now. It’s getting late.”
        “Hey Babe. It’s only 2:30 in the PM. But I’ll hurry up.”
        “Ah, the magic of Longview,” Don thought as he leaned back and relaxed.
                    
        If Don could have heard the boys laughing and chattering, he might have recalled bygone days when he and Mack and all his other boyhood chums laughed, swam, played Knights, sports, had serious military battles, and rode bikes together. As Mack sped up Don couldn’t hear the boys laughing heartily and see them playing.
                    
        “I’m trying hard, Danny,” Charlie said. “Geezo-Peezo! I didn’t remember you were this heavy.”
        Danny laughed. Charlie always made Danny laugh. “Push me up, Charlie. Up! Up! Try harder!” he shouted. “Watch where you’re putting your hands.”
        They laughed.
        Danny looked up at the orange kite, pressed his legs and thighs hard against the tree’s bark, pulled himself up and reached up. “I can almost get the kite’s tail, Charlie,” he said.
        “I hope you can, Danny. I can’t push or hold you too much longer...”
        Danny put his knee on a small branch and pulled himself up higher.
        “There you go, Danny. I can’t reach your butt anymore. Now climb up there and get that kite’s tail.
        A shrill voice echoing and reverberating across the large yard startled Charlie. That’s Danny’s mother calling him, he thought.
        Danny turned quickly, startled, by the voice’s echos. He reached upward and touched a knot of the kite’s tail. He had the cloth in his hand as he looked away agagin from the kite and toward his house. He looked for his mother. Would she come out? His knee slid off the branch. He gasped and knew he moved through the air at great speed. He knew he was was falling. He saw the ground coming at him.
        Charlie turned and glanced in the direction of the house. He stepped away from the bottom of the tree and heard Danny’s mother scream. What in? Charlie thought. He turned again as Danny’s arm brushed his shoulder and Danny met the ground. Charlie’s throat hurt. Part of Danny must have hit my throat, he thought. He grabbed his throat and looked at Danny. He’s not moving. “He’s dead,” he shouted. “He must be dead,” he screamed. He looked up as Danny’s mother ran toward them. She stopped running as Danny moved. Charlie screamed again. Danny’s mother put a hand over her mouth. She watched her son.
        Part of Danny’s chest and thighs felt numb. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He heard Charlie’s screams. They were far away. He pushed his body up into a sitting position and sat back on his ankles. He steadied him body and opened his eyes. He looked up at the neighbors house as it separated slowly into two distinct images. He moved his head backward not knowing what he saw. He looked at another old Victorian house down the street as the house street and street lights separated into identical images. The second images began to rotate slowly. It seemed that the world was separating into two separate places.
        Danny began to breathe heavily. He heard voices singing_ a great choir. Music prettier and so thrilling he shivered, more appealing than he had heard in Sunday School or church. He couldn’t see people. Just voices: soft, low, high moving in every direction up and down the musical scales.
        His breathing became labored as he watched Charlie and his mother join the other images, separate into two separately defined yet still people and rotate slowly around his body.
                    
        Several miles out of town on the two-lane highway, as Don Barston slumbered, the thought of the young boys trying to get that kite came to mind for the last time. He didn’t notice that his body, Mack’s body, Mack’s taxi, the highway, grazing cattle, farm houses, farm animals, fields, low foothills, the prairies, the clouds and sky had separated into two identical scenes. He never saw the separating scene as it begin to rotate.
        In the heaven that turned at first slowly then fast, Danny Murphy remained quiet on the ground and lived no more. In the next heaven, Danny jumped up, smiled at his mother, told Charlie to stop screaming and said, “Boy, that was some jump. That stung!” He rubbed his arm and hip.
        Charlie stood with his mouth open and screamed. “And look there! Here comes the kite!” He cried. “It’s falling down to the ground like you did!”
        Danny’s mother shook her head. “Those boys!” she said. She walked back to the house assured that Danny was unhurt. The boys continued to run and play with the kite on Danny’s tenth birthday.
                    
    Danny is interested in reader’s comments regarding his complete short story. He’s considering expanding it into a novel or screenplay. Send him an email comment in care of RAG Fiction at:

Comments? Talk to the author? leland@sowest.net