Charles Pendelton
      © 2008 Marty Langdon
Chapter 32 (Prologue)


Our little story takes place in the forgotten borough of Staten Island. Forgotten
because no one ever writes about it, nor does anyone care to give it a rightful
place in their best-selling novel, or tale of grandeur worth remembering. The
town I grew up in is called New Dorp. A peaceful community in the tranquil
Borough of Richmond. Connected by bridges, it is easy to tour New York’s
respective counties. Looking back through the window of time in its alluring
serenity, I will admit it was a wonderful place to live.

Sitting in my room, sucking on a Luden’s cough drop, that acted like an oral
anesthetic for my ailing sore throat, I can hear the television on downstairs;
where the smell of freshly brewed coffee gently rises to permeate the stale
morning air, and the undeniable aroma of eggs cooking in bacon grease
greeted my nostrils like a long-lost friend. Grandma’s eggs, I thought
as I pattered down the stairs.

My paternal
grandmother is watching me until my parents arrive in the
evening, and it appeared to be a rather
average day. I probably could
have gone to school, but considering
it was Friday, my parents thought
it would be best if I stayed home.
At least until Monday, when the risk
of infecting other children would be at a minimum.



Whether it was a mild case of the flu or simply a bad cold, one more
day at home would not hurt, plus it would allow my grandmother
the dignity, she so rightfully deserved to nurse me back to health.

Another bowl of chicken soup followed by some sun in the backyard
might well be one of life’s simple pleasures that a child could equate
to living contentedly.

Would my life follow in that precise manner?
I did not know.


However, I knew that in my humdrum life of ‘ever-the-same,’
nothing really changes too dramatically.

At least not in the traditional sense, anyway.

As the planetary system in its eternal order begins to shifts,
Almighty God, in his celestial chair, somewhere out in the ethereal
cosmos of time and space, gazes down at me from on high.

It has begun. . .

                                                                                                Pg 161
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