The headline read, “He Died a Human Bookmark.” Not as an icon of his generation, but alone in a third floor walk up one bedroom apartment at the end of the dark unhampered hall; in number 3-B. His cleaning lady found him Tuesday morning stretched out on the couch with a book opened upon his chest; hands folded, embracing the final volume with two very cold grayish white hands quietly arrested in transit between pages 234 and 235. She informed the press in lamenting broken English the mark appeared as cold as an un-thawed Christmas turkey and that his cat was no where to be found. It never occurred to her that maybe he had wanted to be found like this. Nor that maybe he had just sat the book down on his chest before mistakenly reaching into the pencil box of life and withdrawing a pencil with which to draw his last breath with, instead of one for his next thought. According to her, he was not supposed to be in the apartment at all on Tuesdays. That was his day to play chess in the park with the others, but she didn’t know which park or who the others were. Eventually the police brought in a photographer who made the marks dark room seem like a thunderstorm on the third floor from the street below. The story that I saw in the local paper was brief and nestled between two articles that paid no attention to it. Had I not spilled my glass of water I might have missed it completely. It appears to be just another story about finding your place in life, or maybe finding your place in the line out of it! “He Died a Human Bookmark.” I cut out the headline.
( one of my favorite sites is DavidBDales, short novels in 299 words. Had to write one of my own.Check them all out by going to Short Novels in the Blogroll)