The Way It Ended For Him. . .

Written By A Real Person

The Way It Ended For Him. . .

Fiction About The End Of The Line

‘Lo Captain, Shipwreck is certain — The Helmsman

A working class hero, wouldn’t settle for being something to be. No living death would make his life feel alive. There has to be more, some spark, some blaze in the night. And the fire in his heart; burned ever bright.

This is a story about a man that life was a game. And his final years in this world. He lived on the edge, some brink of madness, and joy. Ever seeing his folly; bored to tears, enough to make a human repent.

He lived well, if you don’t count the stains. Sometimes, they are the only bright spots in the whole thing. Some would digress. The problem is, isolation has a way of making you, or breaking you.

He lived like zombie cat shit the last few years of his life. The only thing that really he could find relief in, was writing. He wrote everyday. Not that many thought he was a good writer. But, he could make a story; from thin air. Often he had thought about leaving it all behind. Today is all that matters, and he didn’t feel sorry for the way it had gone. Worry is a useless tool of self destruction. So, he typed away.

In the hospital, his laying on the bed in a vacant room; typing the final words of his long book that he was working out the finally. And the dreary days buggered on, and on. He neither died, nor lived; but inside a fire burned bright. Always typing away at that laptop in the room where he laid. It was ugly, and a thing to be pitied. They said he didn’t have long, and his mind; always turning the wheels a little longer, the gears; going forward. Typing, typing. Typing away at the keyboard.

It was a dreary day in December when the bitter end came for him. In his final words written, he concluded: “The End”, and upon his final keystroke, thought, “I will die a failure; but not because I wouldn’t try!”

And the part of him, that knew his work was done, gave up the holy game of poker, and laid down his life. His soul departed, and the mans body died a ghastly death. Fingers gnarled, fist clenched. And callous’s on his fingers from the keyboard. He had typed more than the people who lived on could believe. They didn’t know the man, and didn’t know his story, until they had read his work.

The man died. But his work, lived on. Well, a part of his work lived on. Someday that man, will be remembered, not forgotten; but alive and well.