The White Cross

This was the very first short story I ever wrote. You might notice it is very similar to my poetry in terms of the imagery and mood, which is because I was making the transition from poetry, to story writing. The story itself is about a man that's clearly having trouble in his life with things like medication and relationships, but like many of my poems and stories, he ends up finding God.

The White Cross

It was a brisk September morning as I emerged from my small niche at the local Motel 8 in Norton, New Brunswick. Being immediately greeted by a strong gust of early winter wind, I was quickly persuaded to make a stop at the near by Tim Horton’s before continuing my journey. It’s been a week now since it happened. Yet after seeing the endless yellow lines on the highway, it seems like that wretched event happened an eternity ago. Every day seems to be much duller than the last. Slowly moving further down the shades of gray path toward thoughts of only blackness. But what is it that drives me further into this Canadian wilderness? I came to this place of solitude not to end my life, but to begin a new one.

As I commence my expedition once more, I notice that there is a malleable blanket of mist covering this forgotten valley. A valley known only to the world by the highway that cuts through its belly. But even the highway respects the forsakenness of this landscape, by retreating to the far edge where the welcoming hills protect and comfort this vital piece of civilization. Lately though, my vision fools me. For I see fog everywhere. I seem to be living in a type of lifeless fog. A haze I cannot escape from. These drugs that supposedly are meant to save my life, are killing me mentally. I cannot remember a day I could think straight, that I could see something clearly. She thought that way too. The times I possessed sanity seemed to have slipped her mind, like it has everyone else. She found her happiness in someone else, because she simply could not handle my outburst of an uncontrollable anger. This place I have come to was meant for us to share together as newlyweds, save another month of planning. But now I have come here alone, and no one to talk to except political radio and country music. I do not, however, plan on leaving this place alone.

Religion is something I always scoffed at. I always thought it was something that people used as an excuse. When I was young though, I came to this place when it had even fewer connections to the outside world. Yet when I left, I came home with something in my heart that I never was able to explain. I pushed it aside though, saying it was only a youthful exaggeration. Today though, I recognize my ignorance, for I thought I did not need anyone else if I had her in my life. But now she is gone, and I’m at my whit’s end and realize the obvious mistake I made. For it is impossible to get through life expecting humans to carry the burden of all your problems, no man is that powerful.

The parking lot is empty at the wildlife reservation, but this doesn’t surprise me in the least. It’s a short trek to the top, but on a cold, rainy day everything seems longer. As I climb the hill, the fog descends further upon the treetops, and soon engulfs everything in my sight. At the top, I saw something I’ve come to expect, fog. But I had not come to the top to gaze upon that desolate valley I had become so acquainted with. The thing I came to see was a single wooden cross. This cross bore no name, and was weathered to a rotting brown with only a few white paint chips that refused to surrender their final grip upon this forgotten monument to an unknown soul. So many years ago this place had comforted me after the death of my father, for although it may sound foolish to say, God had spoken to me through my pain on that day. Pain is a conductor that God wires everyone with when they need a wake up call. I can see the beauty that God has evoked on this small blue planet.

As I make my way back onto the endless sea of white lines toward my next destination, the rain has let up. The blanket of mist has been lifted from this world unto its own. For the first time in years I can see clearly, and think on my own. Only this time, I have more to talk to than my car’s Sony stereo system. I have gained a friend, and a Father that will never leave me and will forever listen to me.