This book of short stories is called fiction, which is often considered the result of a person's unbridled imagination gone berserk. But it is much more than that; fictional stories allow one to freely examine that which is not accepted as a truth or not considered a real possibility without the fear of reprisal from society's convention. The maxim offered by the great philosopher of Samos suggests that one seek his own truth and not that of another. To actively seek truth for one's self will give an accepted truth from effort and not merely acceptance. How can one seek his own truth? This book is founded on many stories that are pure fiction, although a few contain a bit of truth. Two of them, however, are exactly true without a shred of fiction or imagination attached. Read this book and find them. I t is a demonstration called: seeking truth. Consider the principle theme called metempsychosis offered in many stories contained in this book. Millions of thinkers deny it a possibility. A few thinkers offer the notion from ignorance that one returns from death as some kind of animal, however, once human, always human. Pythagoras only claimed to have returned as human. If you acted like an animal in human form, then you would return as an animal in human form. All cultures and religions once accepted transmigration as fact which was and is held as truth by billions of thinkers. Do not allow another to think for you. Great numbers of believers in any direction cannot offer an absolute truth, one only need look to fanatical mob mentality to see this is a fact. Perhaps this book will stimulate your thinking.

Love is Stronger Than Death

By Donald E. MacKay

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Donald E. MacKay
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-5513-4

Contents

1. I'LL REMEMBER.......................................12. THE ELEVATOR MAN....................................73. WHEN LILACS BLOOM...................................184. THE SWIMMERS........................................265. THE CONVERSION BY INVERSION.........................316. THE BLACK HOLE......................................507. BELOW THE ICE.......................................578. IS THERE NO JUSTICE?................................699. THE SAFFRON ROBE....................................7410 THE LADY NEXT DOOR..................................9211. CELIA, CELIA!......................................10212. THE SACRIFICE......................................11713. QU LSTIMA (WHAT A SHAME).........................12514. THE MANIFESTATION OF THE JANUS.....................13315. THE COLD, STONE WALL...............................14516. THE GREAT COAT.....................................16317. THE ORNATE CUP.....................................18018. THE PHILOSOPHER....................................19419. D-FLOOR............................................20520 A FATAL MOMENT......................................21621. MY CONFESSION of LOVE..............................22222. PERMISSION.........................................225

Chapter One

I'LL REMEMBER

Before reading these words one should read the bible version of the "Song of Songs" then you'll understand it perfectly. How often do we see old people in nursing homes staring out at nothing, thinking their own thoughts, but what do they think about? Do they in fact think at all? Perhaps it's just a vacuum and nothing moves between their ears, and yet they had a life, did they not? Do they dream or are they too far gone into senility to feel anything or dream anything? Consider that old man sitting over there; a slight stroke has him sitting in his chair on wheels. The spittle he can't control runs down his chin as if it has a mind of its own. He seems to like to sit near the open window gazing, gazing out at what? Sometimes he smiles. He appears to be thinking, but thinking about what? Perhaps it would not be a sorry condition of conscience to listen to the thoughts he may have. Could we intrude without disturbing him?

We need to understand about the state of old, for it comes to us all if we are lucky enough to survive to this man's age. We need to know what to expect as time reaches an ending and the journey on the river of life that's flowing to the unknown sea that has almost been completed for this old man. What can he know that we need to know? "He's just a stupid old man", so you might say. You think to say that he has worn out his welcome reaching well into his eighties; surely it's time to vacate his place in life, perhaps he also thinks this is so? But let us peer into his mind and see what value may be gleaned. Let us see, that we may know; that we may understand. Our turn comes, does it not?

The cute little nurse in a bright blue, rather stiffly starched uniform wheeled him near the open window; it was a daily routine. When the sun reached on high, unless it was raining, she would then take him out on the patio. All morning by the open window he watched the clouds passing over head on their way to somewhere he knew not where. The sun was warm on his face, and he felt invigorated by its rays. Gazing out the open window was a daily pass-time as he rested after breakfast. The trees were moving by an unseen hand, and the birds were singing their joy. How really fine it is to feel life so close and vibrant. The lilacs were in full bloom once again and the scent they offered was nearly suffocating in its magnificence. Even at eighty three he still felt the magic of nature.

As the spring sun continued touching him and warming him, he let his thoughts roam at will, but soon, very soon, the pictures he longed for began to form in his mind. The familiar scenes began to take on a reality of their own, and he let them take him back, back in time, to another place; for a moment it seemed so long ago, and yet it is now as new as it once was, just as exciting, and just as powerful; he remembered when the lilacs were in bloom and the last dance they had.

Once again, in his mind, they were dancing to a slow melody, a slow Irish waltz it was, and they held one another close; the fear, the real fear that she would disappear and loneliness would fill the void again. But he would not let that happen, not this time. Please not again, not again, let it play on and on. The visions he so desired slowly began to form ever more clearly, and he closed his eyes that he might better see.

He's old and failing now, but when he was younger he often played Celtic music on his classic guitar, which they both loved. Their favorite of all was the melody called: "My Mary of the Curling Hair". Even though his love had been ill for some time and very weak, she had insisted he take her dancing, and to please her, and, against his better judgment, he took her. Of course, he made sure his Celtic friends would play the waltz his Mary so loved. "Play it slow and long," he had asked his friends, "for she is not well and she wants to feel the music." He knew she was one of those very strong willed individuals who refused to admit the need to see a doctor for some tests, but at last she relented. She never told him the result.

She devised a plan to instill in his mind something that would be impossible to erase from his memory. It had to be really daring, something beyond the usual or common; she knew exactly what she must do. Not being able to do much to please him physically; it was all she could do. The first thing she did was put on her long, red dress that swings provocatively as she walked, which stimulated her man; the earrings, long and swinging from her lobes, were visions that touched something in his male psyche that did magic things for him; she had no idea why. If you should ask him, even he did not understand the why of it. The swaying red dress and the long earrings said to him, without need for spoken articulation, 'Come to me.'

The waltz he had ordered began to play. Holding his hand, she carefully led him out onto the large, darkened, dance floor. She proceeded to steer them to a shadowed, more private corner. She held him with both arms and he steadied her with his strong hands, and she whispered that she had something to tell him.

"What is it?"

"I'll tell you later, but right now I want to give you something so you will remember. You must promise me you will remember." Her shaking voice betrayed her, but she held on to him and let the sweet music calm her.

"Ok, ok, no need to get emotional on me. I promise; I'll remember."

The Celtic music was again playing in the old man's mind. It seemed to penetrate into the very marrow of his bones and the sweet, delicate sensation he knew could not last, indeed, would not last. He would make it last as long as his mind would permit from sheer will power, but he knew how it worked. Perhaps he should be grateful for what was given and not demand more. Still, he held to the sensation and let the moment carry him along not unlike a bit of flotsam on a gentle stream moving toward the darkness of the unknown sea. Surely he will soon approach the sea and be swallowed in its depths, as it is the unwritten law that must be obeyed by all living creatures. He opened his mind and let the current carry him where it...