Ralph Pullins

When the spotlight hits the stage, it illuminates a single microphone on a stand.  The restless crowd goes quiet.  I walk out from the wings, in a black suit, no tie, shirt untucked.  It is very apparent that all the workouts and disciplined eating have really paid off. I stand there for a moment, and appreciate the vast darkness that seems to swallow all sound.  There is the occasional throat clearing from the audience, but all eyes are on me.   I lean to the mic.  "Hi there," I say. "Thanks for coming out tonight."  There are a couple claps and as is always the case in these situations, some character in the back yells, "You're welcome!"  I smile and wait for them to quiet down again, then I clear my throat.  I reach into my inside jacket pocket, and pull out a single piece of paper.  I unfold it, look at it for a moment, then reach into my other lapel and pull out a pair of half rim reading glasses.  Behind me in the darkness there is moveme

Somewhere out in the darkness of the forest there is a path.  Not everyone who looks for it finds it, and not everyone who finds it was looking for it.  Many who take the path wish they had not, and many that pass it by wish that they had the courage to take it when they had the chance.   At the end of the path is a clearing. In the center of the clearing is a standing stone, weathered and ancient, the once sharp corners rounded by time and by touch. It is a hidden place, a place of loss and pain and sacrifice, but also a place of rest, a place of freedom. The front of the stone is stained, layer after layer, cracked black and dusty brown and wet shiny red. We speak of sacrifice, but what does that mean? The kid hangs onto my arm, clings in fear.  He is maybe eleven, and even though he is big for his age, he feels small.  He shakes and clutches to me, flinches at every sound.  He knows that the world hurts, knows too young that mostly we live and die alone.  He has been left and