When the time comes to write your biography, what will they find to say about you?

A Natchez tombstone. Photography: J Gerald Crawford
A Natchez tombstone. Photography: J Gerald Crawford

Selman T. Davis had been the one chosen to write the man’s final biography.

It was a good choice.

Selman T. had been writing them for years.

And now he sat down to write again.

So what did he know about the man?

He was a stranger in town who aged too quickly.

He died too young.

Everyone did.

He was married or had been married. Divorced or widowed. Nobody said. Nobody knew. Selman T. only knew his gold wedding band was worn and tarnished.

The man was a father. At least there was the photograph of a little wide-eyed girl in his wallet. Maybe she was three, maybe a little older. It was so difficult to tell with children. It was also difficult to tell how many years it had been since she was three.

The man had a fought a war. He may not have won it, but he came home alive.

Well, at least he came home.

He was still fighting the war when he came to town and was probably fighting it down to his final breath.

In a small cigar box in the old man’s bedroom, Selman T., the writer, had found a Purple Heart, a Bronze Star, and the faded picture of a small military unit on the edge of a jungle and beside a narrow river.

The men were laughing.

They were drinking and no doubt drinking what they had distilled themselves.

Probably didn’t taste good.

Probably had alcohol in it.

Probably just enough fermentation to heal the pain and cure the loneliness – but never the other way around.

The man had placed an X across the faces of three of the soldiers.

It may have been their last drink.

Their last laugh.

Their last time together.

He had a union card. It said he was a mechanic

The card had expired.

The man had one suit.

It was new.

He had only needed it once.

He had a driver’s license.

But he didn’t have a car.

Didn’t need one.

Bus service was good.

Taxi service was cheap.

The driver’s license had expired.

The man left a Bible on the nightstand beside his bed.

It was open.

It had his name in it.

Sonny Douglas.

And his birthday.

August 16, 1943.

One scripture had been underlined.

Jesus wept.

Jesus had wept for him.

So this was life and all that was left.

Selman T., the writer, sat down to write the man’s biography.

It was little different from all of the biographies he had written in the past.

And in time, it would be all that was known about the man.

A name.

And two dates.

Birthday.

And death.

His entire biography would be chiseled on the face of a stone.

And years from now, that’s all anyone would ever know about a man who had lived for seventy years, at least he had been around for seventy years, a man who had known both love and war, always staying just a step outside the inner circle of anyplace he had ever been.

Now he had a biography written about him.  Read what Selman T. wrote, and it was though Sonny Douglas had never lived at all.

COVER2WICKEDLITTLELIES8-200x300Author Caleb Pirtle III is author of Wicked Little Lies. Please click the book cover to read more about the novel on Amazon. Pirtle has lived in small towns and know why the lies always sound a little better than the truth.

 

 

 

 

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  • Fabulous! You never disappoint, Caleb! If they ever write mine, all they have to do is gather up the pieces. I’ve already done it for ’em. I just hope they don’t add their own slant.

    • Don’t worry, Jo. Stephen and I will make you even better than you are, and that’s difficult to do.

  • Thanks for drawing me in again, Caleb. While spongebob cackles in the background, I am in a graveyard. You are one of the few who can drown out that hideous laugh.

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