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Back Black Ambrosia Save as PDF
Chapters (46)
  1. CoverImage
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. About the Author
  46. About the Cover

I avoided the lighted places, dodging down side streets, not wishing to be seen, stopped, or ques­tioned. I found a pile of trash by the curb waiting to be picked up. Leaning against it was a beautiful plank. I ripped another from a boarded-­up window on a recently vacated building, and found some small plywood scraps blown up next to a fence by the airstrip. I made a small pile of all of these finds just two blocks from my home, and as a pack rat scurries along the gutters at night finding shiny objects, so I looked for lumber to build my defense.

I had to return to my apartment for my hammer, and with it removed some molding from empty doorways, and at last I thought I had what I needed. It took seven trips to take it all into my basement, but once there, I began to work in a fever, the plans coming to me automatically, the tools feeling like old friends. My tool box consisted of only a hammer, a bent handsaw, a couple of screwdrivers, and some nails. They would have to do, and they worked. My frustration reached frenzied proportions at times, and as I perspired in my work and the sweat began to turn sour in my clothes, I stripped down and preferred the sawdust covering to the cotton.

My measurements proved right, my intuition flawless. I dared not think that I was being guided in this endeavor. This was my act of rebellion, one so strong She could not ignore it or deny it. I knew She would at least take note of the drastic measures I was taking to avoid Her contact, the dedication with which I was putting Her from my life. Once She realized how important this was to me, I knew She would leave me alone, to rediscover the daylight and find my way among people again—someday to meet Boyd face-­to-­face in the flesh again, in the light, eye-­to-­eye.

And then it was finished. I dragged the kitchen table into the bedroom and placed the box atop it.

Unaccustomed to manual work of this magni­tude, I felt as if lead flowed in my veins. I returned to the kitchen to find the kittens all sleeping in a pile next to the stove, and I saw the light begin to come in through the windows. Dawn. I had worked the night through, and She had not touched me. I had beaten Her this night, and I would again the next night and the next. I would no longer be Her puppet, Her pawn. Her ideas for me were not wholesome and I would have no part of them ever again.

Ever again.