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Back The Desert of Glass Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. BY MICHAEL C. GRUMLEY
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. II
  83. III
  84. IV

The soul’s one and only path for escape from the black hole of true misery.

Purpose.

He thought again of the playground, remembering back to one of the many days he’d been there with his daughter, watching her laugh and play with the other children, running in and out through the metal poles of the play structure until coming upon a smaller boy who’d fallen.  He’d sat in the soft layer of wood chips crying and calling for his mother.

The boy was unhurt, but Rickards remembered watching his young daughter wrap her tiny arms around him and help him up. It was one of the sweetest things Rickards had ever witnessed.  His daughter’s genuine, untainted care for someone she didn’t even know still touched him to that day, still resonated with him.

How proud he was of that little heart of hers.

He was so lost in thought that he did not immediately hear it—a noise outside.  There was a commotion somewhere in the traffic behind him, within the endless line of cars waiting to inch forward beneath the stifling sun.

What he eventually heard was yelling, followed by the slamming of a door, prompting Rickards to turn and look over his shoulder a few cars back to two men who’d climbed out of their vehicles and were continuing to yell at each other.

Both appeared to be in their forties or fifties.  Rickards watched as one man approached the second, yelling and waving his arms in unintelligible acrimony, spewing vitriol until just a few feet away and mere moments before the second man suddenly lashed out, punching him in the face and immediately sending him onto the hard pavement like a large bag of sand toppling over.

Almost simultaneously, honks erupted from all directions as the light turned green and dozens of cars impatiently pushed forward.

Rickards leaned and checked his side mirror to watch the fallen man slowly rise back to his feet and stumble away, returning to his vehicle.

It was a minor clash lasting mere seconds, and yet, for Rickards, the brutality lay not in the skirmish itself but in the reality of it.  The vitriol.  Without choreography or TV-like glorification. An actual assault in broad daylight at a stoplight.

There it was.  Vitriol.  The word Angela had used.

Cruelty and bitterness.

7

7

She opened the door to find Rickards standing on her front step, pensive and sullen, staring back at Angela and her look of surprise.

“Okay.”

She frowned.  “Excuse me?”

“I said okay.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ll help.”

Angela’s face lit up.  “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“I’m… surprised.”

“At finding me on your porch or that I’ve agreed to help?”

She grinned.  “Both.”

“Well, at least I didn’t do it at seven o’clock in the morning.”

***