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Prolog: Hands Date: 10.28.01 Time: 12:51 AM Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, nor do I make any money from this. I do it of my own free will, simply because I admire the original works. |
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A snake-like stream wound in front of a small, straight trodden path. An elaborate old Victorian porch glistened in the sun, highlighted by pink roses and yellow azaleas. An old man, in a tranquil wicker rocker, was throned amidst a pile of luggage. A shuttle ticker to Berlin rested in his lap. The man, for his age, was one whom looked younger than his year, though his mind was much older. His skin had no age spots, but was clear of all of the markings of age. His shoulders still held the chiseled look of a life led as a soldier. In his hands he held the story of a life. The man's hands were rough and calloused, showing his battle scars and electrical burns proudly. A hard, honest, solemn worker, but a tender tough hid just beneath the calloused exterior. Gently, he opened the sacred leather-bound journal, one filled with memories of life passed and read... |