3.

All is bright, well and calm. Joyful music rings out loud for all to hear ...

Rise up this mornin,
Smiled with the risin sun,
Three little birds
Pitch by my doorstep
Singin sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true,
Sayin, (this is my message to you-ou-ou:)

Bright, well and calm never really lasts for extended periods of time, eventually something will come along and create an interruption. The music slows and becomes distorted ... for off in the distance there are dark clouds, and they are rushing in at a furious pace, bringing in a terrible darkness and a frightening shadow ... soon the whole world will know its fury ... this interruption may just be permanent ...

Don't worry about a thing, 'cause every little thing is gonna be alright ... there are many who wouldn't be so sure about that ...

January 1st 2018

The cold air has a bite to it, no more than a nibble and if one were outside long enough then the nibble might just gnaw right through to the bone. Patches of frost cling to sprouted foliage through sidewalk cracks and thin streams of trickled ice stem along slanted walkways.

An older man, wrapped in newspapers and cardboard, wakes with a startle on a store doorstep just as dawn is about to arrive. He is well use to the streets and has survived upon them for the larger part of his life; if that were to change any time soon then it would come more as a disturbance than anything else for he certainly by this point in his life feels more at home on the streets than he possibly could within any kind of building.

A loving relationship and a fearful relationship with nature and of nature add to his perception of the world and a certain knowledge of the world is his and to him it feels as if this knowledge is his alone. In actuality he is not as alone as he fears he is.

The next store entrance over from the one he awakes within has a floral hanging basket and in his moment of waking he is only noticing this basket for the first time. If it could be put to him then he may swear that there was no hanging basket in the moment he lay down to rest.

The colours of the floral arrangement are vibrant and bright, the likes of which he has not seen in some time and this he finds worrisome to the point it soon causes him distress and his memories return to a time when he worked in a garden center some thirty-five years prior. Someone or something is having its way with him and whatever that someone or something is, it is not quite done just yet.

'It's near' he says to himself, '... so very near.'

A sign has been shown to him, he is sure as sure can be. He has a warning to offer others and the time to put it out there is now but who is going to listen to him? A homeless and ragged older man he is, and he is fully aware of this. He still possesses his own faculties; his wits are as strong as they have ever been. To others, however, he'd be seen only as the crazy old homeless guy.

Getting up off the ground and without securing anything of what little he owns; he begins to move off and away from his most recent place of rest. Down a near-by alley there is a fire burning within a large refuse oil drum. He heads right down to the oil drum to warm himself a little. A moment of De Ja Vu hits him like a slap to the face, he has no idea as to why it should, so he doesn't dwell any on it.

It is cold though also quite mild for the early hours of a New Year's Day, the burning flames do a job the best they can.

There are the odd few stranglers among town, remnants of the previous evening's celebrations. He sees some of them pass the alley he has come to be in. He has to put the warning out there, even if no one will listen. To do nothing would be the equivalent to condemning the world to darkness. If he can get through to one person then maybe some sort of difference can be made.

This older homeless man moves quickly, especially for someone of his age in his circumstance, and soon he goes after two people who have passed the alley by having moved on across rather than turning down like he had. There would be no reason of course for them to have gone into the alley. It is not the most attractive of lanes to walk down or through for any reason or under any circumstance. He soon moves beyond those strangers and turns, beginning to walk backwards matching them step for step.

'It's coming' he says, 'the end ... it is coming. He is here and they are ready ... this is their year ... this is their year. Mark my words ...'

These people with whom the old man has come to, they see the person before them as someone who more than likely has lost him mind a long time ago. Marbles have been played, lost and collected; taken so far away they can never be retrieved. To them he is speaking gibberish, he probably has no idea what he is saying, oh but he does, he knows all too well, his marbles are still there, a little freer than they once were but still right where they belong.

The thing now is that no one will listen, still he has to try. It could be very easy for the strangers to dish out some abuse. They are good people, so they don't. There is enough cruelty in the world, and they will not add to it. Instead, they continue to move on by, oblivious.

'Don't you see ... his daughters ... Satan's daughters are coming of age. Soon a darkness will descend ... it will descend upon us all ... it began its descent this time round almost two decades ago, so he is already here ... he has always been here.'

Having come to stand still he decides not to pursue those strangers any further. Instead, he moves onto others and still no one pays him any attention other than to think him crazy. Not everyone is as nice as the first two strangers, shouts of 'get out here ya bum' and the likes are soon thrown at him, one person even pushes him over. New Year's good will is not alive or well.

Perhaps Good will may be alive and well somewhere and perhaps it is not all so far away. Engulfed into a silhouette created of a light from behind, a younger man approaches.

'Excuse me sir, would your name be Christopher Lenard Furlong?'

'It would ... though I haven't heard my name spoken like that in a very long time. People just call me Chris, well at least they used to.'

'I understand ...'

'And who would you be?'

'My name, sir, is Samuel Lemmontine Fontaine. People just call me Sammy.'

'Fontaine? As in Estelle and Jim?'

'They are my parents ...'

'I knew it ... I'm not crazy at all. He has sent you ... hasn't he? Our lord has sent you to me?'

'Not so loud ... please ... now, Mister Furlong ... Chris, I have been thought of as crazy too and crazy we are not. If you would like to come with me, we have something to discuss over breakfast and don't worry, breakfast is on me.'

'We do? ... It is? ... Well then, please do lead the way ...'