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the window. The sun would stream in the window directly, brightly, and would cut a rectangular spot of white out of the dark, brownish rug, I, sitting with my back to the window would gaze fixedly at this spot of whiteness, with my shadow outlined in the middle of it. Chris would rest in his dark mysterious spot, almost invisible to the sun struck eye gazing at him from across the room. His voice was strong, and vibrant, and deep, and would float and dance around the room until its resonance made the sun spot lift from the floor with me on top of it and soar into the upper reaches of the atmosphere, only to suddenly descend, rest on water, whereupon, I would alight on the shores of some southern isle, with the water cuddling my feet, and the footprints that I left being washed away by the succeeding waves.
    Chris was a marvelous story teller, and I would sit entranced for hours on end. His stories were glorious and fascinating, and brave and bold, and teaching. He told me of many things, and of people, and of things far beyond my imagination. He told me of his youth—in the very cold wastes of a foreign country, where it was necessary for him to sleep fully dressed so as not to freeze. When it would be time for me to go, he would get up slowly, and make his way to the door. He would send me off with a “Goodbye sonny, be a good little fellow now, won’t you.
    Chris was wonderful, and I looked forward with great anticipation to every meeting. As time grew on, his talks became less fanciful and more full of poignance. He would recite from his memory passages of the great authors, Chris loved literature, and would explain the authors meaning, their method. He taught me truth as I had never known before. But soon I left and went away for school. When I would return on semester breaks there would be Chris, faithful guardian, and I would talk to him briefly, but time was so short and had to do so many things. I just never had an opportunity to go in and spend any time with Chris. The closeness that I had had with Chris as a boy was never recaptured, but none the less, I always saw him sitting in his spot, and would greet him. His face would beam as it very rarely did, and an indication of a smile would transmit itself through his full beard. “How are you, sonny”, he would say. “Fine Chris, how are you?” “Oh I’m quite well, thank you, what are you doing these days?” he’d ask. And I would tell him “I’m writing”. The smile in the beard would deepen. He really loved art and beauty, though much of my work couldn’t be called that. He would always ask me to come to his place sometime and read one of my stories for him, and he would say how he knew I would be an author of worth, and how happy he was for me. I would tell him I’d come sometime, but as it happens I have never yet been able to see him. Well one of these days, I’d tell myself, I’ll get a moment and then I’ll bring one of my stories to Chris.
    These thoughts were going through my head as I undressed for the night, and rested from the overtiring world of the outside. As I lay in bed, which was near a window left purposely uncovered so as to see the night above me, I kept thinking of my youth, and of Chris, and the things that he told me, and … suddenly a deafening sound had violated the quiet night air and was echoing from the buildings on the street. I bounded from the bed and rubbed a clean spot from the grimy window so I could see out. Below me was a scene of human carnage, a woman lay bleeding in the street, from her middle came blood in spurts, in gushes, in streams, being pumped out of her body with every beat of her heart. Life was slowly being pumped away, and she lay there writhing in a pool of her own blood—policemen came running down the street, and stopped in front of her, trying to make her more comfortable, and less in danger of dying. One of the policemen ran to a