While some may seem convinced more than others neither commoner nor king knows what if anything awaits in the void, but the king was a pragmatic man and after thinking about some of the more blood-soaked and debauched times in his life decided in one of his more lucid moments to summon Cardinal Henry.
The Cardinal had heard about the king declining health and was expecting the summons sooner or later. Henry brought with him a bible, a golden cross the king could grasp in his hand when he saw the white light beacon, and a ledger.
With growing detachment Anne watched the evenly spaced yellow dashes pained on the surface of the asphalt road stretch themselves out before disappearing under the car. Her eyes were drawn to the hypnotic visual rhythm and as the world around her narrowed her mind began to drift into the place where memories become living dreams.
The chattering phantoms grew louder, and their muffled voices became clearer and each one more distinct. Anne’s dead eyes weren’t seeing traffic and pavement. Reality was just an obscured and quiet backdrop happening at the fringes of an encroaching nightmare. Her sense of dread became a physically creeping sensation that crawled up her body through the fibers in her muscles and into her bones. Her stomach tightened, every breath became sharp and painful, her pupils dilated into ebony voids.
“Hey look a school bus!” Charlotte announced.
At the height of her professional career as a psychologist, Sophia Paulson transformed into the public avatar of her field. Her book “You just don’t get it: Unraveling the anxieties of modern adolescence” was an instant best seller. As it tuned out Dr. Paulson was not just a delight to read she was also quite easy on the eyes. Not six months after Sophia became the best selling author she was offered a chance to take on the much more popular medium of television.
She was pushing 40, but only the most subtle signs of aging had manifested themselves. Her slender body and still smooth and taught skin made more than a suitable frame for the demands of modern fashion, and she seamlessly blended professional poise with a hint of sexuality.
Miles Webber was once the most well-known musician in the western world. After his untimely death at 29 Miles’s mortal remains were interred in a private mausoleum. The single room structure with its Romanesque column and a statue carved in the likeness of the departed strumming a guitar placed at the summit of the pitched roof was like a small temple where legions of followers could flock to pay their respects.
Over the years through the crowds dwindled and before long even his most ardent admirers stopped making the pilgrimage to Miles's shrine. The decades passed, and the people who could remember seeing Miles play were themselves starting to part from the earth.
Life goes on, and of course, death follows. The cemetery continued to expand, and the once prominently placed monument to Miles was now obscured by mausoleums built for other forgotten entertainers.