The slightest pressure, and the door swung under Jordan’s hand, creaking only slightly in complaint.  There he was, standing on the threshold of memories, unwilling to enter, yet feeling with all his soul, the indomitable pull.  Jordan couldn’t explain it, especially to himself.  There was comfort and a simple familiarity just inside that door.  He knew though, with certainty, that nothing at all would be proportionate to what had been.  That which made the house a home, and was the anchor of that familiarity he knew, was the people.  People who had been such a large part of his life, but were not there, and never would be again.  All that was left now, was the memories.  Perhaps that had been why he re-enlisted so many times, because he was unwilling to deal with those memories.

Taking a deep breath and visibly straightening up, as if preparing for some kind of prestigious ritual, Jordan stepped across the threshold.  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, goose bumps rose along his arms.  It was like stepping back in time, entering a world that was no more.  The last time he had walked through this door was a full decade prior.  Back then, he had finished the duties of a son burying his parents, settling their affairs, and locking everything in storage, especially his memories.  The dusty scent of  stagnant “old” air was the only thing to welcome him home.   Everything was just as he had left it 10 years ago, just covered in dust. 

The kitchen counters, were coated in a fine layer of dust, nothing having disturbed it for years.  Force of habit made him reach for the light switch, to flip it on.  Of course with no power, there was no resulting illumination of his dreary surroundings.  Jordan glanced to the right, and saw the kitchen table with it’s two chairs, sitting forlorn and vacant.  Thoughts of his father sitting there at the table, sipping a cup of coffee and reading some novel or another entered his mind.  These were the ghosts he would have to tame, and learn to live with.  Ghosts of memories from times long past, never to be repeated.   At least these ghosts were more pleasant than the ones that haunted his dreams.

Jordan walked on through the house into the living room.  Strange feelings kept assaulting his thoughts.  If not for the dust and musty odors, he would almost expect to see his mother sitting in her recliner, knitting away on some project or other.   The blaring silence in the house was overwhelming.   Glancing past the recliners, he saw the door to the only bedroom in the house, his parents.  They had sold the house he grew up in and moved to this home after he left for the service.  The place had originally been a store front, with a house in the back.   The store part of the place had been a huge room, his mother filled with her multitude of crafts.  A sewing machine sat, dusty and unused, a few remnants of fabric still laying around it.  The large pattern cutting table, with it’s rules, and measurements, coated just as completely as everything else in that annoying dust.

Jordan dropped his duffel, and turned to leave.  Stopping in the kitchen, he opened the cupboard door above the phone, and there, right where he left it, was the key to his fathers truck.  Of course the battery was going to be dead, and who knew what else would be wrong.  He had put it up on jacks before leaving, but he figured the tires would probably be flat also.  He needed to get it running so he would be able to get around a little easier.   He was going to have to get the power turned back on before he could do anything.  Hell he was going to have to get everything turned back on.   One problem after another started to surface in his mind.  “I sure have a lot to do just to get things back to where I can use them”

Jordan head out the back door then gate, and headed up the street to City Hall.  “I’ll start with the water, and then maybe they’ll let me use the phone to call the power company and phone company.  One thing at a time, then I can start getting the house cleaned up and livable again.”  Jordan, trudged his way up the street past all the stores, and people he had just walked by earlier.  Giving them another chance to guess his identity, and wonder at his story.  Just as it had always been, the small town gossips, would have him identified and a version of his story before the night was upon them.  It would surely not be the right version, but he would deal with that later.

Chapter 1, 
Coming Home

As Jordan stepped off the bus, he stretched his numbed muscles, trying to get some circulation back.  The seats were not made to accommodate someone of his 6 foot 3 inch, 185 pound frame.  He had been forced to cycle from one uncomfortable pose to another, then back again for the whole two and a half hour ride.  If he would have had a vehicle, it’d only been about an hour and forty five minute drive, but that was one luxury he didn’t have. Jordan could have rented a car, but then he would’ve had to figure out how to get it back to Denver, something he didn’t want to deal with.  He grabbed the worn strap of his duffel bag, and slung in casually over his shoulder.  It was the same old green duffel he had been issued so many years ago, in basic training.  His name and serial number, although faded, still visible in the standard black military stenciling.   “Honey, I’m home from the wars”, Jordan thought to himself, and grinned.  He knew full well, there would be no welcoming comity, no wife, or even girlfriend to greet him.

Looking around, he decided the little town had not changed all that much on the surface.  It still wasn’t big enough to warrant a regular bus stop, so the driver had let him off at the intersection nearest to the town center.  Memories from his youth assaulted Jordan’s thoughts, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.  “Time changes all things, myself not the least of them.” Jordan realized, that even though everything appeared unchanged on the surface, nothing was the same at all.  When he left, he had been but a boy, setting out on a new and interesting adventure.   Now he was damaged goods, dealing with ghosts from a different set of mountains far away in a completely different environment.  Ghosts that would be with him for the rest of his life, haunting his dreams, and affecting his life in ways yet to be discovered.

Jordan headed off in the direction of his home, the one he left so many years ago, it seemed a life time.  There would be no one there to greet him, no welcoming hugs from family, not tears of joy at all.  As a matter of fact, he was headed to a cold and dark house, that had been shut up and placed in a state of conservation for the past 10 years.  After his parents were killed in that ungodly, preventable accident, he had come home to bury them.  After the services, he had the power turned off, the phone disconnected, the water shut down, and the house “winterized” to prevent any damage from the bitter high altitude winters.  Jordan had not known then when the next time he would be able to return would be.  He couldn’t bring himself to sell the old house, so for the last ten years, he had sent a check to Mr. Dixon, the next door neighbor, every month. Mr. Dixon kept an eye on things, and wouldn’t let the place get to run down.

The house was only six blocks away, Jordan figured he’d been humping a 60 pound ruck and full combat gear around the Afghanistan mountains for the past 18 months, he could easily handle the short walk.   He walked down the street, on concrete side walks, that in his youth had been real board walk sidewalks.  People stopped what they were doing, and watched him pass, whispering among themselves, wondering who he was and what he was doing.   “I suppose I can’t expect anyone to remember me, it has been 10 years since I was last here, and even then, I didn’t exactly get out to see the town.  All told, I’ve been gone more than 15  years, dam that’s a long time.” Jordan let his thoughts mill around in his head, trying to place faces and names as he walked.  There weren’t many he could place, so many of the faces had changed, people left town, in pursuit of their own lives’ and dreams, others moved in to replace them.   So much had changed behind the facade, even if it didn’t appear so at first, there was no doubt about it now.

Block by block Jordan walked, with no hurry in his step, taking in all the sights as he went.  Past the old hotel on Main St. and then the playground at the elementary school, where he had spent his youth.  People turned to see who he was at each new place, forever curious, as was the habit of the small town populace.   Some waved, even though they had no idea who Jordan was, and some with a faint spark of recognition.   A recognition, that was one sided, because for the life of him Jordan was having a hard time placing any of the faces he passed.  Finally, he turned down 8th St., just one more corner, and he would be home, even if it wouldn’t feel like it.

The last 50 or so steps seemed to take the longest of the whole six blocks.  The surroundings hadn’t changed much, maybe a new coat of paint, or an added outbuilding here and there.  Basically the same place he remembered, yet so very different.  It sure didn’t feel the same, not in the least!  He was having trouble figuring out why he felt so different, so alien, in his own home town.  Then all at once, it struck him.  The town hadn’t changed, he had, boy had he ever changed!  Before long he came to that old 6 foot chain link fence around the back yard.  The wide side walk leading to the back door, and the dilapidated garage off to one side.  He could remember telling his father years ago, that he should just tear down that old garage, and build a new one.  It was a project his Dad had wanted to do, and put on the back burner, adding it to the ever increasing list of procrastinations that were his nature.

Jordan reached up, and flipped the latch that held the gate fast.  Creaking in complaint, the gate swung inward, and Jordan entered a life he left a decade and a half ago.  Strange feelings assaulted his consciousness, forcing him to look around, remember, and face old ghosts.  Pushing his thoughts to the side, he walked up to the door, and set his duffel bag down.  Digging in his pocket, he pulled the lone key from among the change jingling around there.  He stuck the key in the lock, and with effort, turned it to unlock the door that would lead him inside, to dusty distant memories.  With only a slight squeal of protest, the door swung in, yet Jordan hesitated, not wanting to face the emptiness of his life.

Image by Schweerchichi via Flickr

This is a simple test post using Windows Live Writer.  I prefer this program for all my blog posting because of it’s simplicity and ease of use.  There are many great plug-ins that can be downloaded for free, and will enhance your content.  One of which is Zamanta, that I use with practically all my blog posts.

Zamanta suggests images to include in your posts, based on the content your writing.  Suggestions are updated after every 300 or so words.  It also suggests related articles from other bloggers to link to.    I’ve found it pretty helpful in creating my blog posts.