Otherworld by Jared C. Wilson Page B

do?”
    â€œIt’s five o’clock on Saturday morning. I’m gonna go home, eat some sugary cereal, and try to get some sleep.”
    Â 
    Steve Woodbridge performed a balancing act on the street curb in front of his church. His arms wavered up and down, preserving his equilibrium as he stepped, one foot in front of the other. Slowly. He reached the end of the curb and willingly collapsed into the grass of the parking median. Looking up at the sky, he tried to count the stars. Like a child. Just like a little boy in the backyard.
    His thoughts drifted to the time of adolescence. Stickball with his neighborhood pals. Campouts. Tackle football in the abandoned lot. That was a time of innocence, a time when life was on hold. When life was carefree. The only expectation was to be a good boy. No grand ambitions. No long-range goals to mold your existence around. Not then.
    â€œPastor Woodbridge? That you?”
    The inert figure sprawled out in the cold grass of the parking median revived and turned toward the voice. Max, the custodian, had arrived for his morning shift.
    â€œYeah, Max. It’s me.”
    â€œWhat’re you doing down there?”
    â€œJust thinking.”
    Max was baffled. “You been here since yesterday?”
    â€œYeah.” The pastor rose to his feet and brushed the grass off his pants and coat. “I guess I should call my wife and tell her I’m okay.”
    From “The UFO Riddle” by Michael C. Walsh in Spotlight Magazine :
    The best bet is that no resolution to the Trumbull alien mutilation will be found. After years of documentation from every conceivable geographic point on the globe, the mystery of UFOs remains unsolved, and for good reason. The burden of proof lies with those who make these outrageous claims, and not one throughout all of history has had evidence solid enough to support them. The solution to the riddle of UFOs has been with us all along in the oft-heard, but oft-dismissed, voice of the skeptic: they don’t exist.
    Â 
    Mike Walsh succumbed to sleep with one recurring thought in his head: I’ve lost everything.
    Graham Lattimer woke, pain still clanging in his skull, with a phrase left over from the previous night’s news: Be assured …
    Steve Woodbridge fought off sleep during the drive home. A thought remained with him as well: The wife’s gonna kill me.
    Â 
    In the fall of 1972, a twelve-year-old boy walked along an unpaved road, holding the strong, wrinkled hand of his grandfather. The elder led his grandson down a path they took routinely every week. Decaying leaves crackled at their steps, scattering brown and orange and red autumn confetti. The morning was young, and the walk was brisk. A cool breeze nipped at their faces when they turned the corner at Main and Versailles. They passed a row of stores. Each was closed and would be for the rest of the day. Sunday. Church day.
    The boy swung his arm, taking his grandfather’s with him in each pendulum stroke. He looked forward to this time every week. Not so much for church but for the walk. He raised his head and studied the old man’s face. It was toughened and creased by hard work and time itself. They wore matching slacks, and the fabric swished with each stride. Still gazing upward, the child watched as a smile materialized on his grandfather’s face.
    â€œWhy are you smiling, Grandpa?” the boy asked, but he knew why.
    â€œBecause I know this is about to happen!” his grandfather declared, promptly attacking the boy with tickles.
    The boy squirmed around, flailing his arms wildly, and let the laughter billow from his mouth. Tears began to stream from his eyes, but they were good tears. Tears of laughter. Tears of joy. After a good minute, the man released him, and they resumed their walk.
    The little country church stood on the top of a hill. Its whitewashed wood appeared to glow in the morning sunlight. There were scatters of