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Harold Cranston's Final Trip
Harold Cranston's Final Trip
Harold Cranston's Final Trip
Ebook27 pages23 minutes

Harold Cranston's Final Trip

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Harold Cranston, 87 years old minus 1 day, is packing at his wife's direction for a trip to see their son in Colorado. He works in the Mustang Mountain tracking station. Helen and Harold live outside of Huntsville, Alabama, the home of Redstone Arsenal. Like the epigram says, When the missiles are launched, who among us will know? This story is derived from the forthcoming novel, The Consensus.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateOct 23, 2016
ISBN9781370400089
Harold Cranston's Final Trip
Author

Harvey Stanbrough

Harvey Stanbrough is an award-winning writer and poet. He’s fond of saying he was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas, and baked in Arizona. After 21 years in the US Marine Corps, he managed to sneak up on a BA degree at Eastern New Mexico University in Portales in 1996. Because he is unable to do otherwise, he splits his writing personality among four personas: Gervasio Arrancado writes magic realism; Nicolas Z “Nick” Porter writes spare, descriptive, Hemingway-style fiction; and Eric Stringer writes the fiction of an unapologetic neurotic. Harvey writes whatever they leave to him. You can see their full bios at HEStanbrough.com.

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    Book preview

    Harold Cranston's Final Trip - Harvey Stanbrough

    Harold Cranston’s Final Trip

    Harvey Stanbrough

    the Smashwords Edition of

    a FrostProof808 publication

    an imprint of StoneThread Publishing

    To give the reader more of a sample, the front matter appears at the end.

    Harold Cranston’s Final Trip

    When the missiles are launched, who among us will know?

    Harold Cranston whistled a familiar old tune as he set the suitcases on the floor in the entry way of his home just outside Huntsville, Alabama. He stopped whistling for a moment and looked over his shoulder. Helen, I’m going to put the suitcases in the car.

    All right, dear. Did you remember our pillows?

    Pillows. She always insisted on taking their pillows. He could sleep with his head on a log if he needed to, but she had to have her pillow. And his along to match. He grinned. One of the things he loved about her.

    No, but I’ll get them in a minute.

    All right. I shouldn’t be but a few more minutes. I suppose I can bring my overnight bag and my purse. Did you get the hanging bag? And then there’s that silly little duffel you always bring.

    No. I’ll get the hanging bag when I get the pillows. He paused for a moment, wondering whether it was packed. He didn’t remember seeing it on the bed when he grabbed the suitcases. Is it packed? I didn’t see it on the bed.

    She always put his things, whether freshly folded clothing from the laundry or bags when they packed, on his side of the bed. Her things, likewise, she put on her side of the bed. And anything that wasn’t considered strictly his, like the hanging bag, was considered hers.

    Five-foot three, petite Helen poked her head around the corner of the bedroom door and grinned at him down the hallway. "Well of course it’s packed, Harold. It’s

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