A Prayer for Daz

For my wife, my love, and for my children, here is a prayer-poem written not by a stranger, but by Daddy, just for our Little Man.

For Dastan

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Alrighty Almighty, you got my kid. I don't know if you took him, or if he came of his own free will, or if you needed him, or if this was just one of those suck-parts that come with life, but he's there and I'm here, and you're gonna have to get a few things straight.

First off, his name is Dastan. It's not Dustin, or Datsun, or Destin. It is DASTAN.

I know, it's a Persian name. To make it more complicated, we added two German names: Jerome Wheeler.

And to top it off, his last name is TRANT. Not Trent or Tramp. TRANT.

I know it's complicated, and if you get it right you'll be the first. I just want to make sure you understand who you're dealing with.

Next you need to teach him a few things. Start with his colors. He was learning them at school, and best we can tell he liked the color purple the best.

Now show him how to throw the ball for the dogs. He already had a good start on that, along with tug-of-war. You have a Golden up there who is perfect for Daz (Daz is short for Dastan, God, in case you missed that).

The Golden's name is Lexi. She died of raging cancer at the age of 9. Nice one. She loves the water, and guess what, so does Dastan. Teach him to throw the ball in the lake (I assume you have lakes), and let Lexi chase it. If it isn't now, it will be Daz's favorite game. It sure was Lexi's!

Now teach him to be sweet like his momma. Teach him to play like his brother and sister.

Teach him love, Lord, now that you have him. Let his legacy be a stronger family and a better world. Give us strength, let us mourn, and every once in a while, let us feel Little Man's arms around our neck.

That was another one of his names. Little Man. Dazaster. Dazaroo. Daz. His sister made a memorial t-shirt that you can read. It has a lot more names than those.

It is true to say the little guy was everything to everyone in this family. Let him be so to you, Lord, as I know he must be, because you love no other way.

I have a beautiful family, Lord, and a beautiful baby son who is in your care. I suppose your wingspan covers us all, God, but for Daz, for our Little Man, please, please.

Just please.

Until my heart stops beating, God, it will ache for him, and mine is not the only one. Make this good, Lord, please make this good.

Amen

PS. He loved Kermit the Frog. If you haven't already, get him one. He likes to chew on the nose.


- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novel Out of the Great Black Nothing. He is currently represented by Debrin Case at Open Heart Publishing. See more of Eric's work here: Publications

If I can get through this

Here's my official song these days. This Friday will be four weeks since my son had his seizure. Friday will mark four weeks since, since, since everything.

This is my afterlife, the life after. This is our life beyond, for my family, and for those around us who were affected by my son's passing.

This is that life you imagine when someone says, "I can't imagine life without you."

Only we don't have to imagine, do we?

I keep singing this song. Some of the lyrics don't make a damned bit of sense, but they ring true, sort of like Pearl Jam's Yellow Ledbetter. You hear what you want to hear, what you need to hear.

In any case, I am making progress on my current WiP. I have written almost 10kw since last week. They have been hard words, and I don't know if they are flat or vibrant, but they are on paper, by God, at least in the electrical metaphorical sense of "being on paper."

I am making forward progress. I am moving upward, up up up, always up.

And if I can get through this, I can get through anything, by God.

I mean, what have I to fear when my greatest fear is passed?

Answer: Not a goddamned thing. I face God's own pain, the one He touts as His greatest gift to mankind, and I say: Hey God, my son was only eighteen months old. Yours was a middle-aged man who everyone thought was a lunatic. You got yours back after three short days, but mine isn't coming back, not by my hand, at least.

So what else you got, Old Man? Bring it. Whatever fear I had, left with my son's last breath.

Wishing you all the best. Your prayers and heartfelt thoughts are physical.


- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novel Out of the Great Black Nothing. He is currently represented by Debrin Case at Open Heart Publishing. See more of Eric's work here: Publications

Premoniscient Writing

Just realized "premoniscient" is not a word! Premonition is, as is pronunciamento (proclamation), but premoniscient is not in the dictionary.

Am I spelling it correctly?

Moving along.

Have you ever written something that was premoniscient? You went back later, read it, and realized you lived the story after you wrote it?

I have done that twice.

The first was my first book, circa 2001. It involved divorce, and was written several years before my own divorce. Some of the scenes showed up in real-life later, especially one of my MC hitting on women at a bar.

I will not go into the second one, as it involves my present WIP, and my present circumstance, namely the loss of a child. But it is oddly premoniscient (sp?).

How about you? Have you ever written something that later resembled your life in an uncanny way?

- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novel Out of the Great Black Nothing. He is currently represented by Debrin Case at Open Heart Publishing. See more of Eric's work here: Publications

Looking Down

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Don't Look Down!

That's what they say when you're on the edge clinging uncountable feet above them, they on the ground and you in the air holding with all your might.

They scream up at you, For Godsake, man, don't look down!

They say that out of fear, even though they cannot feel the wind claw at your grip. They don't feel your toes cramping and your calves wrenching and your stomach launching bile into your throat.

Don't look down! That's what they say, followed by, Hold on, help's coming!

Only there is no help coming. This is your climb, and you are far too far to be reached. Others may be near you, and they may offer encouragement, but they cannot climb for you. Nobody can rope you in and haul you up. Maybe you think God will climb for you, but that is not His style. His style is that there is something worth climbing for, something at the top, something magnificent at the peak.

It is your job to get there. This is faith.

So up you go. It is your climb, and you are on the cliff side, and they are all telling you don't look down. There is no help to be had either up or down or sideways, or even if you could tunnel directly through.

Me, I look down. I spit and hope the shouters scatter. They are pinheads so far beneath me, and my spit dissolves long before it reaches them. So I drop a rock. I risk a loosed clutch and a twist of the neck and I drop a rock and that scatters them alright. It must have zinged into the ground a thousand miles per hour from up so high.

I am stratospheric, maybe even orbital.

No shouting now. Just me and the wind and nobody saying, Don't look down.

I'll look where I damned well please. I won't tell you to hold on, or where to look, or lie to you that help is coming. All I will say is this: Climb. Go up up up. Down is easy. Even a dumb rock and my spit can go down.

You're not a phlegmatic rock, are you?


- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novel Out of the Great Black Nothing. He is currently represented by Debrin Case at Open Heart Publishing. See more of Eric's work here: Publications