The soldier walked along the road in confusion. Carrying his rifle in ready position, he scanned the area as he walked as if he were the point man and his platoon was walking behind him. However, he was alone; there was no platoon following him. With a fogged mind he walked. His combat gear a heavy burden, but he continued walking, walking to somewhere he didn't know. He didn't remember his name or where he had been or where he was going. His march came to an abrupt halt as he came upon a concrete wall. A wall so high it seemed to reach into the clouds and extend into the foliage on either side of the road.
“No one can climb that wall,” he heard a voice say somewhere near him. Turning around he saw a young ballerina dancing in a small clearing on the left side of the road. He heard the faint sound of classical music in the vicinity. Raising his head as he looked up at the wall, he was perturbed.
“Who are you?” he asked the girl.
“I'm the dancer...the ballerina,” she answered as she continued to dance and swing around in circles on her tiptoes. The soldier watched her maneuver in her dance patterns.
“Who are you?” she asked as she continued to dance.
Looking down with closed eyes in deep thought, he looked back at her and said, “I'm the soldier.”
“Where are you going?” she asked him.
“I don't know. I'm just walking, looking for the enemy I guess.”
“Who is the enemy?” she asked him.
“I'm not sure, but I would probably know if I was to encounter them.”
The ballerina stopped dancing and walked over to the soldier. “ I wonder what is on the other side of that wall,” she said. The soldier just looked at her in disarray. She made a gesture like flying.
“I wish I could fly; I'd see what’s over there,” she said as she simulated flapping wings.
“I don't think people can fly,” the soldier said.
“Angels can fly,” said a voice behind them. It was the voice of a nun in a distinctive habit. “Are you folks lost?”
“I think so, at least I am,” the soldier said.
“I must be also,” the ballerina said, and she started dancing. "But right now, I don't care, I just like to dance.”
“Who is making that music?” the nun said, searching the perimeter.
“I don't know but sometimes, it’s music atypical of ballet. When it’s like that, I can't dance.”
The nun put out her hand and touched the wall. “I think this is the end of the line for all of us. Wherever we are now, is where we are meant to be.”
From out of the forest, a voice could be heard, indistinguishable at first, but soon cleared as they approached the wall.
“Far out,” the voice said. “This is so freaking cool. Wow!” Walking out of the woods was a young man with long hair, with a purple headband, a long black beard dressed in a multicolored jump suit with bell bottoms. “That’s a crazy wall, man!”
“It’s blocking us” the nun said. “We can't go on.”
“Where were you going?” the young man said.
“I don't know; I was just going,” the nun replied.
“Where were you two going?” he asked the soldier and ballerina.
Both just shrugged their shoulders.
“Come to think of it, I don't remember where I was off too either,” he said. “We all must have had somewhere to go or we wouldn't have been going...would we?”
In total dismay, they stood there at the wall. Then, pondering what to do next, their path was blocked by a wall, and they didn't know where they were going anyway. It was though they were led here all in this place for a reason. For what reason? They did not know.
“I just remembered my name,” the young man in the multicolored jump suit said. “It’s Frederic C. Gilles.”
The ballerina, in deep through, announced her name: “Fawn Hawkins, it just came to me.”
“I'm Sister Mary Francis.”
“I'm Randy Taylor,” the soldier said. “So, we know our names. Now where were we all going?”
“I don't think it’s a question as to where we were going,” Sister Mary said, “it’s a question as to where we were before we all wound up here.”
“I was watching a rock concert,” Frederic said.
“I was dancing at the Metropolitan Opera House,” Fawn said, still dancing.
Randy walked forward, looking into the foliage of the forest. “I was walking through the jungle with my platoon,” he said.
Suddenly they heard a fighting sound. It was a sound not any have heard before. A sound of a thousand banshees screaming. They covered their ears with their hands, squeezing their eyes tight shut with horrific faces, expecting a terrible doom to come promptly.
Victor Barton had dozed off as he wrote his short story. He had developed writer's block and reared back in his chair to clear his mind when the phone rang and ultimately startled him from his slumber. It was Della Grant, his publisher.
“Oh, hello Della.”
“So have you got that story finished?”
“Sorry, Della, I got the characters named and the plot outlined, but that proverbial writer's block wall came up and stopped me. So I decided to get a nap and refresh my mind. I'll have it by tomorrow. The deadline is tomorrow anyway.”
“OK, but I want it in first thing in the morning. What’s the synopsis?”
“Time period late '60's. A Vietnam solider meets a war protester, a hippy flower child type. They have disagreements in politics, and both are in love with the same girl, a ballerina, whose mother is a nun who opposed war, dance, and social reformers.”
“Sounds good buddy; I can't wait to read it. What’s that music I hear? What are you listening to?”
“Classical music, Della; it’s relaxing and I like it.”
“OK, but tear down that wall and get my story in here.”
“OK, it's down, but the music stays," he laughed.
Victor rolled a new page into his typewriter and began typing.