Three Days in August

By Kathleen M. Schurman

From One End of Time to the Other

When the wacky halves of the same soul attempt to fulfill their destiny they run into one small problem...each other. Even their guardian angel gets a heavenly headache as it monitors their progress down through the ages.

Follow this soul's adventure as it searches for the perfect balance between its male and female halves. When time is limitless, the he and she always seem to be in need of an alarm clock.

Whether it's 15th Century Verona, plague time in London, or fighting pirates in Jamaica, this set of star crossed lovers struggle with their own identities to rediscover the joy of being one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477233399

Kathleen M. Schurman

Kathleen M. Schurman lives in Connecticut where she and her husband rescue farm animals from slaughter and abuse. Kathleen has worked as a journalist since 2000 and holds an undergraduate degree in writing from Norwich University and an MS in Journalism from Quinnipiac University. When she is not shoveling manure, she is shooing cats off her keyboard and writing stories, including her blog, “All Glamour, All the Time.”

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© 2012 by Kathleen M. Schurman. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/14/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0647-8 (sc)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

While loosely based on several historical characters, none of the people in this book are real, although we may each see inside of us a little bit of Claire, Jack, Roberta and, if we’re lucky, Fran. This story is a work of fiction produced from the overactive imagination of the author, who makes no claims whatsoever regarding reincarnation, soulmates or even true love. In fact, the only claim she is ready to definitively make is that she has the best pierogie recipe around. And she’s prepared to back that up.

Contents

Verona

The Celestial Plane

Day One

The Plague

The Celestial Plane

Day One

Isla La Tortuga, The Carribean

The Celestial Plane

Day Two

Germany

The Celestial Plane

Day Two

Boston, Massachussetts, Usa

The Celestial Plane

Day Two

India

The Celestial Plane

Day Two

Eastern Poland

The Celestial Plane

Day Three

The Celestial Plane

For David, my true love

Verona

1492

The Earth Plane

The darkness of his own death had almost completely enshrouded his field of vision. A small circle of Earthly brilliance still held him bound to mortality; the face of Juliet, more perfect than the sun, the envy of the moon, even in death held him captive. He clutched the cold, cold, pallet of stone with one hand, gripping her face with his fading vision, holding on to life for one more moment, until the ever shrinking circle of light faded to a misty gray. He felt the vial of poison drop from his fingers and echo, distantly, many miles away against the granite floor of the tomb. Her closed eyes were his last earthly vision and he wished upon the dying beat of his heart that she could once again return his loving gaze. As the haze of death faded further still into deeper gray, just before the circle of Eternal Light began forming as a tiny, brilliant pinprick of laser whiteness in the center of her perfect face, Juliet’s eyes fluttered open.

Romeo! she whispered. My love! You are here!

The tunnel of white light burst open, obscuring her gentle smile, and Romeo mumbled, Damn! as the weight of his body fell forward across what was no longer the corpse of Juliet.

The Celestial Plane

Instantly he remembered everything that he’d forgotten at birth. The tunnel sucked him into its vacuum, drawing him forward at immeasurable speeds. How strange, he thought, that the Brilliance of the Light remained so vivid in his soul, yet was so completely opaqued by his physical body . . . how unbearably clear it all was to him now, released from the weight of his flesh. He surrendered to the familiar celestial winds, knowing exactly where they would take him, what would happen when he arrived, and who would greet him shortly upon his arrival.

The Brilliance was still a great distance from him when he was released from the draw of the vacuum, floating to a standstill. All around him blazed the crystal clarity of the Eternal, and he quickly realized he hadn’t gotten any closer to the Light than he had following his previous life. What was a soul to do? They send you down, over and over again, allowing no memory of anything you’d learned the last several hundred lives you’d lived, and even less memory of Eternity. Small wonder it felt like one step forward, two steps back.

He could always tell when an angel was about to arrive—a bit of light would break away from the hugeness of the Eternal Brilliance and fall towards him like a shooting star, a shower of stardust would settle into the shape of massive, silver wings and pale, golden, flowing robes . . . and the music. Angels sang constantly, emitting a soft hum in seven-part harmony. He could hear them now, as distant as he was, as they formed a circle around the Light and raised their voices in a joy-filled chorus. Louder still was the music of Metarsis, his personal advisor and guide, as it drifted towards him, sifting into a sparkling angelic shape before the newly returning soul.

Metarsis was huge, even by angelic standards. It towered over him, breathing a song of joy, blanketing him with acceptance and love. The returning soul, far less accepting of itself, had already begun his own judgement.

I did it again, Metarsis. I almost had her, but I wasn’t patient enough. I wasn’t trusting enough. I . . .

Metarsis silenced him with a deep sigh. Its singing continued, even when it spoke.

Rest easy, soul. Rest, rest. Do not torment yourself yet. I am afraid that your she-half will more than chastise you when she arrives. She is in the tunnel even now.

He had known that, had felt his other half drawing closer.

Metarsis, we had but a few days together.

And a night, Metarsis added.

What a night!

In all their lives they had never managed to be together for more than a few minutes, and as great a gift as this life had been, it had ended all too soon, all because . . .

Impatience, Metarsis spoke.

It knew his every thought, could read his every feeling.

She is never going to forgive me this time. We were so close! So happy . . .

She is here, the angel interrupted.

She fell from the celestial breeze and gently floated towards them. As she landed, a spiral of rainbow sparkle flowed forth from the angel and wound itself around them, drawing them together, two halves of a soul becoming one again, feeling the peace of finding their home within each other.

I couldn’t wait, she said. I had to follow you right away. Having finally found you in a life, I couldn’t bear to be apart from you again.

He felt her warmth; her love surrounded him. Perhaps he would escape the judgement of his other half this time.

She continued, however.

If you could have waited but one more minute before drinking the poison we could have had it all this time. Why are you so compulsive?

I thought you were dead. I couldn’t bear to go on without you. What crime is that?

One minute away from Heaven on Earth! My love, my heart, my soul . . . what will it take to teach you patience? What was one small minute when we have waited a thousand years?

He had no answer. Of course, now he could see the larger picture, the perfection of that one minute, but then . . . then . . .

It just seemed like the thing to do at the time, he finally replied.

If I had a minute for every time I’ve heard that, I would own Eternity, she sighed. It doesn’t matter. We’re together now.

They basked in their completeness.

Metarsis interrupted the moment by performing the celestial equivalent of clearing its throat.

We have some business to attend to, and the usual life review, lesson evaluation, etc. before we arrange for your return to the Earth plane, it said. Shall we begin right away?

Oh, no, she replied quickly. Must we? I don’t want to go back. Can’t we stay here, together?

It is harder and harder each life to be apart, he added, although fully aware that angels know nothing of human reasoning or emotion; they only know their job, which is to do everything possible to help bring those souls they are in charge of as close to the Light as possible.

You are still so far away.

It doesn’t matter as long as we’re together, he pleaded.

You only say that because you don’t remember the difference. Think back, far back, to when you were a part of the Light itself, and the great angel led them on a search to a time of perfect unity with the Brilliance and each other. They felt themselves carried on a heavenly wind to a great peace they had not known in eons.

Now you feel the difference, Metarsis reminded them confidently. This can again be yours once you’ve learned the great lessons of the Earth plane.

She sighed. Yes, I remember. It reminds me of that one blissful night we spent together on Earth. Such completeness.

He sighed in agreement. She’s right. We’ll stay here. We can’t possibly be apart again.

You haven’t experienced enough yet, Metarsis gently reminded them, chronically patient and perfectly persistent, as always. You have no choice. Let us begin . . .

No, the two soul-halves declared in unison.

You must, the angel replied. There is no choice. It is what you have chosen.

Metarsis, she said, Promise us we will find each other in this next life and we’ll go willingly.

You understand the procedure . . .

We can’t be bothered with the procedure. The pain of being apart is too great. She pressed in closer to her other half. Promise, Metarsis!

A great sigh sank through the angel’s entire being.

Willingly or not, you will go, it said. I am but a conduit. I will place you within range of each other, but the rest is up to you.

Yes! she smiled. Thank you, thank you! That is good enough. We found each other before, we can certainly do it again.

Her joy overflowed in spills of rainbow light.

The he-half, however, was far less optimistic. He knew if there were no angelic guarantees, the possibility of his shattering the opportunity was certain. He would never understand how too halves of the same soul could learn at such different speeds.

It may take many lifetimes to develop the instincts required for perfect Earthly union, as you have seen. Metarsis spread its gigantic wings wide. Shall we proceed? Your next life will take place in 17th century England, Earth time . . . it said, enfolding them within its silvery, musical expanse.

Day One

A FRIDAY IN AUGUST

The Earth Plane: Stamford, Connecticut, USA

Ino longer believe  . . . in anyone else or in myself. The words no longer come  . . . I thought I was a writer  . . . I was a writer  . . . and that is now gone. I can’t be anything else  . . . there is nothing else for me. I can wait tables, and wither away. I can attempt to write again, and wither away when no words come. I am withering away  . . . I take up no space at all, and my importance in the giant scheme of things has reached minuscule proportions.

Reached minuscule proportions. Reached minuscule proportions. What kind of a grasping phrase was that? We descend, decrease, shrink to, diminish to, we do not reach minuscule . . . reach implies a lifting up, indicates a growth towards, an attempt even . . .

Claire tossed her pen across the room where it shot through the open closet door and landed in her jumbled mountain of mixed shoes. The popular writing books recommended free writing, scribbling one’s thoughts down as quickly as they came, as the tool to clear up a bad case of writer’s block. Claire’s block, however, had brought forth in her a case of self-loathing so intense that she could not forgive her simple case of rambling inarticulation. Next to her on the unmade bed lay her copy of The Artist’s Way, A Spiritual Path to