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Mark M Lichterman

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· Becoming

· For Better or Worse

· The Climbing Boy

Short Stories
· BK1: Becoming; 1944#5

· BK1: Becoming; 1944#4

· BK1:Becoming;1944#3

· BK1:Becoming;1944#2

· BK1: Becoming; 1942#2&1944#1

· BK1:Becoming;1942 # 1 (Xrated)

· BK1: Becoming; 1941#2

· BK1Becoming: 1941 #1

· BK1:Becoming; 1940#3

· BK1: Becoming:1940#2

· A Jewish Boycott

· Betrayal in Benghazi

· Did You Know?

· The 2000 Year Old Man

· Social Security History

· Lost C. Burnett Skit


· J. Carson as R. Reagan

· The Pale Blue Dot

· Listen Old Timers

· Really, What If

· Words, I Need Words!

· Sex Now

· Smoke in The Wind

· Young

· Elderly Woman

· As Man And Woman

· Without A Woody?

· Nostalgia

· A Near Christmas Day

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Prologues and Epilogue
By Mark M Lichterman
Posted: Monday, February 15, 2010
Last edited: Wednesday, August 22, 2012
This short story is rated "G" by the Author.

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Passing, the little boy turned his head, watching the old man. Tripping on the curb, he hung by his motherís hand until she pulled him up onto the sidewalk and his own two feet.

Becoming can now also be purchased as a Kindle Ebook @ $4.95

                      Prologues and Epilogue

"Becoming" Prologue

Chicago, Illinois

Spring, 1939

 The lady and boy stood at the curb.

Watching the stoplight across the wide, busy street, the lady looked forward, waiting for the light to turn to green.

The five-year-old boy at her side looked to his left, watching the light across the smaller street, waiting for it to turn to red.

The lights changed colors: from red to green, from green to red.

Automobiles stopped on either side of the wide street.

From the little boy’s perspective, looking much like a red monster, its steel wheels squealing in steel tracks, a streetcar halted its rattling forward motion and seemed to be straining to begin moving again.

Tightening her grip on the boy’s hand, the woman and child started across the wide street.

On the other side of the street a man carefully stepped off the curb to begin his journey in the opposite direction.

Scraggly gray hair hung over his age‑splotched forehead and he propelled himself slowly with the help of a wooden cane that he held tightly in his gnarled hand.

Crossing paths, the fog‑cast, green eyes of the old man made contact with the clear, green eyes of the little boy and held for the seconds it took to pass.

Passing, the little boy turned his head, watching the old man. Tripping on the curb, he hung by his mother’s hand until she pulled him up onto the sidewalk and his own two feet.

“Mommy, what’s wrong with that man?”

“What man?” Turning, the woman looked at the slowly receding figure. “Oh. Nothing, baby, he’s just an old man.”

Watching another moment, “Will daddy be an old man someday?”.

“Why yes, baby. I hope so.”

“And will you be old someday, too, Mommy?”

“Yes, Mitchie. God willing. Unless something bad happens, I’ll be an old lady someday.”

“And me too, Mommy, I’ll be old, too?”

“Yes, baby, someday.”

His throat tightening, his eyes stinging, the boy began to cry.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Reaching into her purse, removing a handkerchief, she wiped away his tears.

“I don’t want to be old, Mommy!”

Stooping, “Shhh,” hugging her son to her chest, “don’t worry, Mitchie. You’ve a whole lifetime ’till you’ll be an old man.”

Standing, taking hold of her son’s hand, the two began to walk again.

The boy looked over his shoulder at him one last time, but the old man had disappeared from sight.


"Becoming" Epilogue

Brighton Beach, New York

Spring, 1956


Standing at the curb, the old man looked forward, watching the stoplight, waiting for it to turn green.

The lights on the four corners changed colors: from red to green, from green to red.

A dark-blue convertible, its top open to the early spring sun, rolled to a halt.

Stepping off the curb carefully, the old man began his shuffling journey across the wide street.

Scraggly gray hair hanging over his wrinkled, age-splotched forehead, he propelled himself slowly with the help of a wooden cane that he held tightly within his gnarled hand.

In the convertible, the young man placed his hand onto the bare, sun-warmed knee of the young woman that sat next to him.

Approaching the convertible, lifting his head, the fog-cast, green eyes of the old man made contact with the clear, green eyes of the young man, and…

…for a prolonged moment the eyes of the old man and the eyes of the young man locked, for…

…there was a sort of unknown, but long-remembered, distant recognition.

And a shroud of unbearable sadness griped the old man’s heart…

…for he remembered “what was,” when once he was young.

The young man, though, had no fear, for after all he has a whole lifetime until he became an old man.

Shuffling on… passing the car, stopping, turning, the old man peered through the open window, at the beautiful, dark-haired young woman…

And a veil of tears covered the old man’s eyes, as…

Looking back at the old man, the young woman smiled, and…

Nodding his head, sadly turning his eyes from the face of the young woman, the old man continued across the street.

The lights changed colors: from green to red, from red to green.

Stepping onto the curb, the old man turned to look at the girl and “him” one last time …

But the convertible was gone.


 "For Better or Worse" Prologue

Brighton Beach, New York


Spring, 1956


Twisting on the seat, the young woman looked at the receding figure, watching the old man as he crossed the street.


When he was no longer in view, facing forward, “Did you see that old man back there, the way he looked at us?”


As the convertible waited for the red to change to green, the  young man did see the old man.


When they began to drive, his eyes had flicked nervously to the rear-view mirror and back to the busy, early evening traffic of Neptune Avenue.


Glancing at the pretty, dark-haired young woman sitting alongside him, “No,” he said. “What old man?”


“That old man back there!” she said impatiently. “When we stopped for the light he crossed  the street. Remember? And he stopped and stared at you, then at me, almost like he knew us.” Feeling a chill, she shuddered. “I don’t know… the way he looked at us was… weird.”


His hand upon her bare, sun-warmed knee, hesitating…  “Back there? An old guy?  Nah, I didn’t notice any old guy.”


Reader Reviews for "Prologues and Epilogue"

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Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado 2/16/2010
Excellent write, Mark; could see the old man as I read this story! Well done; bravo!

(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Tx., Karen Lynn. :D
Reviewed by Carole Mathys 2/16/2010
You know how to write stories that grab the reader's attention and keeps them coming back for more...excellent Mark!

Reviewed by Rose Rideout 2/16/2010
Markie, There is something about the way you write your stories that stick with us, I love each and every word you share and always look forward to more.

Your #1 Newfie Friend Hugs, XOXO Rose
Reviewed by Georg Mateos 2/15/2010
Following ones gut gives the best results because second guessing oneself just change a gourmet dish into a porridge.
After reading your work for a long time I got accustomed to the literary quality that make the written works unforgettable.


Books by
Mark M Lichterman

For Better or Worse

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The Climbing Boy

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