Saturday's Storyteller: The Dead Man Standing Upright At The Final Roundabout
The Dead Man Standing Upright At The Final Roundabout by Belinda Roddie Hunched over the reflecting pool, the stranger in white heaved up sins and was silent. The smell that rose in response to the ejection was not so much rancid as it was overwhelming; the odors of butterscotch, cream, spiced almonds, and personal loathing lingered with all the grace and charm of an unhygienic guest in a bad luck hotel with hidden bodies. Surrounded by walls of names and dates of expiration, the stranger had lost consciousness. While she remained erect, she had slipped away from reality in a temporary coma of despair. Below her, in the once clear and pristine water, swirls of offensive color now mixed in an inopportune oil painting repelled by the very canvas it had been sprayed upon. She had been kneeling in the No Man's Land Memorial site for well over two hours now. It was actually the Joseph Thatcher Memorial, named after a sergeant in the U.S. Army who was held solely responsible for saving