|The Rosenberg Factor (standard:Suspense, 8209 words)|
|Author: Stephen-Carver Byrd||Added: Oct 07 2002||Views/Reads: 2514/1602||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A lone traveler makes a startling discovery in a rural Georgia town.|
THE ROSENBERG FACTOR “A lone traveler makes a startling discovery in a rural Georgia town” By: Stephen Bryan (HurricaneWarning) * * * * * * Prologue* * * * * * The slim, gray headed gentleman glanced casually in the direction of the couch. “Would you feel more comfortable lying down?” “I'm fine,” Jake replied, softly patting the arms of the wingback chair sitting directly across from the doctor's spacious walnut desk. Doctor Roberts rolled out a light smile then pulled a cigar from his desk. “Can you believe I gave up these damn things more than twenty years ago? Yet I still feel the urge to dangle one around every now and then? Now, Mr. Brockton just how may I help you today?” “I came to you because I heard you were one of the best psychiatrists in America,” Jake complimented. “I need to tell someone my story. It's a story of something incredible that happened to me recently, yet something that was also very horrifying. I was hoping you could possibly shed some light on it.” “I see,” said Dr. Roberts, looking down at Jake's thirty-minute appointment schedule. “So you don't actually have a problem in itself, it's just that you need to get something off your chest. If that‘s the case then that's what I'm here for.” “No, it's much more than getting something off my chest,” Jake corrected. “Actually it's something that's stuck in my mind like a sharp dagger, growing deeper and deeper with each day that passes. I must have an answer doctor. I must have some help. I can‘t go on without knowing the truth.” Dr. Roberts rubbed his hands together, then firmly pulled a small notepad close to his body, ready for serious notes. “Ok Mr. Brockton; please tell me about this incredible story of yours.” * * * * * *Part 1* * * * * * As Jake Brockton's restored 1964 Ford Mustang sped down interstate I-95, he fumbled in frustration with the radio dial. Every signal in this part of the world had an indisputable likeness. Sunday morning in rural Georgia, and the variety of music was hopelessly limited. For the most part it was either hayseed country/western or screaming Southern Baptist preachers. He thought of the large collection of ‘80s music he'd left sitting on the dinning room table, then cursed under his breath. His finger punched a small red button on the radio and all the annoyance went refreshingly quiet. For the next several miles he drove in total silence listening only to the monotonous whine of the engine and the outside air ripping at the windshield. He checked his watch, almost ten. Seven hours out of Washington and his stomach was churning desperately for something other than coffee and cheese crackers. A rural overpass blazed overhead and quickly Jake checked the county road number then reached for the road map. His exit would be roughly twenty-five miles further south; State Road 576, a sixty-mile stretch of shortcut that ran directly to I-75. From there, it would be clear sailing into Atlanta. As his car entered onto the exit ramp, he lightly let off the accelerator and the beautifully restored red and white Mustang began losing speed. State road 576 was a miserable contrast to the smooth dynamics of the super interstate and he tried to dismiss the upcoming chore of evading potholes for the next sixty miles. An ancient road sign swirled past. Glenville 7 miles As he entered into the little town, state road 576 had been temporarily changed to Maple Ave. and he could clearly see why. The huge maple trees that lined the street were overwhelming in in their ardent splendor. Laces of large silver moss hung gracefully from every branch Click here to read the rest of this story (857 more lines)
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