Hammons: Writing and Running in Boulder, Colorado


The Crevasse, Page 4

The Crevasse was only in his head, he knew, but it had a reality created by belief. The first and tiniest crack, the crack in his dream, had come on a college campus more than ten years before. English, then law school, and the crack had widened. The firm, and then family, and the crack had become the Crevasse that was a rift in his mind, under his feet, in his soul. And now the time had come to jump one way or the other. Yet his feet were heavy, like stone.

It is funny what prompts a crisis in a man's soul. Sometimes it is a tragedy, a death, a loss. Sometimes it is more subtle than that, a random word or page placed in time and space with precision that bears home to the heart of hearts. And so it was with Jim Garner. He walked, not staggering now, to the bookshelves which lined the farthest wall of his living room.

It was a volume, however slim, that he pulled reverantly from the jumble of tomes that packed the shelves. In this lied his week-long agony. What it was or what it said didn't matter now, for the damage was done. Jim Garner had come to question his existence.

The Crevasse by W.R. Hammons:

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