Today Ray Bradbury (1920-2012) died. I was not shocked he was 91, a very respectable age for a writer, dreamer, and icon. But I did stop and have a moment, a moment in which I mourned the loss of a dear friend. A friend that I have loved and cherished since a very wise middle school classmate suggested I read, The Martian Chronicles. I was astounded by the imagery, beauty, and horror of Mars as I sat under a tree devouring the book. From that point on I was in love with Ray. His stories opened a world of tattooed men, time travelers, rockets, electric grandmothers, and blue bottles of wishes. The stories became the key to unlocking my imagination, inspiring the adolescent me to dream in newly discovered worlds of science and space. I can still remember the night I read "October Game," and having nightmares about disembodied witches for weeks. I wish I could tell Ray thank you. Thank him in some way for giving me the gift of his stories, and allowing me to grow and learn becoming a better person along the way. His presence in this world will be missed.
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