The fire at the Cascade Arms in Roseland was a five alarm blaze that reduced the place to rubble. I was working the swing shift at Advocate Trinity Hospital when the ambulances brought in a half dozen of the residents suffering from smoke inhalation.

The neighborhood around Cascade Arms is predominantly black and poor. Known to most folks as Section Eight Housing.

I don’t live far from there and I am all of those things, too.

During my senior year, I became part of a special program where I receive training as a medical aide for a future career in the medical field.

I hate to brag, but this is a much better outcome than a lot of my classmates from Buchanan High School, because half of the student body is serving their first prison term for possession.

Assigned to the swing shift from 4 pm to midnight, I sometimes get to see first hand the damage being done by people facing the worst demons of addiction.

“Brecker, give me a hand with this one.” Slim Walton called out as they wheeled this octogenarian patient on a gurney with an oxygen tube already placed over in his nose. Slim accurately describes his physical presence.

“Sure.” I hustled over to the side of the gurney. “He’s pretty feisty.” Slim warned. Slim accurately describes his physical presence. Sometimes he looks like an unlit match with his tall lean shape wrapped in his scrubs and his unruly afro shooting out from his head.

Slim has been at Advocate for almost ten years and has been through just about every medical emergency you can imagine.

He is my mentor who weekly signs off my training records.

“I punch ya righteously.” The elderly man raised his fists just to emphasize the point.

“Says his name is George Bryson.” Slim read it off the report the ambulance crew handed Slim. “Dat’s raght.” He coughed. “Take it easy old-timer.” Slim shook his head. “He’s-” “Ain’ no old timer.

Doncha give me that-” He struggled to get up. “Hey, hey, lie back.” I put my hand on his emaciated sunken chest. “I ain’ gonna…” He pouted.

“Feisty, right?” Slim shook his head. “Put him in Room 14 up ahead.”

“How are you feeling, Mr. Bryce?” I asked as Slim turned the gurney into the room. “I’m fine.

Wanna go home.” He squawked.

“You don’t have a home anymore.

The place went up in smoke.” I explained.

“I didn’ have nuthin’ to do with it.” He poked his bony finger into my side. “Never said you did.” I put my hand out to prevent him from continuing to poke me in the side.

He was a black male whose age was undetermined with a naked dome and silver hair surrounding his bald head like a halo.

Slim was right in saying he was an octogenarian.

Even if he wasn’t eighty years old, he was coming up to that neighborhood quickly.

Slim left to assist with other patients coming in from the Cascade Arms. “Do you have any relatives we need to get a hold of, Mr. Bryce?” I asked as part of my routine questioning.

“None thats wants to talk to me.” He shook his head.

Nobody? Yeah, that figures.

Most people who live in that part of Chicago don’t have anyone keeping tabs on them.

Dr. Bolden walked in already gloved and gowned. “Who we got here Landry?” “George Bryce.” I answered. “Well Mr. Bryce, we are going to have a look at you to make sure you’re in good shape.” Dr. Bolden was a very outgoing ER doctor who made an effort to build a rapport with some of the patients who came into our ER.

“I’m in good shape, lemme tell ya.” His high pitched voice rang out. “We got some patients from your apartment complex who got hurt in that fire.” Dr. Bolden looked at Mr. Bryce over his glasses. “How old are you?” “I’m old enough.” He nodded.

“How ‘bout a number?” Dr. Bolden glanced over at me.

“Eighty three.” He scowled.

“And we want to be sure we take very good care of you.” Dr. Bolden nodded, “If you want to go, Landry, feel free.

Me and Mr. Bryce are going to have a look under the hood.”

Growing up, my grandpa told me about the excitement of the Cotton Club in Harlem where he worked as a busboy before the war.

“Let me tell you about The Cotton Club on 142cd Street in Harlem.

Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and Bessie Smith all came to perform there.

Man, those were the days.” He would tell me before he passed away from some kind of cancer mama didn’t want to talk about.

I remember how my grandpa Waldo Young would tell me all kinds of stories as he sat in his chair.

Mama would roll her eyes when he started telling one of his famous yarns.

She would tell me how her father would liberally mix fiction in when he told one of his stories of his life. It doesn’t matter, because I still enjoyed listening to his smooth, calm voice as he told one of his stories.

No one argued with him about his time in the 92cd Infantry in Italy.

It was a colored unit supporting the Fifth Army as they fought their way up the peninsula.

His uniform was hung proudly in his closet in his room that he occupied after grandma passed away from a heart condition. “Yeah, that was one heck of a fight back then.

Hitler threw everything he had at us as we came up from Sicily.

Lost some close friends.” He would say, his eyes glistening with tears.

“Dad, please don’t tell him any of the stories you told me when I was a kid.” She would warn him. “I know…I know.” His voice was thick.

“How is Mr. Bryce?” I asked Dr. Bolden later when I saw him at the station filling out paperwork.

“He is a hard one, Landry.” He chuckled. “He told me he once played at the Cotton Club in Harlem.”

“No kidding, my grandpa told me he used to work there before the war.” I shook my head. “I must say his story was pretty fantastic, but then I question some of his memories.” He sighed. “How come?” I asked. “He has evidence of advanced Altizimers.” He shrugged. “He said his stage name was Count Massey. Go figure.”

Like when I listened to my grandpa, I wanted his stories to be real and while I did not know Mr. Bryce very well, I felt he deserved to have someone listen and believe in what he had to say.

“Was he discharged?” I asked. “Naw, not yet.” Dr. Bolden shook his head, “And if we discharge him, he doesn’t have anywhere to go.

We’re kinda stuck on this one.”

I saw the dilemma.

“I am not running a boarding house.” My mama told me as she stood at the bottom of the stairs with her car keys in her hand, ready to run off to work at the store in the mall.

I had just asked her about George Bryce staying in the spare room until Section Eight could find him another place to live. “He’s an eighty three year old man.

He needs to be in a nursing home where I should have put my own father when he got bad.”

“He’s just like grandpa.

He used to work at the Cotton Club.” I added hoping to improve my case.

“Your grandpa never worked there, Landry.” She put her hands on her hips which meant I was not going to win this argument. “He lived in Harlem before he went off to war, but that was it.”

“His stage name was Count Massey.” I shrugged.

She gave me a look like she could not believe she was listening to my nonsense.

“I am going to be late for work.

Watch your brother until Mrs. Smith comes over to watch him.” She shook her head as she walked out the door.

In a minute she was on her way to work leaving me to feel defeated.

“Gangsters used to come in.

I mean like Lucky Luciano.” Grandpa would tell me as he sat in his chair after watching The Price is Right .

“Dad, don’t fill his head with all that nonsense.” Mama would call him from the kitchen. “Bah.” He would wave his hand, “She, she is always telling me not to do this or not to do that.”

“So what did your mom say?” Slim asked on our break in the staff room as we sipped on our sodas. “No.” I pouted. “You didn’t really expect her to say yes, did you?” He laughed.

“We had grandpa living there before he died and her sister with ALS until she died.” I explained. “Maybe she’s tired of hospice care.” Slim shook his head. “Yeah, funny.”

“C’mon Lan, she has never met Mr. Bryce.

He could be a serial killer for all she knows.” Slim said before slurping the last of his soda, “C’mon we gotta get back.”

Later there were three gunshot victims and one fentanyl overdose.

In between emergencies, I managed to check on Mr. Bryce.

He was sleeping soundly, so I let him be.

“Count Basie, Ella Fitzgerald, Fats Waller, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Nat King Cole, Billie Holiday, and Ethel Waters.

And Cab Calloway leading the orchestra.

That Landry was the Golden Age of Jazz.” Grandpa would close his eyes as he recalled the magic of this place. “Bah-bah-bah-bah followed by four more beats then a quick change on the third measure Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah.

It was magic.

The arrangement made you want to move your feet.

Wonderful.

Wonderful. Your grandma and me would spend hours dancing to them tunes.

I’ll never forget the way she’d look up at me while we was dancin.’ It was pure magic.

Pure magic.”

“He’s asking for you.” Dr. Bolden came into the breakroom as we were getting ready to leave. “Me?” I was confused. “Yeah.

He woke up for some reason.” Dr. Bolden crossed his arms over his scrubs, “I still have no idea what they are going to do with him.”

“I asked my mom and she gave me a flat no.” I shook my head. “Pull up a chair.” Mr. Bryce waved to the empty chair next to his bed. “You wanted to see me?”

“I did.” His voice was clear, “I’ve been told you had a grandpa who worked at the Cotton Club.”

“Yes sir.”

“What did he tell you about the place?” He asked with his eyes open wide. “About the entertainers mostly.”

“I was once one of them, you know.” He smiled and sat back in the bed. “I played the piano for Billie Holiday.

She was so sweet, I tell ya.”

He sniffed, “It was a great time to be alive.

I sat and chatted with Langston Hughes one night when the music was on fire.”

I sat on the edge of my chair as he nodded like these folks were right there in the room with us.

“I met Groucho Marx.” He laughed, “He sat there and cracked me up with all of his one liners. He’s the one who called me a count, likes I was royalty or sumpton. Count Massey.

That’s me.” He closed his eyes as tears rolled down his face, “Of course, it was a place where black folks could go and not have to worry about what they could and could not say.

Back then they’d lock ya up if’n ya disrespected a white person, but in dat place, anything went.

We got to be ourselves.

We got to say what was on our mind.

We danced the way we was meant to dance. I was the Great and Honorable Count Massey.

That name came from my father.

Massey.

He was the man took my daddy away wearing a white hood.

Next time I seen him, he be hanging from a tree.” He paused for a moment to recompose himself.

I could see how troubled he was carrying that memory. “I lay in the bushes when he come riding in his buckboard.

I raised up where he could see me as I pulled the trigger of the shotgun my daddy owned.

I heard him cry out as he fell from his wagon.

I know’d I’d have to be leaving Mississippi right then.

Never even got to say goodbye to my mama.

Just caught a box car to St. Louis and then hitched on a train to New York.

When I needed money, I played piano for it. Things was diff’rent back then.” His voice was just a harsh rasp.

He closed his eyes again and I left the room knowing he needed to rest.

I had goosebumps when I walked out his room. “What did the old man say?” Dr. Bolden asked, standing behind the nurse’s station counter.

“What it was like to play piano at the Cotton Club.” I answered.

“Do you believe him?” He asked. “Why wouldn’t I believe him?”

“Because he’s not reliable.” Dr. Bolden said. “How do you know?” I was a bit irritated. “No reason.

He was just delusional earlier in the day.

Well, he was talking to God when I walked into the room.” Dr. Bolden shrugged. “Prayer-” “Landry, he wasn’t praying, he was arguing with God.

He was telling God a thing or two.” Dr. Bolden tilted his head, “He has been here before.

He comes in for pain medication.

Apparently he knows someone who will give him a handful of medication.

Happens all the time.

I wish I could stop it, but I know I can’t.” “Dad!” Mama cried when he was trying to get out the front door. “I needs to go home.” His voice was heavy with emotion, “Your mama needs me.”

“Dad, mama’s been gone for eight years.” She told him, taking his hand. “Can’t be true, honey, can’t be.” He shook his head.

“It is dad.

It is.” She led him back to his chair. “I jus’ wan’s to go home, honey.” His voice was pleading. “Dad, this is your home.” She shook her head as he sat down. “No honey, I gots a home down the road.

It has silk curtains and nice tapestry on the floors.” He insisted. “Take your medication.” She held the pills in her hand. “No, I won.’ Dem pills be makin’ me sicker.” He shook his head and kept his mouth closed so she could not shove them in his mouth.

“Landry, if you want to keep in your program, I suggest you report to Mr. Walton, pronto.” Head Nurse Wanda Pallor snapped when she saw me sitting in a chair in the waiting room wiping up my tears. “Yes ma’am.” I stood up. “Where’s ya been, Lan?” Slim asked as he swung a mop across the floor. “I was told to find you if I wanted to keep in the program.” I was steamed. “Ah, you must’ve run into Nurse Pallor.” He smiled. “How did you know?”

“She be the only one say stuff like that.” He waved his finger at me. “Hey, it’s been pretty slow tonight after all that fuss earlier.

Why doncha take an early walk home?”

“Won’t Nurse Pallor get mad?”

“She’s already mad.

Mad as a hatter.” He laughed. “So how was old Mr. Bryce?”

“He told me stories about the Cotton Club.”

“Yeah, we gots place along the shore that are just as famous.

We got ribs and the blues.

Ribs and blues.

I’ll take out to one of them places.” Slim rinsed his mop in the bucket. “Alright, it’s a date…well not like that.” I laughed. “Keep it light, dude.” He winked as I turned to leave.

When I got to Advocate the next day, Slim caught me in the hall. “Gotsome bad news.” His head hung low. “Wha’ up?”

“Mr. Bryce managed to get on the roof.

One of the security guards said he was having an argument with somebody up there.” He pointed to the ceiling, “And then he stepped off the ledge.” “Oh no.” I felt as if someone had punched me right in the gut. “Are you gonna be okay?” He asked as I collapsed into a chair. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” I sucked in some air. “Bah-bah-bah-bah followed by four more beats then a quick change on the third measure Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah and start all over again Bah-bah-bah-bah.”

“What?” Slim’s face twisted into a question mark. “It’s the blues.”

“The blues?” Slim shrugged.

“Yeah…” I could hear the blue notes as they fell from the stars above.


I was taking my evening constitutional through a well-kept graveyard when I saw, at a distance, the tombstone bearing my name. The Hamilton marker stood there, gaunt and gray, like a foul-smelling intruder loitering at the edge of a convivial garden party, an intruder keeping an eye on someone who owed an impossible debt. I was already in a somber mood, what with constant news of the pandemic, and my recent heart irregularities, which had led my cardiologist, Brent, to recommend this daily walk. So yes, the tombstone gave me pause. I asked myself, “What am I doing with my life?” and its shadow question: “What should I do with the time remaining?” By the end of the walk, however, I realized: the tombstone had nothing to do with me. My name is exceedingly common, and I am constantly confused with other David Hamiltons. I returned home, and all thought of the eerie coincidence vanished when my wife, Jeanne, passed along an urgent message regarding a patient whose hand I had repaired earlier that day, a fifth metacarpal fracture, commonly called the “boxer’s fracture.” The next evening, I ventured closer. “My” tombstone, made of black polished granite, stood among a dozen bearing that surname. A small curved arc on top bore the epitaph, “Loved by all who knew him,” and this irritated me. I suppose clichés are inevitable when it comes to millions of tombstones the world over, but why choose an obvious lie? Who can claim everyone who knew him loved him? Not even Mother Teresa. I know of her—yet I do not love her. Therefore it’s a lie.

When I got home, Jeanne already had my slippers out and a pot of chamomile tea for us to share. I said, “I think we should start a Society for Truth in Epitaphs.” “Oh?” She brightened. “To lobby against slogans like ‘to know him was to love him’,” I said, “and ‘asleep in the arms of Jesus’.”  She laughed. “Sure, let’s change ‘remembered with love’ to ‘remembered with a faint sense of puzzlement’.” *** Due to road repair, I couldn’t visit Mount Pleasant cemetery again, not until late fall, when most bushes were bare. I was walking the main circuit, the one around the grand mausoleum, and, with a start, I found myself staring at the gaunt gray intruder again. At the bottom, the year of birth was visible—and it was the same as mine. Ah well, I told myself, that’s the curse of the common name. It’s the bane of the internet search. “There are 2300+ professionals named ‘David Hamilton’,” says LinkedIn, and this obviously does not include the forests of family trees that include my name among the ancestors. Over chamomile tea, I mentioned the odd occurrence to Jeanne. “Ooh, wow,” she said. “I’m sure there’s a deliciously blood-curdling story in this.” She’s an illustrator of kid’s books, and loves to pass along story ideas to her talented clients. She began humming Twilight Zone theme music. “Of all the thousands of David Hamilton on the internet,” she said in a sepulchral voice, “twenty of whom live in this city, what is the likelihood that one of them shares your year of birth?” I chuckled. “Perhaps Brent has a new, creative way to remind his patients to keep working on their cardiac health.” “Hey, did you check the year of death?” “No, I didn’t. I wasn’t about to climb all over the—” “Oh come on, surely you checked!” She knows me too well; I had checked. “Sorry to disappoint,” I said. “It’s not filled in. Lots of dates on tombstones are still open. It’s a, you know, placeholder tombstone.” “Ah… spooky, someone’s waiting for you….” She clasped her hands to her warm mug. “Wouldn’t it be odd if it had a year of death five years ago? That would mean I was married to the undead!” “Oh, stop it, Jeanne!” She dissolved into giggles. *** As a young child, I asked my mother, “Who is my father?” “Zeus,” she answered. “When can I meet him?” “Never.” “Is he dead?” “No.” She told me she loved Papa, would always love him, and had promised to keep “their arrangement” a secret. “He is a famous man,” she told me, “but you mustn’t go telling anyone else. This is just for you and me to know. Okay?” As I grew older, I learned my mother, Dorothy Broussard, was “the other woman” in the life of a famous man, someone unable to leave his wife. Dorothy refused to give up her art and her activism. *** Things got busy at my clinic. The pandemic brought a spate of broken hands: amateurs doing home renos, acrobat-wannabes doing too many handstands, and frustrated Type As smashing their fists into walls (the aforementioned boxer’s fracture). Meanwhile, the new protocols in hospitals were elaborate and time-consuming. When we became extremely short-staffed, all hand surgeries ceased, and I was even seconded into the Covid wards for two weeks, until Brent intervened. “Although the arrhythmia is not so pronounced,” he said, “nonetheless, you have a risk factor.” So, back to orthopedics, my true passion. Repairing hands is a source of great intellectual satisfaction, like getting to solve a 3-D jigsaw puzzle every day at work. As I scrutinized X-rays and snipped rows of sutures, the notion of the gaunt and gray intruder nibbled at the edge of my consciousness. A new puzzle. A tombstone, once it is properly in use, does not belong to you, does it? This is contrary to most things—a gift, a knapsack, a university diploma—where having your name on it means it belongs to you. As a kid, I once found a ball with my name on it. I was shy and unpopular, with all the natural ease of a wind-up toy. My school chums loved soccer so much that the shiny new ball brought me instant popularity, even more so when someone recognized Rinaldo’s autograph on the leather. “Keep playing the beautiful game,” it said. When Mom saw the new ball, she said, “Oh drat, you found your birthday gift ahead of time.” I could tell it was a fib. For years I harbored the suspicion that Zeus knew I loved soccer and he had covertly left the ball where I would find it. Why did the soccer ball pop into my head just then? I was supposed to be examining a nondisplaced phalangeal fracture. *** The ball was not the only instance. Another day, after a lovely thick snowfall, we were all sent home early from school. While digging high and low in the coat closet for my snow boots, I discovered a new violin case with my name on it. Christmas was in the air, and my school orchestra was rehearsing carols. I could hardly wait to try out my new violin. I was convinced my little solo would sound better on the new violin— if only my secretive mother would let me have the new violin. One night I slammed shut the geography text and informed her the gig was up. “I can’t believe you’d do this,” she cried. “Weeks of lying to my face!” “How about ‘Santa’,” I countered in my aggrieved twelve-year-old voice. “You’ve been lying to me for years!” “Oh, pfft , that’s Santa-wink-wink. You’ve known about him since you were five, Davey, and I know you’ve known, and we’ve just pretended to each other.” She smirked. “And didn’t we have fun with our little white lies?” “Like you’ve pretended my father is Zeus?” “Exactly. We both know that’s not his real name.” “Tell me the truth—who is he?” “I can’t tell you. I promised not to. Remember The Watchman’s Oath?” She named a movie we’d watched together and both loved, a film about a French resistance fighter who stood firm and did not betray his comrades—even while the Nazis crushed his hands, one finger at a time. *** Blame it on lockdown boredom, but Jeanne would not let the tombstone go. “I don’t get why you’re not more curious about this,” she said over our clamshells of takeout sushi. “Put it this way,” I said, “Once upon a time I used to Google my name. Ego surfing, remember that? I’ve met a few David Hamiltons in my time, all rather boring.” “Could one of them be the David Hamilton with the tombstone?” she said. “Maybe.” “Or is somebody… bwa-ha-ha-ha… vaiting for you?” She does a very good Bela Lugosi vampire accent. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you,” I said. “Pass the wasabi, please.” “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” “Where there’s smoke, there’s one exhausted busboy on break between shifts.” I rubbed my eyes. I was the busboy. “Where there’s smoke, there’s a crrrematorium… bwah-ha-ha-ha … with a pine box on a conveyor crrrreaking toward a rrroaring fire.” “You are impossible.” I smiled. She tossed her mane of thick dark hair in a beguiling way. “And ze pine box has your name on it.” I caught her by the wrists and kissed her. “Mm… Let’s start a fire this weekend.” *** I may have acted as if the tombstone was nothing, but it did have positive effects. Brent praised my efforts and told me the arrhythmia seemed to have dissipated. “Steady, moderate exercise; good diet—the muscle is responding well.” Also, I took care of some things left undone. Jeanne and I updated our will. We arranged a Celebration of Life for my mother, who had died early in the pandemic. Third, we set up the Dorothy Broussard Foundation to protect endangered species, the subject of most of her artwork. *** The voice on the phone sounded old and querulous. I replied that, yes, I was Dr. David Hamilton, orthopedic surgeon, but the caller would have to go through regular channels and have his G.P. send a referral. “I have just returned from Tenerife,” the man said in his plummy Oxbridge accent. “I do not need your consultation, as excellent as it may be. I am merely replying to a message left by someone named… Jen?” I felt compelled to show age some respect, but cobwebs hung in my brain. “I’m sorry,” I said, “your name is…?” “Basil David Hamilton. I am calling about the Dorothy Broussard Foundation.” My fingers fumbled to grasp a pen. *** He lived on the entire floor of a swank apartment building nestled in the heart of Forest Hill. A dour housekeeper admitted me and took my coat and shoes. She said, “Sir Basil will see you in the conservatory.” The hall was hung with striking and original art, as was the music room. It seemed any minute a small orchestra might emerge from behind the velvet burgundy curtains and seat themselves at the grand piano, standing harp, or pick up a violin. “Please do come in,” a familiar voice said. Across the Turkish carpet I approached him, the man Zeus, as I had thought of him for so long. He sat tall and ancient in his wingback chair, his hair artificially black and glossy. He had several fine lines across his forehead, like a music score, and deep lines around his mouth and glittering eyes. I recognized him immediately as the pre-eminent composer recently knighted for outstanding cultural contributions. Jeanne had briefed me with his complete bio, so I knew Sir Basil’s legal wife had died two years ago, and his polyglot daughter, Erica, was currently overseas working in the diplomatic corps. The silence grew. I am no stranger to persons of great wealth, talent, or renown. We usually have a hand injury talk about, an icebreaker, if you will. I wished Jeanne had come along, to ease the conversation, but she had refused. “This is your Luke-meets-Darth-Vader moment,” she’d said. “Time to go mano a mano .” Her words made me uneasy, as if a confrontation was expected. A showdown. But where was the wrong? My mother had wanted to be out of the limelight. Sir Basil had consented to give me his surname—thus, acknowledging me as his own. And now, what, this stranger thought he could make up for lost time, welcome me into the fold, and “allow” me to rest my bones in the family plot? For that’s what the tombstone was, I had concluded: it was to mark my final resting place. It was a peace offering of sorts; it was to be a “gathering in” of the illustrious life of Sir Basil David Hamilton, a place where eventually he would be surrounded by distinguished forebears and extended family and, yes, even me, the lovechild who made good. The silence grew and my mind raced. I looked at a nearby painting, an early Kandinsky, and tried to come up with an opener. “Your mother, Dorothy Broussard, was a captivating woman,” Sir Basil ventured. “I still recall the first time we met…” His thoughts seemed to drift. This time, I let the silence grow. What were the attributes he had fixated upon? I waited to hear accolades of her beauty, her charm, her gift of sociability. Instead, the housekeeper wheeled in a clattering drinks cart and Sir Basil invited me to “choose my poison.” “Regarding Dorothy’s foundation,” he said gravely, “May I donate valuable articles for auction?” I said, “Of course.” To the housekeeper, I said, “green tea, please.” “Green tea! My word, you are the epitome of moderation,” he said. “Come closer, where I can see you better…. I have long wanted to meet you. I used to receive updates from your mother. Your precocious reading … your MVP trophies in soccer… and your musical talent. However, I was dismayed to hear of your bout with mononucleosis… and your arrest for public mischief.” I reddened, remembering how Mom tore a strip off me for that. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed,” he chortled. “Simply wayward youth. You see, I was young once too. Sometimes… a man needs to test the limits.” Great, I thought, where was the loving forgiveness when I most needed it? “I have a son, too, you know,” he continued. “Although he would never have such escapades.” I was stunned. Jeanne hadn’t mentioned a son. Had I missed it in the bio she’d prepared? “Yes, born the same year. Your half-brother.” “I’m sorry, I’m a little confused,” I said, holding up my hand against the onslaught of sonorous pronouncements, like interrupting David Attenborough reading through a script. “You have another son? I’ve never heard of him. Your daughter, yes; Erica’s rumored to be the next Kissinger. But a son?” A tremor passed over Sir Basil’s face, a brief change of expression somewhere between repugnance and regret. “He’s institutionalized. Has been from very early on. We tried caring for him at home, but he was born severely compromised. Furthermore, Audrey was having… issues. And then, complications arose.” The housekeeper handed us each a thick yunomi cup of green tea. “Independently, two mothers came up with the same name for their little boys. Who was I to disagree?” Sir Basil said. “When a woman risks her life to bear a child, I don’t have the moral authority to reject the name she chooses.” “So, Nebuchadnezzar is okay?” I couldn’t resist. He blew on his tea. “Ha ha, you’re argumentative, too, I see.” He smiled, dare I say, somewhat fondly. “So you kept the existence of this other David Hamilton a secret,” I said. “Please understand. We didn’t keep it that way; there was no conscious action on our part. It just never made the news, and for Audrey, after a series of miscarriages, it was better that way.” His eyes flickered to a photo on the mantel. “She felt like an utter failure. Motherhood was her goal—she liked to say she dreamed of ‘a quartet of our own’—and she wasn’t happy until a healthy baby was born.” “And your David Hamilton is still alive?” I was seized with an urge to meet him. “Alas, no. He lives— lived , excuse me—in a group home. Hard hit by Covid. He died some months ago.” “I am sorry for your loss,” I muttered, almost from reflex. “I’ve made space for him in the family plot. The tombstone requires updating but… supply-chain issue for the drill bits of their engraving tool. Apparently.” He looked again at Audrey’s photo, and I stared into my cup, feeling the warmth radiate into my hand. Carpal bones, metacarpal bones, phalanges… “Tell me, do you still play violin?” he asked, one black eyebrow raised. “I thought…perhaps…,” he said awkwardly, gesturing toward a music stand. I play regularly, to keep my surgeon’s hands limber. But I hesitated from sharing that with him. Somehow, for all the years he was closed off from me, from us , I couldn’t pretend this was a Hallmark reunion. He misread the doubt on my face, and instead launched himself from the wingback chair and walked, a trifle unsteadily, to the piano, where he played the first bars of a Vivaldi piano-violin duet. One that I loved, and had labored a long time to learn. “Thank you for the tea,” I said, rising. “I must go.” As I walked away, the music halted. Then I heard Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp minor. THE END


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week we will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Different perspectives are what make the world go round in real life and also in stories. Depending on what you are trying to achieve, your choice of point of view, can change how a story is perceived. Do you like the intimacy of first person or the broader world view of third? Are you into second person, where you can bring the reader in, in a unique way? - **What is your preferred POV?** - **How does it fit into your narrative goals?** - **If you use a lot of different ones, what influences your choices?** - **Any advice to others on using different POV?** - New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.


The rain fell softly from the grey English sky. The sun struggled to be seen through the dark clouds, only managing to shine enough light to cast a soft shadow on the cemetery grounds. Father McCreary stood in front of an open grave. Above the grave there was a wooden casket held aloft by a platform connected to a steel belt. The rain fell on her head, but, being an English woman, she found this to be just a mild inconvenience. Only one person had attended the service, an elderly gentleman who was the brother of the deceased. Father McCreary had had her share of lonely funerals, but this was by far the loneliest. Nevertheless, as parish priest, it was her duty to honour all who died amongst her flock. “Ben was a good man,” she began (a trite but effective introduction), “He has lived in this town his entire life, receiving his schooling in the local primary and high school, before briefly attending university in London. But of course, the pull of this town was great and he soon found his way back. “It was in this town that he worked as a mailman, eventually rising to the rank of post master. It was also here that he met his wife, Lynette, and although they did not have any children, theirs was a long and loving marriage, which ended upon Lynette’s death two years ago. “Ben lived a simple life and he was well loved in this town. Nothing made him happier than to attend the local horse races and to go to the pub on a quiet Sunday afternoon. He has lived a long life, a happy and fruitful life, and before he died he said that the only thing that made him sad was that he had outlived all of his friends. “He did not want for anything, but he did have one wish. He wished to be buried with a family heirloom, the Kohinoor diamond, which belonged to an ancestor from long ago.” Father McCreary hesitated for a moment. She looked up from her notes and looked at Ben’s brother. “There is no one here but you, me and God,” she said. Ben’s brother nodded solemnly. “Benjamin Harold Williams, was born Benjamin Windsor,” Father McCreary said, “Of course, as has been tradition for several generations, he took the name Williams, after the first Norman ruler of England. “The diamond belonged to Queen Victoria, but was in fact bought from the colonies. It has been passed down through the generations, its value immeasurable. “Benjamin was not a member of the Church of England. To him, religion was not of vital importance, but he chose to be baptised a Catholic and now he will be buried a Catholic. “The realm, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, no longer exists. Benjamin has died the last king of England.” Father McCreary walked over to a briefcase. She opened it and pulled out a flag. “In days long gone the coffin would have been draped in the Union Jack. But today it will be draped in the flag of England, St. George’s Cross.” She unfurled the flag and placed it across the top of the casket. She then pushed a button and the casket was slowly lowered into the ground. Father McCreary watched as the coffin slowly disappeared. Rain fell on top of the flag. She picked up some dirt and threw it on top of the casket. “Long live the King.” She then brushed the dirt off her hands, and walked away.  Note - I wrote this for obvious reasons but it is just a story. No political motives. I'm sorry if I got any facts mixed up, I mean no offence. Also, should've called this speculative fiction.


For 20 and a half years did the *Stellar Compact* survive through countless conflicts, turmoil and general chaos, they deemed it was time to expand the Compact's borders, the leaders turned their head towards the Arcadian Wormhole, a deep space Anomaly which was, for years, decided too dangerous to study more closely, but because of the major decline of this great stellar nation, the situation was deemed extreme enough to allow for closer study of the Wormhole. For that they sent a man called Captain Charles Bailey along with his ship, the Rotarin, and its crew on a mission to research and eventually enter this Wormhole. Charles looked out the window of the main bridge section of the Rotarin at this oddly beautiful swirling mass of nebular remnants that seemed to slowly be getting pulled into an odd whirlpool looking dark hole in space. Charles may have had worries that this "Wormhole" was just a black hole, but after seeing it for the first time he decided it not to be so. After staring at the phenomena for a while he decided to go to the science section to see how the research was going, they had gotten a sample of strange energy which seemed to come out from the wormhole, this was intriguing so they decided to study it. As Charles walked down the spinal corridor of the ship and walked past many of his crew he heard some commotion coming from the main chamber in the science section, it didn't sound too worrisome so he kept his pace. Once he arrived he saw the young science officer Cathrine jumping up and down with excitement. "*Did you find something?*" Charles asked in his gravelly voice, Cathrine, only now noticing that her superior officer had arrived, straightened up and said, maybe a bit too formally, "*Sir, There was something irregular about the energy sample, I had noticed it when i was putting it through the room's speaker, because why not, it sounded like a pattern, I did a bit more with it, put it through some filters, etc. and once it had gone through enough of them it started sounding like a voice!*" Cathrine then put this finding through the room's speakers, and yes, it did indeed sound like a voice. At first Captain Charles wasn't convinced that this meant anything, but having known Cathrine for a few years made him trust her judgement, not even mentioning that she currently looked like she absolutely believed that what she found was indeed a voice, and he did find the usage of the room's speakers quite creative. So he said "*Alright, let's say it is indeed a voice, this might mean there are intelligent lifeforms on the other side, correct?*" Cathrine responded with an excited "*Jup!*" and then hastily adding a "*Sir*" at the end according to the ship's regulations. "*So you think we should send a probe through, I assume you'd want to do that?*" Charles continued. Cathrine replied with "*Well yes, but we probably have to outfit the probe with a few protections since it might not withstand the theoretical pressures inside the wormhole.*" Charles said "*Alright, you'll be doing that for the rest of the day, I want that probe ready for tomorrow.*" "*Understood, sir.*" Cathrine said. The next day the probe was ready, it got launched with a few minor celebrations, but other than that, the day was as boring as most days are, out in space, not much happens, the next five days were like this, just a lot of waiting, they did do daily scan to try to find out what happened to the probe, but they found nothing. After these five boring days, they saw a bright flashing light coming from the Wormhole, the light engulfed the entire bridge window, blinding Charles and his fellow Bridge crew. After the bright light had faded, they noticed a small smoking object, the probe. Even in its damaged state it seemed to still have gathered a lot of data, the data itself, was incomprehensibly strange, everything past that wormhole seemed oddly different, and that made Charles shiver a bit, he had served the Compact in many of it's wars, he had seen hundreds of strange and horrible things, but the fact that he'd never seen something so, ungrounded in reality. It truly frightened him. Suddenly, the warning sirens started to wail on the bridge, Captain Charles immediately looked at his Tactical Officer, Lukas, who seemed to frantically be taking a scan of the wormhole, something was wrong. "*Lukas!*" shouted Charles so that Lukas would hear him, "*What the hell is going on!?*" Lukas looked at Charles with a worried expression "*I don't know sir, these readings don't make any sense!*" "*Well at least turn on the Defence Systems, we might at least be prepared if they're on!*" Charles shouted at Lukas. Charles heard the familiar hum of the Defence Systems coming online amidst the wails of those goddamn sirens. Suddenly Charles' ears rang and the floor of the bridge shook as a seemingly massive shockwave hit the ship, the shockwave seemed to originate from the wormhole. "*Sir! Damage to the hull in Section Three, floor: twenty-two! Reported 4 wounded and six dead, a conduit seems to have exploded!*" Shouted Lukas as Charles was still trying to get up after he fell to the floor. "*Well stop talking and send the goddamn Medical Team!*" Charles shouted back at Lukas. Charles had already stood up when he noticed something very concerning, as he stood on the bridge of the Rotarin he looked out the window and saw these gigantic, black crab like claws slowly coming out of the wormhole. "*What the fuck!*" Screamed Charles. The two claws suddenly jagged forward at an unnatural acceleration, the claws stabbed into the ship's hull and held it tightly. Charles watched as his crew descended into panic, he watched as the Defence Systems opened fire upon the claws, but to no effect. Charles, a man which had stood as an icon of bravery through the Compact - Selarian war, felt true dread as he saw what else emerged. A large chitinous head, with a gaping maw of hundreds of rows of teeth and one central deep, black eye above it. Charles felt like it was staring directly at him. This incomprehensible creature was staring directly into his eyes. He stood there, still, for a solid minute, while his crew was shouting orders and trying to get their Captain to respond to them. To be honest, Charles felt like he didn't care anymore. Charles stopped breathing. His heart stopped beating. But still, he stood there, simply staring into this large black void of an eye. "*Isn't this whole thing just simply amusing.*" Charles said calmly, he simply gave a small chuckle as his vision went black and his body fell on the floor, dead.


Your food has started talking, and you don’t like what it has to say. As you stare at the potato on your plate, it tells you that everything on this planet is alive and has a soul. Every animal, every plant, every rock, every cloud, every ocean, yes, but also every hair and every nail and every phone and every laptop and every frying pan and every glass and every shower and every toothbrush and every sock and every shirt, and even every breath of air. And by having a soul, it means that every single thing on this planet has thoughts, dreams, fears, regrets, days of joy and days of sadness. And they all suffer. The ground you stomped on. The TV you yelled at. The bike you ran into a ditch. Even that potato you stabbed with a fork, rolled in oil, and put in the oven. They all feel pain. They value their existence just as much as you value yours, and when they die they are filled with just as much terror as you would be at the moment of your death. This is proven to you beyond a doubt. How is not important. What’s important is you had no idea. You didn’t know when you ate potatoes their soul is torn into a million pieces, each of which feels intense pain of its own, that wind up dying in your stomach and being absorbed by your own soul. You didn’t know that the ground groaned in agony every time you walked on it. You didn’t realize how much it hurt the TV when you smacked it to make it work. You think about going to the bathroom and feel even worse. You stop doing as many things as possible, really. You try not to leave your bed, which you treat as gently as possible, because you know you’re causing it pain as well. When you do, you make sure to step lightly and to avoid as many objects as possible. You try to take only an absolutely necessary number of breaths. Eating is highly problematic. The only way you can choke down any food is with a great deal of tearful apologies. It doesn’t stop your food from screaming the most blood-chilling screams you’ve ever heard with every bite. It is this way in all things. You try your best to do as little harm as possible but there is always pain, usually a lot of pain, no matter what you think of. Your parents ask you what’s wrong and you tell them that you can’t get the screams out of your head, the ones that come with the knowledge that all things have conscious souls. That the very act of living imposes great suffering on everything around you and you can’t really stop it. Your parents scold you for taking so long to tell them, but say that everything will be alright. They take you to the doctor, who tells you your condition is easily curable with a very simple procedure. He gives you a shot. The screaming fades to a dull buzz at the back of your head. It’s still there, you can still hear it if you try. But it’s quiet enough now that you realize you can ignore it. And so, like everyone else who eventually hears the screams, that’s exactly what you do.


The sand had shifted from blinding white to the dull crimson of spilled blood. Bodies lay scattered about with little regard for anything even resembling burial rights. In the distance a crowd of thousands roared for more, more violence, more blood, and more death. But their screams meant nothing to the two men left standing. Their ears had long ago grown dull to the masses and their demands for unfettered carnage. These men were no longer fighting to entertain. The rules had been abandoned long ago when that…thing… had been released into the pit. This was no longer about spectacle, this was about survival. The horrid being would not stop until it had massacred all it laid eyes upon. It did not fight to please the masses; it fought to feed its bloodlust. It was clearly not human. That much had been certain from the start. The emperor claimed his men had found it in the deserts of Egypt, within a great metal structure that fell to earth. A flying tomb, he had called it, and within was a sarcophagus fit for the great kings of the Nile. But within there was no long dead Pharaoh. Only evil beyond imagination. It stood at least 3 heads above even the tallest of men and possessed four arms that widened out into massive 8 fingered hands, each of them large enough to envelop a small child. Its head was elongated at the jaw and topped with an ornate headdress made of metal unlike any other, adorned with jewels that sparkled like the inky blackness of the midnight sky. The beast’s entire body was covered in such ornamentation, necklaces and bangles, jewelry beyond measure laid atop the decaying gauze bandages wrapped so tightly around every inch of its being. The bandages themselves were just as fascinating, moving and shifting of their own accord as if the beast were entangled in a nest of serpents. What little flesh could be seen was dark and shriveled, that of a corpse left in the sun for weeks on end. The emperor had warned his favorite fighters that they would face the creature in the pit. Such an exotic beast was too good to be kept locked away. The people grew tired of Christians being fed to lions and tigers, but who could tire of a monster from beyond the heavens that had the strength of ten men and the passion of one hundred? One By one the gladiators had filed out into the coliseum. Each had waved and shouted, trying to rile up the crowd, trying to draw the most attention and praise to himself. Eventually all were made to turn and face the mighty casket that stood upright in the center of the pit, rattling and thrashing, the beast inside making unholy such an unholy din. The handlers refused to open it themselves. The animals of China and the Dark Continent were one thing, but this creature knew no concept of loyalty or mercy, and the beast masters refused to let it prove this on anybody other than the fighters. The first brave soul who opened the sarcophagus was swiftly punished. The beast’s bandages shot out from the inky darkness inside and grabbed his arms and legs, swiftly tearing him to pieces before dragging the torso in and slamming the lid shut once more. Moments later it emerged, the once pristine white gauze soaked in gore. More fighters tried to rush in, some managing to strike it with their swords before having their skull caved in by a strike from one of its mighty palms. Two more were strangled by the animate bandages, hung by their necks about the horrid thing while it used its limbs to face more pressing challengers. A brief spark of hope did appear when one man managed to catch the monster by surprise and stab at its chest, causing it to fall to its knees in shock. The crowd roared with excitement as the warrior lifted his sword to take the beast’s head, but it took too long. The creature screamed with rage, the very sand on the ground around it whipping into the air and creating a furious gale that enveloped him. The sheer force of the coarse particles blasted flesh away from bone, and soon another corpse laid upon the ground, reduced to little more than a skeleton. Two men remained standing against the creature. The first saw no victory, and promptly fell upon his sword in despair. The second however, had other ideas. The creature may not tire, and it may not be slowed by conventional attempts to wound, but it was old. Old and dry. Which meant that in theory, he reasoned, it could burn. Quickly he sprinted to the outer edge of the coliseum, making a bee line for the torches that brought light to the pit when it was enveloped by the shadows of the day. The gladiator grabbed a burning fixture and lobbed it, striking the beast in the center of the chest. A brief sound of surprise escaped its mouth before it was enveloped in flames, bandages and desiccated skin blazing like tinder. Once more the horrid thing dropped to its knees, but before it could truly die, something truly strange occurred. The sarcophagus, originally dormant at the center of the pit, flew open once more, and a violent wind pulled from within it with hurricane force. The beast was ripped from the battlefield, the raging fire dissipating as it was pulled back from whence it came and the lid slammed shut. The box no longer rattled and shook. It was done. For now, this was over. But as the gladiator heard the people cheer, and the emperor praise his bravery, something stuck within his mind. He could have sworn, that for the few moments before the sarcophagus closed…that within it he saw an ocean of stars.


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The bark on the trees was starting to singe, and the earth was so hot that I thought I wouldn’t make it. I could hear the cracks; some loud, like branches were about to break and fall; some softer, as the trees began to release their seeds. The small brush-tailed rock wallaby that was panting near my home, was obviously distressed. I needed to get to her with a damp blanket, and try to pick her up. Then I had to get the hell out of here. I had gone home as soon as I heard the news about the bushfires raging just north of where I lived. My parents had passed in the year prior, and I had all the family photos to make a family tree. I had been writing their stories, and the stories of our forebears; and then scanning and inserting photos where they fit in the sequence of things. I hadn’t thought to scan all the photos first, and then insert them. No, that would have been smart!! Everything was strewn over my dining table, together with my laptop. Who knows where I left my backup drive? I had tried to get home as quickly as I could, but the traffic was horrendous. By the time I got there, the firefighters and State Emergency Service (SES) personnel were going door-to-door to see who hadn’t yet evacuated. I was that late. I scooped all my paperwork up into my arms; and it was on the way back to my car, that I saw the wallaby. They’re fast animals, with big back legs for hopping and leaping the way that kangaroos do, only a little smaller. They are super-cute, and their fur is soft and fluffy. Their claws are another matter! I saw the brush-tailed rock wallaby, and realised I had to make a choice: drop all my treasured family photos and family tree research to save her, or to try to save everything and hope I could save her as well. Brush-tailed rock wallabies are “near threatened”. I had to do something! In moments like those, you might think clearly, if you have had experience with “moments like those”. I had no idea what to do. I had to think on my feet, and I couldn’t. I had to just “do”. I piled the papers and computer into my car, dumping them on the front seat; and dashed to my bedroom. I ripped up a blanket from the bed, and took it to the shower to dampen it. I had no idea if this would work, but I had to try it. I rushed back outside, and the wallaby was gone! The last time I saw her, she was panting in the heat. There were other dead wallabies nearby, and I thought how she must have lost her own family; her own friends. My throat was dry, and my nostrils were filled with soot. My eyes began to sting. The air was thickening with billowing pyrocumulonimbus clouds of grey and orange water vapour, released from the trees as they took on the flames. The steam made a blanket above the earth and, from there, made a local weather system. Within it, were carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide; the gases that contribute to global warming; and, with the sulphur dioxide and nitrogen dioxide, they added to my severe discomfort. I could taste the poison in the air. I was terrified; both by the sight of the flames, and by the blockage in my throat. I couldn’t take air in, and I was like that little brush-tailed rock wallaby; gasping for air. But where was she? Then, under the house, I spied her. She was hiding, and trying to find shelter from the impending wall of heat. She would have been a great example to the kids in schools, who are taught early on, to “get down low, and go, go, go!”. I crouched down, as close as I could, and tried to speak as gently as possible. She was shivering and looking around for somewhere safe, and I was this big thing with a big wet blanket, yelling over the deafening sound of the roaring fire, not to be afraid! Somehow, I managed to catch her within my blanket. I placed a corner over her wriggling head, and wrapped her like a cranky baby, so I could protect her from the flames and smoke. The wet blanket, if it stayed over her head, would help to keep the smoke out of her lungs. I hoped! I hurried to my car, and struggled to open the hatchback door. If she got loose in my car, she could cause an accident. At least, in the boot, she’d be contained. Once I got her in, I slammed the hatch down, and burned my hand on the metal. The fire was getting too close. It was time to move! I got in and turned the key in the ignition. The motor sputtered and shrieked like it had seen a monster, but finally started. I drove down the gravel driveway away from my haven. When I had moved here two years ago, I had sought a tree-change, and my beautiful home was filled with tall scented eucalypts, leptospermums, wattles, and the most vibrant array of birds I had ever seen. Now, it was all fuel for a hungry fire. I drove to the end of my long driveway, and saw the firefighters doing their heroic best. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking about them now. My sinuses rage with the heat of sorrow, knowing now, that some of them died in that very fire. They left young families. Their flashing lights showed the way out, and just as I escaped, it seemed as though the walls of fire closed in on those firefighters. It could have been me. I felt like such an idiot, going back for pieces of paper. And now, my actions could have placed them in more danger. I raced to a neighbouring town, where all the refugees from the fires were congregating on the beach. I had forgotten the scared animal in the back of my car. As I arrived, I found people in uniforms handing out bottles of water. People in other uniforms, asking questions. More people, still, checking our wellbeing. A girl tended my burned hand, and I became aware of the searing pain that would not subside. Some people were even handing out packs of toiletries (thankfully, as I had forgotten simple things like that). Suddenly, I remembered the poor little brush-tailed rock wallaby! I ran back to my car and opened the hatch. There she was, still breathing; and somehow, more relaxed. Could she have been suffering carbon monoxide poisoning? I gingerly picked her up, like you would lift a sleeping toddler. One arm scooped under her bulky legs, wrapped in the wet blanket; the other crooked under her neck. She had such a sweet face! Her long lashes slowly opened to reveal deep, dark eyes that looked up at me as if to say, “check my baby”. I crouched down, where I was, so I could rest her body on my knees. My left hand respectfully snuck in, under the blanket, to feel the warm soft fur outside her pouch. There, I could feel the small joey moving under my palm, within her. Relief! I still didn’t know what to do. I was no ranger. I wasn’t a vet. I didn’t even have chickens. I had “gone bush”, with no idea about the bush. I wanted to become an apiarist and build my own style of beehives. I was still only learning about bees! I hoped the few I had, had escaped. I looked around to see who could help me care for my little wallaby. Uniforms everywhere, but which were rangers? Who were the vets? At last, I saw people carrying dogs and other pets toward a tent, and I lifted myself up off my haunches and carried my cherished companion in that direction. A young man lifted the blanket to see what I carried, asked if there were any burns, and (because I didn’t know), placed her on a picnic table. My arms felt so empty! He inspected her, and made some notes; and then directed us to a water station. There, I was able to find a woman who knew what to do. She showed me how to help hydrate this young mother, and I felt like everything would be alright. Finally, I started to breathe a bit more normally. I hadn’t realised it, but I had been holding my breath for most of this time. The pounding in my chest began to ease. I sat down on the ground next to my car, exhausted but relieved. I drank the water like I was in the middle of the Great Sandy Desert; I was so dry. I closed my eyes, and through snuffled snores, somehow fell asleep. Just as I was resting, wallaby in my arms; a siren pierced the darkness. It cracked through a dream; or, rather, a nightmare. I was a bee, trapped in a hive, surrounded by fires. Then I was a chicken, flapping wildly to escape the flames. Then I was me; in my dining room, with photos of my mother and father fluttering all around me; and I was too scared to know what to do. And from my mouth, I could hear the sound of my raspy voice wailing, and no-one coming to rescue me. I was utterly alone. The time was about midnight, but it was hard to tell because the colour of the sky was a dark orange. Someone on a loudspeaker announced the fire was on the way toward us. Suddenly, we were trapped all over again! The fire now encroached the town, from every direction. It had waged it’s war on so many different fronts, and now those fronts combined into one long line of terror. Again, I packed up my companion, and looked toward the sea. It was our only hope, but how would we all get off the shore and to safety? There weren’t enough boats. This wallaby was too heavy for me to swim and take her with me (let alone my papers and laptop that I left in the car). To be honest, she was weighing heavily in my arms now. The adrenaline must have given me the strength I needed to carry her this far; and now, I was depleted. She was about six kilograms in weight, but she felt like a tonne to me. I must have passed out. I don’t know, for how long. When I awoke, my burnt hand hurt like it had been dragged over hot bitumen. My arms were empty, and I could hear a woman sobbing. A man with a kind face came to me; and I felt his soft hands on my upper arms, as he whispered, “It’s alright. You’re safe. Everything will be okay now”. I looked into his green eyes, and I don’t know if it was the sight of them or the change of medication in my intravenous drip, but I started to feel better. The sobbing stopped. I went back to sleep. Another day, another nurse. More morphine. I didn’t realise how bad my injuries were for a long time, because I had been placed in an induced coma. But now that the coma was lifted, I started becoming more aware. I had the feeling that something was missing. Something? Someone? Who was it? Who did I lose in that fire? I remember holding something or someone in a wet blanket. I remember my left palm touching something soft, and the movement within. Back to sleep; I’m so tired. Another day, another allied health professional. Sometimes, my visitor is a social worker. Sometimes, I talk with a psychologist. Sometimes, they make me get out of bed and try to use my body. I look at my hand; and it’s not my own. My feet don’t work like they’re supposed to. My sister comes to visit. It was a long flight, but she made it. I’m so glad to see her; to have her wrap her arms around my tired, sad body. I sob onto her shoulder uncontrollably. I wriggle away to find tissues to blow my nose; I hate crying in front of people because blowing my nose is so ugly! But I just can’t help it. I feel like I’m grieving; but I can’t quite remember what or whom I’ve lost. My sister says I’m a hero. Apparently, I saved one of the last brush-tailed rock wallabies in my area. A-ha! That’s who I’m missing! She says that when I was evacuated off the beach, a ranger found my little companion and took her to a sanctuary. I can visit her when I’m discharged, if I like!!! I need my sister’s help; because, unbeknownst to me, my feet were burned in that fire on the beach. Walking can be painful. Bathing can hurt too. We go home to my house in the bush, and all we see is devastation. The smell of burnt timber, and dead animals, fills the air now. My car was burned that night at the beach, and everything in it. No family photos remain. The only things fluttering in the breeze around me, are the ashes. My beekeeping mentor calls to check on me. Seventy per cent of our country’s bees were killed in that fire. Our country’s honey industry is on the brink of disaster. Our bigger beekeepers helped to keep other agriculture going; and now our primary industry is facing decimation too. We need to start again, but so many went without insurance (because they couldn’t afford to pay it), and it will be so hard to build the industry up again. I’m staying with my other sister, because I have nowhere else to go. I’m lucky that we get along! But I feel like I’m imposing on her, and I’m itching to go home and rebuild. Small steps. I keep telling myself, “Small steps. I’m not the only one.” Today, though, I’m happy. The ranger called!!! My little brush-tailed rock wallaby is doing fine. Her joey is okay! Around seventy per cent of the habitat was destroyed, and with it, all their food sources. People from all over have been sending sweet potatoes, and donating money to help get more, so they won’t starve. I’m inspired! My new home will have a garden so I can grow sweet potatoes, just for the brush-tailed rock wallabies that might come to visit. The ranger has a question she’d like to ask me. “Would you like to help when we release your wallaby back into the wild?” I don’t need to be asked twice!! Whatever it takes, I’ll be there. I can come sooner! She says that I can come any time I like. They need more helpers … So, my sister and I drive south to the sanctuary, and there she is. My special companion. She, who knows the fear of that awful day and night. As soon as we see each other, we know! And we bound toward one another. And unlike the first time we met, this time, we’re all hugs!


A writer wakes up in the evening. He starts by looking at the snow. And he's trying to assess and write his feelings. And he's in a small cabin with no internet connectivity. He called for evenings: it's getting down as far as his writing is concerned. The dark scene around his cabin enshrines the peak around him. He is just here to relax. His project required quiet and silence.

It's early in the season where he lives, so this implies only that it is time to write. And it is the best time to write. It is not the first series he has written. His audiences have experienced his wild imagination. However, he hoped that spring was coming soon. And it was not under his control.

There's no sound like any in his room. It was very pure. It's a clash between the worlds of modern life and nature. He could note that his carefree weekend was drifting away when he headed into the bedroom. The man was thinking of starting out with his monologue. He seems to have also written about his previous moderation. Writing is still depleting itself. And it impacts how he feels.

So unexpected and strong came the longing which nagging entered his mind. As he continues to think to himself, “Tell me. Talk to me. This is my jealousy. A spectrum of mood, where am I falling? The constantly changing continuum, ever changing.” Just scattered thoughts.

He visualizes his thoughts on a possible story to write. The protagonist ought to be a privileged programmer. And characterized as a capitalist with an abundance of values. These include only making money. Maybe he can make an app that has a good ego. He was very much a specialist at his profession.

It entertains the hypocrisy of capitalist morality, the dreadful weakness of the human mind. But above all, to claim that the story was about the effect of surviving a lack of meaning. All of my thoughts are about living life. And a painter should be the secondary character. An artist who can be overconfident at times. However, he's got some abilities. The most thrilling plot is necessary. It keeps the attention of the reader and it keeps him writing as well. Otherwise the story would never be finished.

The artist doesn't agree with anything the faith teaches, but still wants other people to go to church. There was no reason to focus solely on Christianity.

The story should be about fate and liberty. The conflict and plot is about their personal relationship. With a sense of historic fantasy encompassing the plot. It starts with a regular meeting in a nature park. The main characters in the story could not be trusted. Two people were revealed in the story to be unknowing related from birth. And both of them are interested in conversation to a fault. They had to engage in conversations to find out more about the future. And he has more thoughts about this issue. He continued on writing. He was puzzled at the unseen bond that had hooked him throughout his written line. All he's going to have to do is concentrate and stop releasing his distractions. He wasn't asking for the story to be composed by itself. He had done it before. It was just his viewpoint that brought him further. He was only able to see so much. However, his own thoughts always hit him at the most inconvenient times. His thoughts are swarming him while he is writing. For him, a source of confusion. He no longer needs energy. It may have been due to a lapse in his executive function. His comfort to an extreme.

What about Michelangelo? Good portrait mode. And he has a handle on it. It's really hard to believe otherwise. And if he had wanted to commission a painting of what the world looks like, he would have preferred Michelangelo’s viewpoint above the heavens. One can, however, go beyond the typical named artists. Many can paint well. However, not like Michelangelo.

Going back to the painter. As the painter paints, his DNA is dripping out of his bare hands. And when the oil reaches the canvas, it spreads, multiplies and divides like a cell line. It's alive, and it's trying to survive on the canvas. The artwork he is making incorporates the drippings of his genetic material. As if the painting makes him a genetic engineer. He is still confused by the almost randomness of how this whole life fits together. All of the colors swirl together to express not proteins but emotions.

Painting a new protein, new color, new angle and ways of seeing the world. This continues as he explores the world. The lord and the king of eternity. Let us pray in the name of God. Painting a gene encoding, a new light, a new perspective, and opportunities to see nature. It was too early, and he became too tired to do his writing. He should have been in bed by now, so he could find his adventure on the next day. He still had work to do. And it was going to take a while for him to finish his story.

His evening, in any case, proceeds absent a lot of thought. Also, his future regular assumptions are beginning once again. Taking care of the ink. The night wasn't lost to him. What's more, for his personality, it was beneficial.

I have used a vast amount of resources that have translated to a peaceful existence. I needed rhythm and suspense. An opportunity to compromise myself before my passion. Not really a relaxed path of life. And he chooses, at the last second, to make an attempt on the frozen surface outside. And when he comes back in he decides to compose a poem:

Directly from of the beginning of the fields,

the forested areas, the waterways, the homesteads, the slopes, the wine,

I acclaim you with poise and with the light of the stars.

Furthermore, the brilliance of the day and the shadow of the moon He thought his story was so bad that it had to be funny.


The succubus, during the day, is beautiful. It’s only during the night when her appetite is at it’s peak that her monstrous, rotting, and decrepit form is revealed. Her involvement with me and my family goes back some fifty years and across the border to Mexico. It started, as my mother told me, one hot night when her older brother Luis comes home to their little house in a poor village holding a suitcase close to his chest. He brings the suitcase to his parents, (my grandparents) opens it, and shows them the gold coins and bank notes inside expecting to be hugged and embraced but instead gets a scolding. My grandparents demand to know how he came upon the suitcase and he simply replies that he found it. He refuses to tell them where or by what means he found it and my grandparents, as my mom said, feared that he had stolen it, or worse yet, she said crossing herself as was her custom, that he had sold his soul to the devil or partaken in some other sort of black magic in exchange for the money. In those days you heard plenty such stories. My grandmother, invoking La Virgen de Guadalupe, pleads her son. My grandfather was not so kind and beat him telling him that if he could not tell them where he got the money, that he should take it back to wherever he found it. My uncle left that night with the suitcase and neither my mother nor my grandparents ever heard from him again. I met my uncle in a strange way. I’d recently lost my job and my girlfriend had left me, when one night, all alone in my apartment high as a kite, I got hungry and decided to go for some food. I was pulled over and the cop found syringes and spoons with residue on them and took me to jail. I was bailed out by who knows who, put into a van where every few hours the men I was with would inject my arm, until finally I awoke in a strange bed. I had no idea how much time had passed since I’d been arrested. I climbed out of the bed dizzy, and as I moved through the upper level of the house, I could feel a strange presence around me. I could feel it in the walls. I felt that I was being watched. It was cold and I could see my breath, but as I moved to the lower floor a sudden change in temperature sobered me up. I went outside. I was in a big ranch. Then at a distance, I saw an SUV that was making its way down the road that led to the house. When it arrived, I noticed its Mexican plates, then two men jumped out and the older man introduced himself as my uncle Luis. He told me to get into the car, that we would be going into town to have some fun. He took me to a whore house. I thought about the girlfriend I’d recently broken up with, but the temptation was too much, and I gave in. My uncle said he’d pay for it. About an hour later, the deed done, my uncle burst into my room and dragged me out. We hightailed it back to my uncle’s mansion where he immediately ran up the stairs with his hand down the front of his pants. The sounds I heard next reverberated throughout the house with a terrifying mixture of pain and ecstasy. The house itself seemed to writhe and moan. I slept on the sofa in the living room. When I woke up there was a gorgeous woman sitting in a chair just staring at me. My uncle came down, kissed her on the cheek, and asked her to make us some breakfast. Then he told me his secret. He said the woman had fallen in love with him fifty years ago and had given him a choice. A treasure in exchange for his love, or his death and the death of his family. Obviously, he chose the former, not knowing that the woman was a succubus that at night turned into a stomach churning ugly old hag with an insatiable sexual appetite. He said that he had been living in torment ever since. That he couldn’t take it anymore, wouldn’t take it anymore, and was prepared to kill himself but was afraid that if he did, the succubus would go after his family. That he brought me here, prepared to bequeath me all his possessions, if only I relieved him of his burden. That the woman had looked me over and approved, and besides, he said, she was losing interest in him on account of his old age. He looked me in the eyes, took my hands, and pleaded. Said I’d be rich and have anything including all the drugs I ever wanted. That the woman was kind and caring during the day. If I relieved him, he’d be able to leave the ranch and be free. I thought it over, but he saw my hesitation. “Just remember, Charlie,” he said, “If you fail to satisfy her, she’ll come after our family.” Then he took a revolver from his waistband, put it to the roof of his mouth, and pulled the trigger.


Ever since I was a kid I have hated the dark. Though I think my real problem was with shadows. Hanging clothes and floor lamps disguised as dark figures haunt the corners of my room. So I would turn on the light, rationalise my thoughts and fall back asleep. Because that’s all they were; senseless, paranoid thoughts created by memories of horror movies and scary stories. But four days ago I saw something real. Someone under my piano, hiding in the dark of my room. I was so close to sleep I could feel my mind fogging up, until something shifted in the corner of my eye. It didn’t move the way things usually move in the dark, like when you turn your head and think you see someone rushing past the doorway. A figure crawled out from under the shelter of the piano. Head tilted with glazed over eyes. The figure was dark and about as tall as a five year old child. It was the shade of black that swallows every ounce of light with the waxy, uneven surface of a half-melted candle. I reached for the light switch instinctively. I prayed that whatever was standing 4 metres away from me wouldn’t try to kill me in the time it took for my eyes to adjust. Nothing had changed. Nothing had moved. I fell back asleep three hours later when anxiety finally exhausted my mind. In the morning I wrote the whole thing off as a sleep induced hallucination, but I didn’t exactly believe it. I sleepwalked through the following 24 hours until the night came again. My mind was restless, tears pricked my eyes from staring at the empty space below the piano. It was 1:30, my unblinking eyes began to close and it returned. I was paralysed, watching it repeat the movements from the night before. Except this time, when it stood it was a foot taller. I paid frozen, panicked attention to its thin frame, it’s boney hands. Black liquid slowly dripped from its fingertips and onto the carpet. Again, when the light turned on, it disappeared and I stayed awake with the light on. The next morning I stared in the mirror at my bloodshot eyes and cried. I needed this feeling to leave. I needed sleep. Throughout the day I felt eyes everywhere, the sight of shadows sent me into a panic. But it was in my head. It had to be. I am not the kind of person to wear tin foil hats and hunt for ghosts, so I refused to believe that this was anything more than a monster under the bed. I got home and sleep began to call me but as I walked into the bedroom my heart dropped. There was something on the floor. Two clusters of black dots blemished the carpet, each collection less than a metre apart. The stains looked like ink the same inky black that dripped from my tormentors hands. I did not sleep. Not for a second. I laid on the couch wrapped in blankets with a knife held under my pillow, flinching at the slightest noise or flicker. The morning felt like night. All sense of time was disrupted, I could feel my sanity slipping from my grasp. I got up from my couch, the knife clutched tightly in my hands. I walked to the room and the knife fell to the floor. I could feel blood pooling around me. The blood was seeping from my butchered foot and into the cracks of the floorboards. But my gaze was fixated on the walls. At the black dripping letters written across the plaster. “Why are you hiding?” The white hot pain spreading up my legs was numbed by the rampant thoughts in my mind. I crawled from the carpet to the floorboards of my living room. Travelling in and out of consciousness. I grabbed my phone from the table and saw a second message on the screen. “I can see you.” I couldn’t take it. I collapsed on the floor after dialling the emergency service number. A trail of blood tracking my movements. I woke up a day later in a hospital room. I told them what happened, I told them about the figure in the dark and asked them about the writing in the walls. They chalked it up to pain meds and delusions but I know what I saw. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to sleep.