Amidst the cold night Laurel travels with only the stars in the sky as company. She can't wait to reach the next city. All around is just barren land with a few struggling vegetation.

Due to unforeseen circumstances Laurel travels by horse but only two types of persons would do so. Primitives, i.e. those who can't adhere to modern society or someone who's confident in their ability. Laurel breathes a sigh of relief as she sees the next town, Old’s Ville. Now she can have a drink, a shower and a good night’s sleep. The town has the glint of the wild west, all the buildings looked just like they came out of the era but the only horses here were metal and smelt of fuel. As Laurel strolled in, all eyes were on her. Who would have thought they’d see an actual horse being rode in this day and age. There was only one place she could head to, the local museum had the only stable in town. The curator stood wide eyed at the sight of Laurel. Approaching her, one could see the drool on the curator’s face. “Wh-wh-what c-c-can I-I help you w-w-with?” Unamused Laurel, replied “I need a place for Sheba here”. “Oh, this lovely beaut name of Sheba.” “Can I leave him here or not?” “S-sorry sorry, where’s my manners? Yes, yes you can, we keep the stable maintained for such an occasion as this.” Apprehensive, she inquired further, “You sure? If anything happens to him there’ll be hell to pay”. “I assure you Ms. Staellar. We will take the utmost care of him, I guarantee.” “You know me?” “Who doesn’t know you Ms. Staellar. You and him are known all across the planet.” Seeing as the curator knew who she was or at least knew of her, she dismounted and handed him the reins. “Point me to the best hotel in town.” “There’s only one, that would be Shack-It-Up.” “.... What’s this place known for?” “The shooting tournaments.If you have reservation about the hotel, haha the name isn’t what you think.” “... How so?” “If you really wanted to get laid, then there’s no better place than madam Chick’s cathouse.” “... Then why the name?” “The guy who bought it, renamed it, cause he thought he could compete with madam Chick but all anyone does is sleep in the rooms.” Laurel heads to the hotel to book a room. While the outside looked western like everything else the inside's decor was high tech. Truly a nice design, yet at the same time it had no taste. Nothing inside had an ounce of western flare. Laurel is approached by the receptionist bot and books her room. There are no human employees as far as she can see. She takes her room card and heads back out. Directly across the street she sees what looks like a saloon. Still wanting a drink and something to eat she heads on in, in hopes of finding other humans. Entering the saloon she finds a western style establishment that was also modern and to her delight there were other humans there as well. While they watched her, it was with downcast eyes. Everyone kept their heads down and didn’t venture to look her way for too long. Laurel heads to the bar and orders a drink. Seeing the reaction of the people near her she sets an order for some noodles and heads to a table in the back. The people's reaction was all too common for her. As the server bot brings her drink, she can only think of drowning herself in its sweet embrace. The bot informs her that her order will be done in five minutes. Stopping the bot, she places another order for the same drink but puts in an order as well for a stronger drink to be brought with the noodles. As she sits waiting, someone else comes into the bar. He is rugged in appearance but everyone in the bar greets him with a smile. He sits at the bar and relaxes a bit. The bartender serves him a drink without even asking. Taking the glass he salutes the bartender and takes a sip. Resting the glass down he looks in Laurel’s direction. Getting up out his seat the bartender stops him and whispers something, he takes another look at Laurel and waves the bartender off. “Hi.” “HI.” “Is this seat empty?” “... Who wants to know?” “Sorry, sorry, I’m Jackson Paul”, he extends a hand to Laurel’s surprise. She ignores this and motions for him to have a seat but even as he sits he keeps his hand extended. Taking another sip of her drink she shakes his hand and mutters, “Laurel Staellar”. “Must be hard being you.” Laurel gives no answer, she sits and carefully checks him out. He smiles at her as her food and drink arrives. Finishing her drink she ready’s her fork while he watches on. She eats as he continues to watch on smiling. Boldly he takes a sip of her drink much to the shock of the whole bar. “Wooo, that’s strong.” The bar is silent as Laurel stops eating. He smiles at her as everyone waits with bated breaths. Laurel looks at the glass then at him, now his smile faints to worry. Her facial expression was a true poker face, he couldn’t tell what she was going to do. Now he started to regret not listening to the bartender. Laurel is a bounty hunter with a great track record but is very loose with her weapons. Readjusting herself in her seat Jackson begins to sweat as he wonder’s how far he could get before she kills him. Resting her fork down, she stretches her hand across the table as Jackson closes his eyes in anticipation of what's to come. “You’re right, it's strong.” “....” In awe Jackson and the whole bar breathes a sigh of relief and surprise. Jackson begins to get up as Laurel stops once more. “Sit”, was the only word she said as Jackson stared into her eyes and eased back down to his seat. The atmosphere in the bar was again on edge. “Do you want some?” “.... Ex-excuse me.” Sharply she responds, “Food, do you want any?” “N-n-no.” Finishing her plate and drink she pays the bar while keeping Jackson in tow behind her. He dared not ask anything as they went to the hotel and she took him to her room. Standing like a statue he finally got the courage to talk. Sheepishly he asked, “W-what do you want from me?”. Laurel glances at him as she begins to undress. Jackson couldn’t help but admire her fair skin with those knockers he, like many others, dreamt of sucking. “You want to live?” “Y-Yes!” “Good. Then fuck my brains out.” His jaw falls to the floor at this command. He gulped but hesitated. “I can see you salivating from here. You have two options, either fuck me or die, your choice.” The next morning Laurel can be seen with a smile on her face as she goes to the museum to collect Sheba. Saddling up she heads out of town to her original destination. As soon as she was out of sight people rushed to the hotel to find out if Jackson was alive. Laurel had many nicknames but the one most relevant here is the Bloody Wife . She was considered the black widow of the bedroom. Even the owner was there as well to see. Standing outside the room his hands shake as he tries to scan his master card to open the door. The crowd

stands behind him holding their breath at the sight they knew was coming. Opening the door the owner steps inside and looks around. To his surprise all seems well, there’s only Jackson lying on the bed. Everyone outside peer in and sigh but someone outside comments that Jackson looks peaceful. The owner's eyes widened and slowly focused back on Jackson as he stepped closer. Before he could check the cleaning bot comes in and tosses Jackson’s body to the floor as it removes the sheets from the bed. Jackson jumps up and gives the crowd a shock with many of the ladies delightfully surprised. Realizing he’s naked he rushes to the bathroom, taking his clothes with him. The owner clears his throat and commands the crowd to disperse as he leaves as well. Jackson puts on his clothes and heads to the exit but he sees the crowd outside and obviously realizes what they want. He had no intention of going through them so he asks the receptionist bot for another exit but he is told there isn’t any. He then asks to speak with the owner. “Jackson?” “Mr. Saint-Claire, I need another way out of here.” “Why?” “I want to live, that’s why.” “... Ms. Staellar has already left.” “You think I don’t know that. Listen to me, I want to live. You don’t know what that woman is capable of okay.” “... I-I understand, follow me.” Mr. Saint-Claire takes him to one of the many hidden exits of the hotel. As he watched Jackson leave he can’t help but smile as he thinks about how he could use this fortunate encounter to his advantage. *** A few months pass and Jackson who had left town that day and now resides in the city of what would be New London. At the Spring Time bar he sits having a drink and watching Metro Ball.

Toasting to his promotion with his colleagues the game is interrupted. He takes a sip of his drink as the newscaster says, “Breaking news, the owner of Shack-It-Up Mr. Saint-Claire is dead”, slowly Jackson lowers his glass as the newscaster pauses.

“This just in, from those on the scene, it seems the Bloody Wife Ms. Staellar blew his brains out in the middle of the street in broad daylight”, the newscaster continued. Jackson spits out his drink as those in the bar glance at him. “Dude, did you see a ghost?” “What?!” “Everybody knows about the Bloody Wife . Why are you surprised?” “Jackson? Weren’t you from around there?” “What! He’s from Old’s Ville?” “Yea-yeah I used to live there.” “Hmm but you didn’t react to the owner’s death. You only reacted to hearing it was the Bloody Wife who did it. ” Jackson dares not talk and instead diverts the attention from himself with just enough information about what happened in the bar that night without mentioning himself. Wrongly the people assume that it was Mr. Saint-Claire who approached the Bloody Wife . Shaking their head they comment saying, “That’s why she’s the Bloody Wife .”. Sitting back down Jackson gets another drink and tries to continue being merry with his colleagues but in the back of his mind he thought it was time to leave the city. Although he had no reason to believe she would be headed his way as the news report said she went in the opposite direction he had an uneasy feeling nonetheless. *** “Lala, why’d you have to kill him?” “Why? The bastard was using my name to promote his hotel.” “You could have just beaten him up.” “... That was the original plan but he tried to blackmail me. Blackmail me!!” “...” “He thought cause I fucked a guy in one of the rooms he could-” “Wait, you said you fucked a guy there right?” “Yeah, why?” “Did you kill him?” “Haa! Look it’s not like I kill every guy I fuck okay. And no, he was breathing when I left.” Inquisitively she said, “No wonder.” “What do you mean?” “Really… your nickname?” Looking annoyed, Laura asks, “Which one?” “Come on, Bloody Wife.” “What about it?” “You have got to be dense, you know. People consider you to be a black widow.” Puzzled, “So?” Highly annoyed, she replied “.... A black widow kills their mate, you bitch.” “What’s that got to do with me?” Slapping her head, she asks “What the condition of all the other dudes you fucked?” “They're dead, why-” It finally struck Laura, Jackson was the only guy you slept with that was still alive to tell the tale. Now she was sure it was even better that she had killed the hotel owner. She glances at Sarah who stood there with her arms folded and lets out a slight chuckle. Sarah just sighs. They head to the doctor’s office for Sarah’s check up. They were at Upper Avenue, this was where Laura was headed before stopping off at Old’s Ville. As they enter the elevator to go up to the doctor’s office a guy joins them. Since Laura who was close to the corner had turned to the side to take a private call the guy hadn’t noticed her. As he continues to hit on Sarah, Laura is getting annoyed since he didn’t bother to talk softly. Turning around the guy was just about to ask Sarah for her number as he saw who was in the corner all this time. He freezes and doesn’t utter another word as the elevator reaches their floor Sarah tugs Laurel for them to leave and the guy stands in the elevator still frozen as it closes. Sarah logs in at the desk and they both take a seat as they wait for the doctor to call her. Dr. Waterly comes out after a few minutes. Chuckling he says, “I see we have two patients.” “Doctor, you love to make jokes don’t you.” “Hmm, what are you talking about Sarah?” “I’m the only pregnant one here doc.” “... That can’t be, the scanners report that there are two pregnant women.” At a loss for words Sarah and Laurel look at each other. “Doc, you sure that thing’s working?” Stiffing up he replies, “Yes, Ms. Staellar.” “I can’t be pregnant doc. I was told I was barren.” “... If you don’t mind, can I check you with this machine right here? It should give me a more accurate reading.” To their surprise, it gave the same reading as the room sensors. The ultrasound clearly showed them a baby growing in Laurel’s belly. It had to have been at least three to four months since she got pregnant. Laurel hadn’t noticed due to her workout schedule and the jobs she regularly undertook. It was common for her to miss her period for months at a time. The doctor opted to give them some space as Laurel was in shock. “Lala, this wonderful news isn’t it?” “How… How is this wonderful? Do you realize how this will affect my job?” “Come on, it's not a big deal.” Laurel stands in frustration, “For you this isn’t a big deal. You think I want a kid?!” Seriously annoyed Sarah responses, “What wrong with having a child?! Being a mother is one of the joys of being a woman.” “I ain’t got time to raise no kid, especially since that dad ain’t even around.” Realizing what she just said Laurel turns to Sarah whose face is filled with disgust as tears run down her face. Laurel tries to apologize but Sarah has no interest in hearing it. Behind tears, Sarah bites her lip and mockingly says, “At least your child has a father”. She leaves Laurel in the waiting room and goes in to see the doctor. After her checkup she storms past Laurel. “Ms. Staellar, do you want me to give you a check up?” “Doctor just kills this thing inside me.” “You sure you want to do that. You may never get another child.” “...” “I understand that you’re upset and that you and Ms. Dowie are having a fight but I want you to know. Even though she was upset with you, she expressed that I take good care of you… and the baby.” Laurel is confused, and asks the doctor to let her think about it. She goes back home and tries to call Sarah but gets no answer. As if to clear her head she takes a look at open jobs. Finding nothing interesting she drowns herself in drink. Two days later she hears a knock at her door. It’s Sarah, she’s surprised at how ragged Laurel looks. “Can I come in?” Sluggishly Laurel replies, “... Yeah”. Surprised again at the mess in Laurel’s apartment Sarah gets to cleaning. After cleaning up Laurel's mess, Sarah sits down and they talk. Although it took fifteen minutes before either of them said anything. In the end they make up and Laurel decides to keep her baby. They figure between the two of them what could go wrong with raising their kids *** At the bar Jackson and co are watching the rest of Metro Ball after the sudden news. Their team narrowly wins. Jackson buys a round of drinks to celebrate but also to help them forget about the news. He had enough issues in his life. "Hey Jackson" "Hmm, Carla what's up?" "Let's have a kid." Jackson spits out his drink. The others stared at each other then laughed. Carla found it a bit puzzling and didn't understand why they were laughing. "Carla, we aren't an item. So why do you think you can say something like that so casually." "Come on, all you got to do is fuck me." Jackson is in disbelief. While the others nod in agreement to Carla's logic.

"Carla read my lips. I don't want a kid. Not with you or anybody." "Why not? I'm hot aren't I?" "That personality of yours isn't", Jackson shakes his head, wondering why he only seemed to attract the crazy girls.


I was kicked out of more classes than most people attended. It was always “Benny, normal people don’t do that” or “Benny, go wash your mouth out with soap. Foul language is not allowed in this classroom!” I couldn’t help it. I was missing some sort of filter. The words would just spontaneously fall out of my mouth. They seemed natural. I didn’t mean to offend anyone when I grabbed my crotch. It was an involuntary spasm, just like my blinking and grimacing. The kids in grade school were brutal. They just didn’t understand. I probably made it worse when I’d beat the shit out of them when they made fun of me. It isolated many potential friends. Yet my foul jokes, boyish smile and unfiltered mouth were a hit with the girls Go figure! Unlike most guys I would tell them exactly what I was thinking and what I wanted to do, and they loved it! They thought my tics were cute. Of course, there was James and Teddy. They were my best buds. We had many misadventures over the years. They would laugh at my harebrained ideas but always went along with them. I wouldn’t say they were followers. Both have had successful professional careers as a doctors. They were more enablers. James was the silent handsome type. Tall, athletic and swarthy, he was considered a heartthrob. I know he was pissed that he’d attract the girls and I’d walk away with them. He was too nice a guy and sort of shy. I guess I’m just an asshole. Teddy was the real brain. He was smarter than any of us. Always first in the class, he could do anything well. He played a mean guitar, wrote poetry and had a damned good singing voice. His flaming red hair and great laugh made him stand out in the crowd. He loved adventures and always added interesting twists and suggestions to make my ideas more daring and fun. One of my favorite memories of grade school was a soccer game. I was kicked out of Mr. Petlock’s grade eight class for swearing, talking out of turn or some other misdemeanor. There were so many, I can’t remember. Well, there were at least six of us from different grades who were ejected from our respective classes. We had a soccer ball and all we needed was a couple more guys to have a respectable game in the schoolyard. I didn’t think twice about knocking on Mr. Petlock’s classroom door and very nicely asking: “Can you let James and Teddy come out and play? We need two more players for a soccer game.” Part of me knew that it was inappropriate, but I couldn’t help myself. Despite my nervous blinking. I maintained my angelic smile. The class erupted with laughter. By this grade almost everyone found me entertaining. Teddy and James rose from their seats and Mr. Petlock kicked them out. We had a good game lasting most of the afternoon. Mr. P. really was a good guy. I think deep down he was amused. It didn’t hurt that the three of us consistently had the highest grades on most tests. You see, that has been my get out of jail free card. I did well in school despite my many misdemeanors. Teachers and principals repeatedly told me I was wasting my talents and possibly ruining my life with my behavior. It didn’t stop several colleges from offering me scholarships. However, it probably did turn off the Ivy league schools that Teddy and James attended. The university of Illinois was good enough for me. Besides, they had a good wrestling program. Oh yeah, I’m five foot eight and have been lifting weights and wrestling since I was ten. Some would say that I am muscle bound. I guess I have short man syndrome and have compensated for all the teasing I experienced at a young age. The three musketeers were apart for six years. Teddy was at Harvard and James was at Stanford. We all were accepted to our respective schools’ medical program. Teddy and James breezed through medical school with top marks. I, on the other hand, had to work my ass off just to stand somewhere in the middle of the class pecking order. All that hard work prevented me from acting out too much. My classmates were too busy to notice my tics are us act. My occasional outbursts in the front of the class just seem to break the tension of the day-to-day grind. My classmates loved my daily act of crushing a soda can on my forehead and doing a little jig just before our professor arrived. The girls of course thought I was cute and didn’t mind my ‘potty mouth’. Professors ignored my profane outbursts most of the time. I tried to restrain myself as best as I could but not always successfully. I really wanted to be a doctor and didn’t want to be kicked out of medical school. Still there was the time our dermatology professor asked the class for a definition of acne. My answer of ‘backed up sperm’ drew gasps from my classmates. Fortunately, the professor ignored me and chose another classmate’s answer. Dr. Sebaceous always struck me as a young stuffy guy in an expensive suit.  I didn’t think he had a sense of humor but maybe I was wrong. To my surprise, at the end of medical school, I was accepted to the Harbor General Internal Medicine program in Torrance California. It was a prestigious UCLA affiliated residency. James and Teddy had their pick of programs but decided to reunite with me. James chose the Harbor General orthopedic surgery residency and Teddy their radiology program. I was thrilled. The boys were back together again and in Southern California. Let the fun begin! We rented a three-bedroom apartment three blocks from the ocean in Manhattan beach. I had my wingmen. With James’ looks, Teddy’s brain and my mouth, I knew the good times would roll. I didn’t account for how time consuming and exhausting our training programs would be. There was little time for partying or adventures. It did not stop me from having fun with patients. Harbor General was a county hospital and catered to the indigent. Medical residents had more autonomy than at a private hospital, It was perfect for a rebel like me. Attendings appreciated my work ethic and knowledge base and ignored my outbursts. In fact, some seemed amused. The drug user patients and gang members spoke my language. I could drop F-bombs and tell them inappropriate jokes and they seemed to love it. I had finally found the perfect audience. Take that, Mr. Petlock and my grade school doubters! In this world, if I worked hard and had good outcomes, no one seemed to care about my tics or unfiltered mouth. With these patients, I could use my full off-color vocabulary. I’d dispense with the politically correct anatomical words such as penis or vagina. F that! I was finally among my people and spoke their language. No sexual joke or story was off limits. I found an audience that appreciated my talents. The white coat and stethoscope gave me cover and respectability. Something I never thought I’d get. Three years of training passed quickly. I was having fun. The boys and I threw many spectacular parties on the beach. Outside of the hospital, I did not have to restrain myself. I was Benny unchained. Even though the patients did not object to my language or tics, I knew I had I had to control my mouth in front of our attendings. It was easier said than done. The odd f-bomb and inappropriate comment just fell out of my mouth occasionally. Also, I couldn’t control my tics are us circus. Some of my female attendings looked appalled when I grabbed my crotch, but I couldn’t help it. Still, my hard work and smile would win them over. It was all going well until my final year. I had the idea of a lifetime, or so I thought. Late one night, James, Teddy and I would roller skate through the hospital. We would perform a mock code in the ICU, do a cancan in the emergency room and race down the hallways. James’ girlfriend, Lori, would videotape us and we would show the film to each of our graduating classes at the end of the year. The director of my program had asked me to perform some sort of skit for the ceremonies. He opened pandora’s box! That evening, I was on call for the medical ICU and James for the surgical ICU. I didn’t see any problems managing an emergency on roller skates. If necessary, I could remove them. James was not as comfortable with the plan but as always, he was a good sport. At 7 pm we strapped on our skates in the ‘on-call’ room, donned our white lab coats and flew into the hallways. Lori, a petit fourth year medical student, recorded every twist and turn. The nurses in the ICU were giggling and cooperative. As we performed a mock code on a comatose gang member. We had to skate out of the area in a hurry when the fat Grinch of a head nurse appeared. Someone obviously ratted on us. We were down in the emergency room performing a cancan with their staff when the receptionist told me that my program director was on the line. Oh shit! The fat Grinch had tattled. James looked nervous and immediately took off his skates, but Teddy continued to dance with the nurses. He was our best skater and always knew his brains and reputation made him untouchable. Down deep, I knew, I didn’t have that luxury. My residency program was not Mr. Petlock’s class. When I took the receiver from the receptionist, I gave her my best smile. Inside I was shaking. Dr. Liebling’s baritone voice was loud and clear. “Benny, this time you’ve gone too far. Stop this foolishness and see me in my office in the morning before rounds.” I considered my options and almost dropped an f-bomb but bit my lip for a few seconds before saying: “Yes sir!” James and Teddy knew something was wrong because I was blinking and grimacing uncontrollably.  As my oldest friends, they knew it was a sign of extreme anxiety and dread. Teddy skated over to me and put his arm around my shoulders and tried to comfort me by saying: “We’ll get through this Benny. We always do.” I shook my head. Maybe I had gone too far. I really wanted to be a doctor. The next day, Dr. Liebling, a tall thin balding man in a white lab coat met me in the reception area leading to his office. It was empty but several employees were setting up for the day. As we walked, he loudly berated me. “Benny, what you did was inappropriate and irresponsible. Not only did you break hospital rules, but you endangered patients. Weren’t you on call? What if there had been a real code? Did you get permission from the comatose patient or his family to make a mockery of his condition or care? I’m not sure the hospital will cover any suits filed against you. It could ruin your career and life. Alright let’s go intomy  office and decide what to do about you.” His last words almost made me incontinent but instead I was blinking and grimacing wildly. I couldn’t control the f-bombs exploding from my mouth. I was in deep doo-doo. I took a seat in front of Liebling’s desk after closing the door. He sat and just stared at me for a few minutes before shaking his head and saying. “Benny, Benny, we always knew you were a loose cannon, but we knew you cared about the patients and had good judgment… until now. Everything I said in the reception area is true. Fortunately, so far, the only complaints we have received have been from Mrs. Grinchley. If you’re lucky, no other people will come forward. I’ve told Mrs G, I will discipline you. You’re losing your last week of vacation. Don’t ever pull something like that again. You could lose your medical license at the very least. Now that we have that out of the way, tell me how it felt skating down those long hallways? You’re lucky the Er docs are good sports. They put in a good word for you and said they had lots of fun. No ICU nurse felt that you endangered any patient and a few giggled as they were interviewed. The video might make a good end of the year presentation for the graduating class. You’re lucky that I have a good sense of humor and have a son with Tourette’s.” Tourette’s? What? Oh my God! I have Tourette’s! It makes total sense. After all these years of f-bombs and tics, I never put it together.  I was so stunned, I just nodded and left the office. The day passed quickly. I couldn’t wait until I shared the news with the boys. I have Tourette’s and we are home free! To my surprise, Teddy just laughed and said: “What else is new?” I was puzzled and asked: “What do you mean?” Teddy shrugged his shoulders and said: “After reading my first psych text, I knew you were a textbook case. What was the point of telling you? It wouldn’t change anything. You’ve always used it to your advantage. It probably helped you skate Scott free this time as well.” Teddy didn’t know the extent of it until a few weeks later. I was paid several hundred dollars by the residency program for the videotape and voted resident of the year. Pretty f-in good!


THE NIGHT THAT She was going up and down the track, waiting for the train, when she heard what  more than a sound sounded rather  as  a cannon shot . A cannon shot being fired in a very high place, which was ( seemed to be) very above….of her head, aven far above the tracks, the trains, the station.  As soon as she heard that rumble, loud but dull ( deaf), it was instinctive for Angie  to look up, to look at the sky. Since that  very powerful , and yet even dull sound  came from above, from very high ( above) it could have been from an airplane. But, at least as far as she could see, there was no plane flying in the sky above there.  The sky was covered with a compact blanket of gray. Perhaps the plane that had made that sound , which, however, was not the sounds that airplanes make, was behind that blanket of gray. When  Angie, after looking up at the sky, looked down again, she started to watch ( to observe) the faces, the look ( gaze) of the other people who were  on the platform along the track, some of them still, standing or sitting, some walking up and down as she did.  But it was impossible ( for her) to meet the gaze of even one of them. Everyone, whether they were still or walking, looked down, even with their head bowed, just as they  were afraid, but even more they were annihilated by that powerful and dull sound ( rumble), which had been heard only for a few moments, which had boomed as if it were the roaring voice announcing an imminent threat, hanging over their heads, something terrible which was going to crash them all. Angie had no doubt that everyone present in the station, not only people along that platform, had heard the terrible sound looming from above. Since none of those people ( passengers) waiting along the platform (of that track) had said a word about that threatening rumble  , which everyone had to have heard, she dared to ask a young man, walking on the platform opposite her: “ Did you hear?”, while she gestured  with her head and her hand up, towards the sky. “Heard what, sorry? What should I have heard? “ the young man said, as he looked at her with a face that meant: “ But listen to this one…..For sure she is raving…..Ouch, and I’m even listening to this one here….”   “ But that sound… that rumble , which came from up there” Angie was now speaking frightened, her hand raised, her finger pointed to the sky.  “ But what sound? What rumble? I didn’t hear anything” The young man said, shrugging his shoulders. “ On, it’s impossible that you didn’t hear that….very strong sound….a sound, indeed a rumble , very loud , but even dull….as if it were a cannon shot fired at a metal barrier…..It came from up there….So I thought it was from an airplane. But I saw that there were no airplanes above here, passing in the sky…Oh, and then I wonder and wonder again : but what was it that made  that terrifying sound (rumble)? “ Anne spoke with her heart in her throat, more and more afraid. “ Eh, of course no airplane is above here…oh, and there is no rumble! At least I didn’t hear it!” The young man said, with an air of annoyance. Then Angie, running up and down, had started asking, first to individuals, whom she , anguished, approached, then addressing her question aloud, indeed screaming, to everyone:” Oh, but did you heard that menacing rumble from up there, you too, didn’t you?” And no, no one had heard that terrible sound ( rumble) . Oh, but it was impossible….she couldn’t believe it! Instead Angie thought that all those present there on the platform  denied having heard that rumble because they were frightened, indeed terrified, since they, unlike her, knew well WHAT that terrible sound meant, what it announced. Not only did they all claim not to have heard that rumble, but they started also to look at Angie with crooked looks, as if they were accusing her of something, such as the threat, the danger to them was….precisely she, who was saying, indeed shouting, she had heard that …. sound, and not the sound itself, which they kept on denying to have heard, perhaps  because they knew well it was something not to be talked about. When the train arrived  Angie, was still repeating her question, she was still looking for someone who said that yes, he too had heard that rumble from up there. But no one admitted to have heard it, and everyone  casted ( poured) on her looks full of distrust , looks that said : “Better to stay away from this one”_____Angie got on the train frightened, and during the journey she was almost always locked in the bathroom. That night Angie dreamed of a sky full of stars, with just a crescent moon. In her dream she was lying down maybe on the bed, maybe on the ground , and she saw that sky above her. Suddenly a fireball burst into the sky, scattering all the stars. That fireball  seemed to be the sun, ah, but it couldn’t be the sun, since it was night. That flaming sphere, which looked like a fiery sun, was moving towards the earth at swirling speed, it was going to fall on the earth. Angie had woken up with her heart in turmoil, she had gone at the window and had opened the window. In front of her here the starry sky appeared, like that of the dream_____there was also a thin crescent moon. But, incredible….the stars were moving, were changing their place (position). The stars of Ursa Minor were descending, approaching Arturo, the quadrilateral  of Pegasus were moving towards Vega.  All the stars were moving….they changed theit position ( place). Then they all started running, as if they were running away….Ah, but of course, they wanted  to escape, to get safety before that fireball arrived, which would disrupt them, which would destroy all them,  so Angie thought, as she still had the images of her dream in her mind.  And she couldn’t believe her eyes: in front of her, in the night sky, the stars were really moving, running. That same night, before Angie, who had fallen asleep again, woke up and thought that…it had been all a dream, even the stars she had seen moving, running in the sky, that too had been a dream, just that night, an airplane , with over one hundred passengers, which was flying in the sky she had seen when she had opened the window, had crushed into the sea. That airplane had been shot down by a missile in an air battle which had taken place in that sky, that night. Since there was no war declared, that air battle was silenced, it had not to be known that there had been ( happened). It was said that the airplane  had crushed due to a technical failure.


Have you ever spoken to the rain?

She did. She’d lift her head up, gaze at the clouds, and listen closely.

“Listen.” She’d say. “Listen to the rain.”

I'd look up at the greying clouds but hear nothing. Because the rain never spoke to me. It only spoke to her. I wish I knew what it said. What secrets they shared. I always imagined it spoke in whispers. Something so beautiful. I remember the day we sat by the lake. The trees waltzed with the wind around us. Autumn leaves broke away and swayed in twirls towards the infinite. The smell of the earth was so pungent. So pure. I stole a glance at her, sitting beside me. Eyes reaching for the sky. Her soft, silky hair flew behind her. Drips of water fell on her nose, and it made her smile. As though the rain had just shared an inside joke.

“What did it say?” I said at the time, still not getting anything.

“It said its happy we’re both here. Everybody else is leaving.”

I looked around, and realized it was true. The minute the clouds gathered, and the rain picked up; people started to leave. Families packed their lunches and headed for their cars, dragging their kids behind. An older couple snapped their umbrella open and wobbled to the parking lot, wrapped in a hug. The park stood almost empty, save for us and the bikes that drove us here.

“People don’t like getting wet.” I said.

She giggled, allowing the beads of water to dribble from her chin. “I know. It’s weird, isn’t it?”

The thunder didn’t spook her. I watched it flash in the distance, roaring its dominance. But she never flinched. Not even a little. She said that the thunder, the clouds, and the rain are one. They complemented one another. Just like she and I. Just like everything around us. The earth, the sky, the wind, the animals, the trees. Humans. We all speak to one another. Connected by a celestial bridge. “But what happens when things die?” I had asked. “Wouldn’t that break the connection? The bridge, I mean.”

She shrugged. “There is no death. You only move on to the next life. And then the next, and the next. It never ends. Life goes on.”

I didn’t understand it at the time, and honestly, I didn’t bother to inquire any further. I was satisfied with what she said. Whether it was true or not, I didn’t care. I liked the sound of it. Life goes on. It sure seemed like it did.

I remember she liked to sing. She’d make up some new songs and sing them to me on our way to school. She said the clouds helped her come up with the right words. She even proved it once. We were walking to school on a spring day when she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and gazed up. I watched her fix her eyes on the sky’s languid movement. Silent. Everything around us was so silent. I feared that time had stopped. That we’d be stuck here forever, and I’d never hear her sing again. Then her lips moved, and she smiled. “Look,” She pointed a finger. “They look like sailing ships. The blue sky is the ocean.” I looked up, shielding my eyes from the glaring sun. “Ships? I don’t know, maybe.”

“They’re telling a story. About the fishermen at Black Bear Lake.” Her light hair swooshed over her shoulders. She stayed still, like one of those porcelain figures my mom liked to buy from a local antique shop.

“What kind of story?” I asked.

She paused, then said. “The normal kind. Fishermen came to the lake yesterday morning, opened their nets, and threw them into the waters. When the sun left, so did they.”

I didn’t know how to feel about that. It sounded a little. “Boring.” I said. “Why would the clouds tell you that?” She wasn’t offended by it. She actually giggled. “It doesn’t have to be interesting to be beautiful. The fishermen were happy to be there. They loved the big puffy cloud because it gave them cool shade when it became too hot. We’re all connected, remember?”

She later sang the song about the fishermen. The one that the clouds inspired her to sing. I can’t remember much of the words today, but I remember it went something like this:

Far out on the ocean, the fishermen pull. Far out on the ocean, the tide will roll . There were tides, seagulls, and ropes. I pictured the strings of sunlight hitting the ocean. The smell of salt and sweat. It stayed with me for days.

Until one day, months from then, I heard that song again. I remember that day so vividly. Like it was yesterday. I heard that song on the radio. It was sung by a school choir. It wasn’t exactly the same, but it was pretty close.

Far out on the ocean, the fishermen pull. Far out on the ocean, the tide will roll . I couldn’t believe it. How did they know the words? I rode my bike and raced to her house. I wanted to tell her about the radio song right away.

She beamed, joyful. “I told you! It’s the bridge. We’re all connected. They probably saw the ships in the clouds, or at least, one of them did.” Whether I believed her or not, I didn't know. But these are stories that I will hold so dear. Even though still today, I haven’t been able to hear the whispers of the rain. Every now and then, I'd lift my head up to the clouds and watch the rain go down. The sound it makes as it hits the window. Drizzling on the tall metal pipe that almost touches the sidewalk. The splashing of water behind speeding tires. The blurred orange hue of streetlights, just before the sun tucks behind the horizon. Closing a lid on a darkened sky. I try to listen. Hopeful it’ll speak to me like it did to her. But it never did. It only spoke to her.


“What!” she screamed, pushing back her chair, causing it topple with the momentum. “How can you even say that? Get rid of i t ? It’s not a piece of furniture, Silvio!”  Jen couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. The man standing before her suddenly seemed like a stranger.

“How could you even think I would want this?” he snapped back. “This was supposed to be our treasure!” she yelled back, incredulously. “It would add to our beautiful life and make us.….whole.” Her flustered mind was trying to clutch at straws of reasoning but was drawing a blank. Silvio paced across the room, his eyes burning with rage. Jen couldn’t believe this was happening. Her life was falling apart. Just that morning, she’d bounced all over the doctor’s room in excitement when she’d heard the news. His outburst was completely unsettling. She watched his face, expectantly, trying to calm herself down. “Jen, tell me this isn’t serious,” he said, a steely edge in his voice. “I thought you were on the pill.” She saw the accusation in his eyes. “… I am serious…I don’t know what happened.” She walked over to his side and took his hand in hers. She wasn’t sure why he was reacting this way. He let go of her hand and took a step back. “I can’t …I don’t want a baby,” he formed the words decisively. She felt like the breath had been knocked out of her.

“Honey, we’re married now. Why wouldn’t you want kids?” she asked, as if breaking things down would make it easier to discuss. “I’ve never wanted kids,” he snapped, “How could you think I wanted this?” “You never told me!” She was yelling again. With every word he uttered, she felt the fragile fabric of their lives crack. She didn’t know how many more cracks it could take. “You never asked!” Jen was shocked at his tone. Running her hand through her auburn hair, she took a deep breath, walked back to the abandoned dining table and forced herself to sit. In a placating voice, she murmured, “How about we finish dinner and talk about this later?” She was trying to be the bigger person. She looked at him, the dim light from the street throwing shadows across his kind face which suddenly seemed unfamiliar to her. This was the man she’d fallen in love with. Six years! Her best friend since college and now her life partner. How did this fissure even happen?  “No! There is nothing to talk about. I will not have kids…ever!” His ominous response to her olive branch left her speechless. He grabbed his jacket from the couch and headed for the door. “Silvio, wait!” Jen pleaded before he could leave. “I just…. I can’t be here right now,” he called over his shoulder. As the door slammed, Jen felt her perfect life come crashing down. She stood there, staring helplessly at the retreating back of the man who suddenly seemed like a stranger to her. Unsure how long she’d been standing there, she snapped out of her reverie and looked outside. The street was empty. A villainous stray cat ambled towards the trash can in the yard, but Jen didn’t have the energy to chase it away. The argument had drained her – physically and emotionally- and she was no closer to solving the issue. She didn’t know what this incident meant. Or how they would move on from it. Pulling herself together, she headed for a hot shower hoping it would shake off the numbness that had gripped her. Once done, she came out and looked at the antique clock her grandmother had gifted them for their engagement. It was midnight. She moved to the window and peered outside, still nobody in sight. Changing into her nightgown, she walked to her bed and lay down. Sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned, memories of the evening burning through her mind. What had just happened? Where had it all gone wrong? She remembered standing in the kitchen, excited as she’d waited for Silvio to return. It was all she could do to keep from calling him the moment she’d got the news knowing he was in a meeting. She’d heard the key turn in the front door. Silvio had walked towards her and wrapped his arms around her waist, his lips finding their way to her neck causing waves of pleasure to roll down her spine. “Mmm…..how do you still do this to me?” she’d asked, half-jokingly, turning into his arms and moving in for a kiss. “You mean you thought the romance would die after 8 months of marriage?” he’d asked, feigning surprise. She remembered him teasing her as he’d nuzzled her neck, his arms holding her tight. She’d laughed. It had been 8 months already! To her, it still seemed like the first time they’d met six years ago. Silvio had convinced a classmate to drop out of Jen’s dissertation group so that he could work with her, and do a lot more than work, whenever time permitted. Even now, the effort he’d put in made her smile, a warm fuzzy feeling spreading in her stomach. She sighed. Life had been a whirlwind since then. They’d spent days together, balancing studies and later work, but always finding time to roll back into each other’s arms at the end of the night. A habit that hadn’t changed one bit …. until today , she thought despondently. They had then sat down to eat. She’d grabbed a bottle of wine, it was something they always took recourse to, either to celebrate major wins or to drown out excruciatingly disappointing days. It was the one item they religiously replenished. “You read my mind,” Silvio had said, smiling tiredly, as she poured the wine. “The meeting didn’t go as planned,” he’d continued, digging into the lasagna. “They said the pitch needed work and that they are currently unable to provide any increments due to the pandemic.” His disappointment was apparent. “I’m sorry,” Jen had whispered, knowing how much he’d been looking forward to the promotion. They’d been discussing buying a house of their own soon and he was working really hard to move up the ladder so they could do that. “But I’ve got news that will make you feel better,” she’d said, taking his hand across the table. Till then, things had been fine, she realised. He’d looked at her, catching the excitement in her voice and laughed. “I don’t know how you do it but you always have a way of brightening the bad days,” he’d murmured affectionately, planting a light kiss on her cheek. Jen had drawn in a deep breath and with excitement pumping through her, she’d blurted, “We’re pregnant!” That’s when everything began to go downhill. She felt a lump rise in her throat now. Could he really not want a baby? The sound of footsteps on the pavement outside dragged her away from her thoughts. It was him! She recognised that easy-going gait anywhere. He walked in. Jen remained in bed, unmoving. Silvio stood silently at the doorway his shadow reflecting his every move. A slight hesitation in his step, he entered the room, picked up a blanket lying on the bed and left. Jen strained her ears to catch his movements. She heard him walk into the adjacent guest room. The bed creaked as he got into it. She let out her breath. Her stomach was knotted to the point of being painful. He’d not even said goodnight ! Sitting up in bed, she tried to gather her thoughts. She walked out into the living room, grabbed a glass of water to calm her jittery nerves and moved to the guest room. Silvio sat at the writing desk, his head in his hands. The sheets on the bed lay ruffled. She realised he couldn’t sleep either. This thought brought her some comfort.

“Hey,” she said, quietly. “Hey,” he replied, unmoving. She walked over to his desk and took his face in her hands. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she apologised, pleading, looking for some sign of a truce. His blank gaze disconcerted her. “I know,” he said, “that went out of hand,” he mumbled. “Could we… maybe…?” she ventured, not sure how to broach the subject. “Listen Jen,” he said, finally looking up. She saw the pain that lay behind his eyes. He moved his hand and wrapped it round her waist, pulling her onto his lap. “I won’t change my stand on kids…” he started. The finality in his voice was like a slap to her face. She got up in surprise. “No! Please, listen.” He begged, pulling her close again. She relented. “I did not have a great childhood, Jen,” he began, sighing. This was harder than he’d expected. “Dad left at an early age and I don’t know what he was like. Maybe he was bad, maybe mom drove him away.” He looked straight at her. “All I had was my mom.” “I know,” Jen whispered, aware that his mom had been his only support till he turned fifteen and decided to make a life for himself. “My mom abused me, Jen, every single day,” he revealed, tears stinging his eyes. “She’d come home drunk most nights….and yell if the day hadn’t been good.” His voice had begun to choke. “She’d first hit me but not where you’d notice. She’d make me drop my pants and…use a belt.” Jen gasped. Why hadn’t he told her any of this before? She didn’t know how to respond. Now the tears were silently pouring down his cheeks. “But that’s not even the worst part.” “Silvio, I didn’t know,” she whispered, pulling him close. “But…” “The worst part,” he interrupted, “was what came after. Every time she hit me, she’d do it until I cried but once I did, she’d feel bad and would begin to ….to make it up. She’d start fondling me, pull me to her room and abuse me…sexually,” he whispered, his voice breaking at the last word. Jen’s eyes widened. This was a revelation she had not expected. “Oh Silvio..” she cried, tears stinging her own eyes as she buried her face in his. “Why didn’t you leave?” “Where could I go?” he asked crassly. “I had no dad, we were in a locality away from any of dad’s family. All I had was her.” He brushed the tears off his face with the back of his hand. The room had turned dark as the moon slipped behind the clouds. The darkness and the revelation added an eeriness to the whole thing. Jen waited for it all to sink in. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead, knowing it was now or never. “Babe, I didn’t know any of this and I’m sorry,” she said, looking straight into his eyes. “But you are not your mom or your dad. You will be a great father. I know it,” she said encouragingly, running a hand through his hair. He stood abruptly, almost throwing her off. She felt the hostility that exuded from him. “Do you not understand what I just said?” he yelled, a maniacal edge to his voice. His calm demeanour had disappeared. “I do…but.” “No buts!” I am not going to bring a child into this world. You need to get rid of it. I will not tolerate this bullshit anymore,” he roared, slamming his fist on the table. Before she knew what was happening, Jen raised her hand and hit him across the face. They both stood stunned. “I will not ‘get rid’ of our baby, Silvio,” Jen said, in a quiet voice. “You don’t understand….it was…horrible...,” he cried, almost begging, his anger swerving to desperation. “Oh baby, I know,” she interrupted, moving towards him. He looked helpless. Shattered. She held him tight in her arms, his body shuddering as the sobs erupted. She placed gentle kisses all over his face trying to wipe away his tears. “Baby, I’m here,” she cooed softly, realising how traumatizing his childhood must’ve been. She decided their discussion could wait another day. She held him close, kissing him soothingly on the lips as her fingers ran through his hair. As his sobs subsided, he started kissing her back, a desperate fervour in his actions. He slowly took her clothes off, carrying her into the bedroom as she held him tight, wanting him to know that she was there. As they climaxed and the tears subsided, she wrapped her arms around him and drifted off. The last words she heard before her exhausted mind gave in was Silvio whispering, “I love you, Jen. I’ll always love you.” A contented smile on her lips, she dozed off knowing everything would be alright. The next morning, Jen arose feeling much better. The sense of gloom and foreboding that had haunted her the previous night had lifted. She turned in bed and saw the empty sheets. She decided to get up and see how her husband was doing before catching a few more minutes of rest. She walked into the living room. He wasn’t there. “Honey,” she called, too sleepy to check every room. The silence struck her as odd. She walked into the kitchen. The coffee hadn’t been heated yet. She moved to the balcony. It was empty. A slight panic began at the back of her mind but she pushed it away. Her steps became frantic. She moved to the last room – the guest room. The crumpled sheets lay there just like yesterday. She noticed Silvio’s jacket and shoes were gone. Jen stood trembling, knowing intuitively that something was wrong. Had he gone out to grab something? Had something happened? She took in the empty room, an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She slowly walked to the tabletop and ran her hand over its surface, the memories of last night coming back to her. Him, sitting there, head in his hands as she slithered towards him, an apology playing in her head. Then it had spiralled and now here she was, his scent, their scent all over the room, heated memories tucked into every corner – it was all that remained. She dropped into the rosewood chair. It had been a recent splurge during an impromptu shopping spree they’d gone on two weeks ago. Her eyes settled on a small piece of paper tucked beneath a picture of them on the table. The five words scribbled there hit her with the force of a blow. I can’t do this anymore . Clutching the piece of paper to her chest, she let the sobs take over.


Why, thought Dora, clutching her glass of wine and giving polite smiles from the corner of the room, did people assume that because you were “good on the radio”, or even “a bit of a celebrity” then you were going to love a party. Dora didn’t. She hated them. Oh, she didn’t mind going round to a friend’s house, but this was another matter. It wasn’t even as if she was antisocial. She had spent most of her life working with the public, and could make conversation well enough. But right now, oh, how she longed to be back at her little cottage, with her books and her music and her cat Snowflake curled up imperiously beside her on the sofa, condescending to let her stroke him with a lazy blink of his sapphire blue eyes. Mike caught her eye and gave her what he probably thought was a reassuring look. She liked Mike. He was a nice boy. Okay, so she had reached the stage in life when she referred to men in their forties as nice boys. And he’d insisted she didn’t have to come if she didn’t want to, but she had always married her manners and she knew how much she owed him. Only a couple of minutes ago it looked as if she had forgotten her manners when she didn’t respond to someone who called her over, but it was because she’d had to think twice when they said, “Pandora.” But that was her name. She had never used it, not when she was old enough to have a say in the matter, and the people she would always have thought of as her parents supported her decision. She supposed they were rather relieved, and wished that the person who gave Coronation Day Baby her name hadn’t been quite so erudite or whimsical. But she had been found in a box and Pandora’s box had hope left in it…. still, couldn’t they have called her “Hope”? Not that she was that keen on virtue names. She’d had a schoolfriend called Faith and always thought it gave you too much to live up to. Decades later the name achieved a certain currency through Pandora Braithwaite in the Adrian Mole books, that Dora rather liked, though she supposed the first couple, at least, were aimed at a considerably younger readership. But that gave her no urge to re-adopt it. Still, it was as well someone had adopted HER! Yes, it had been midsummer, had been June, but it had also been a horribly rainy day. There had been something of a scandal about that as the Queen’s former governess wrote a magazine column and liked to make out she did it more or less live, but of course, she didn’t, and she’d made it a gloriously sunny day. As people swarmed the streets of London or gathered round the grainy black and white pictures on newly purchased television sets, in a small town on the East Coast, a baby girl was abandoned in a little shelter along the sea front. And that could have been the end of her life, even though she was wrapped in a blanket, and the shelter kept the driving rain off her head. That was where she had her first strike of amazing luck, the kind of thing the radio audience in Mike’s documentary adored. Whilst people were watching the Coronation on their grainy minuscule TV screens, a woman called Barbara Jenkins was coming home from her shift at work, and despite the weather, had decided to have a walk up the seafront to clear her mind because it had been a fraught day at work. And Barbara was a nurse. She knew what to do, and she did it, and it was confirmed at the hospital that the little girl appeared to be healthy and none the worse for her ordeal, though had it lasted much longer …. well, Barbara was the heroine of the hour. Dora often wondered why she hadn’t been called Barbara, but apparently (so various reports and reports of reports had said) she was a very self-effacing young woman and wouldn’t have thanked folk for it. Or why not Elizabeth given it was Coronation Day? But maybe that was considered just too obvious. So she was Pandora. Pandora soon to become Dora, who had now become Pandora again. She was adopted by a very nice couple in their late thirties called Janet and Bob Edmunds. Apparently there was an extremely careful vetting procedure to make sure that the prospective parents weren’t just interested in the story rather than the child. Bob was an electrician and Janet was a housewife who also did dressmaking work. From the start, Dora knew that she was adopted, or at least from as soon as she could understand. Though of course, this was decades before the Internet, information both travels quickly and embeds itself in a small town, and it was far better coming from her Mum and Dad than from anyone else. They did a grand job of it, she thought. They made sure she knew they were delighted to choose her because she was special, but her being special had nothing to do with her being abandoned in a shelter on the sea front on Coronation Day. She had a very happy childhood. She was adored and indulged, but not spoilt, and though she never quite forgot she was adopted, there were weeks and months on end when it didn’t have that much importance in her life. Yet it was the kind of thing, especially given the circumstances, that never really went away. By the time she was in her late thirties and early forties herself, it was becoming more and more acceptable for adopted children to trace their parents. Dora supposed it was good they had the right to, but some of the stories irritated her and made her feel her heckles rise on behalf of the adopted parents. She hated it when it almost seemed as if they were rejected, or at any rate downgraded, once the biological parents – or more likely, just the biological mother – were traced. Oh, she never condemned the birth parents or mother. Dora wasn’t a judgemental person, and could quite easily see, especially in less liberal times, how folk were driven to it and it didn’t make them cruel or reprehensible. But so far as she was concerned Janet was her mother, and Bob was her father. It wasn’t until both of them had passed away, and she had a chance conversation waiting in the queue at the pharmacy, that she began to wonder if perhaps it would be good to know something, after all. Someone had heard a radio programme about a baby – a boy this time – who had been abandoned on the Embankment in London, during the war, and who hadn’t begun to unearth the story of his life until he was an old man himself. It wasn’t a totally happy ending for him with all the loose ends tied up, but it was plain he hadn’t regretted it and it had enriched his life. Dora had never married. She had been engaged once but – well, best not to think about it. She knew that especially given the circumstances her parents would have liked grandchildren, but they never tried to exert any kind of pressure on her. She liked children, and was a popular and well-respected teacher, but had never had children of her own. Like her parents – like Bob and Janet – Dora had always been modest in her demands. Oh, she didn’t have a low opinion of herself or anything like that, but she didn’t like a fuss and preferred things to be low-profile. So although the programme about the Embankment Baby had been on the World Service, and had been heard all over the world, not just the UK, she made tentative enquiries at her local radio station, Radio Anglia. She was given an appointment to see a man called Mike Ellis, who apparently was responsible for “such things”. He also did the morning programme on the radio. Dora felt rather guilty as she realised that she couldn’t remember the last time she had heard it (maybe for details about what was closed and open during the freak winter weather they called The Beast from the East a few years back). It wasn’t that she had anything against it, but the Today programme on Radio Four was part of her morning routine. She tried to salve her conscience by listening to a couple of episodes, and it was fine, but in her heart of hearts she still preferred Today . Still, Mike made a good impression. He wasn’t too smarmy or too sarcastic. She found a picture of him on the Internet (she wasn’t exactly a passionate “Silver Surfer” but it had its uses) and he was well – just a pleasant looking young man in his forties. Just a nice boy …..! One trait she had inherited from both Janet and Bob, but especially the former, was a belief in what a handshake told you, and she liked Mike’s handshake. It was firm but not too firm, cool and sincere. He ushered her into a room that apparently doubled up as his office and his studio and had posters all over the wall with local scenes and slogans like Your Local Voice and Radio Anglia, the Sound of the East Coast . “Tea or coffee, Miss Edmunds?” he asked, “Or may I call you Dora?” “Coffee please, and of course you may,” (Once an English teacher, always an English teacher, she thought wryly, awarding him Brownie Points for saying may and not can . “But if you don’t mind, I prefer just Dora.” He smiled. “I can’t honestly say I blame you!” He was both easy to talk to, and a good listener, and she was fairly sure it wasn’t just a radio persona coming through. Though perhaps it was a matter of chickens and eggs! “I’m going to take a great interest in your story, Dora,” he said, “And consider it my baby – if you’ll pardon the expression!” “I might, but don’t make a habit of it!” She was surprised she felt confident enough with him to share in a joke. “Fair enough. But I’m not the expert on the subject. I want to put you in touch with a lady called Christine Franks. She’s quite an expert in matters like this, and I believe her to be totally trustworthy. If she’s getting nowhere, she’ll tell you, and – well, I might as well say it, if anything you might prefer not to know turns up, then she won’t hide it from you.” “I prefer it that way,” said Dora, truthfully enough, though in fact she supposed there were things she might prefer not to know. Dora always believed in giving people a fair chance, but had to admit that when she first met Christine, she was reminded of a doctor’s receptionist. In fact, she did bear a slight resemblance to one of the receptionists at Dora’s doctors, but it wasn’t mainly that. She seemed very efficient, but more inclined to stop you getting forward and finding things out than the opposite. But before too long she realised that she had misjudged her, and it was a sign of her integrity. “There may not be any kind of fairy tale ending,” she said. “If I ever come across as obstructive, Dora, it’s not because I’m being rambunctious, it’s out of concern.” Generally Dora was lary of people who expressed an excess of concern, but she was also very fond of the word rambunctious, so she decided to “hit the reset button” and after that the two women got on famously. One of the first steps was a DNA test, though as Dora remembered, in the corner at the party, Christine warned her that they were by no means conclusive. It was interesting without being earth-shattering. There were indications of the East of England – so probably her mother was a local girl, but also of Ireland, the Netherlands, and, weirdly, a hint of Ukrainian. The first real lead, though, didn’t come from the genetic test, but from a local person. With Dora’s agreement, her story was covered on Mike’s show, though her privacy was respected, as far as was possible. But it came from far away – from Canada, and an ex-pat who was keeping up with home by listening to Radio Anglia on the Internet. Her name was Susan Bligh, and she was the great-niece of a man who had been a local policeman in the town. Uncle Billy, as she called him, had been on patrol on coronation day, and years later had told her, when she begged for “stories” about his time in the police, told her about a woman he had seen on Coronation Day, pacing up and down the seafront, seeming in distress. “He asked her if she needed any help, but she said no, and she wasn’t drunk or causing a disturbance or anything, so there wasn’t much he could do about it, but he did say there was something haunting about her. And one thing that did stick in his mind – she was wearing a bright purple coat!” “Oh, my goodness!” Dora exclaimed, and went on to tell Susan that her favourite colour had always been purple! If Janet and Bob had let her, she’d gone through stages where she’d have worn nothing but. So that was mentioned on the show, and a response came more or less immediately. It was from someone called Lily Watkins, who was a very old lady now, nearly a hundred, but still as sharp as a button, and had been the owner of a shop in a town not far up the coast at the time. She had employed a young woman called Thelma Bradshaw, and as she said, “She was a good worker and nice manners, but I could never quite bottom her, and oh my goodness, she loved purple! But I realised that big coat she wore was to hide the fact she was in the family way. And no Mr Bradshaw in the picture, nor even a boyfriend, so far as I could see. Well – some would have just flung her out on her ear, but I didn’t. I LIKED the girl, and we can all make mistakes. I was worried when one day she just didn’t turn up, but she did send me a note, through the post, not through the door, and it said she was sorry but she had to go away for a while and she wished me all the best.” Well, that counted as progress of sorts, thought Dora, and everyone at Radio Anglia was doing their best for her and it would have been bad manners to refuse the invitation to the annual “do”. She made herself not look at her watch, realising how unfortunate it would appear if anyone saw her, remembered there was a clock on the wall and discovered that only a quarter of an hour had passed until she last looked. I will NOT play the old lady card and say I am tired or feeling under the weather, she thought, determinedly. I will make an effort. After all, not everyone was the life and soul of the party, where they? She suspected even Mike saw it as a necessary ritual rather than a delight. In fact – she looked around – was he even in the room any more. She couldn’t see him. Maybe he was just attending a call of nature – but two people emerged from the gents’ restrooms, neither of them was Mike, and though she didn’t quite know HOW she knew she did know there were only two “necessary items” as her grandmother had termed toilets! Bob and Janet had humoured her but had no time for such pretentions, and had made sure that when Dora started school she knew perfectly well to just ask if she may go to the toilet and not say she needed to see a man about a dog or anything like that. Those were the kind of little things you remembered with gratitude. Anyway, Mike was coming back into the room through another door, and he was not alone. He was leading an old lady – a VERY old lady, who made Dora feel young in comparison and who looked even more ill at ease than she was. Her first thought was that they had brought along Lily Watkins, but Dora had seen a picture of her, admittedly taken several years ago, but – well, this was an entirely different woman. And she was wearing purple. “Dora, perhaps you ought to step into the side room,” Mike said gently. She nodded and complied. This was not the kind of thing to take place in public, and it spoke volumes for Mike that he realised this. He and the very old lady retreated back into the little office, and Dora followed them. And for the first time in nearly seventy years, Thelma Bradshaw and her daughter fell into each others’ arms. Neither of them said much. There was plenty to say. But it could wait.


The year is 1937, and it is an acorn in autumn, growing on its parent's limb. A breeze rushes through the valley, snapping it off its brittle twig and sending it tumbling down to earth, landing in a fertile, nourishing cowpat, on the other side of a low wooden fence (a human marker for which stretch of featureless plain is and is not a ranch), not ten feet away from where it first grew. No one is here to witness this, save a single squirrel, collecting the acorn's siblings for winter, three branches above the branch the acorn fell from. She does not notice, or care, that it fell. The year is 1937, and the acorn has gone unnoticed for months, having been trampled and shoved below the once-soft earth by cow hooves, horses, and the leather boots of cowboys in deerskin and steel spurs. The ground is frozen now, and the acorn lies dormant in hard soil. The squirrel that unknowingly witnessed its falling searches for where she buried its siblings among pale snow, lost in the falling flakes of a coming blizzard. She will not find all of them. She will not live to see the spring. In her bones, so small and so fragile against the immensity of the world and the unforgiving cold, she knows this, and she is afraid. It is the winter of 1937, and she dies against the roots of the parent tree, the only landmark she can be sure of in the whirling chaos of the blizzard. When the storm is over, a starving fox finds her corpse, and is grateful for it. The year is 1938, and it is a minuscule shoot of green in the spring, nearly indistinguishable from the miles of grass around it. What was once a cowpat has become rich soil, and the young oak's roots grow deep and strong. A newborn calf, sleeping in the noonday sun beside his mother, does not know this. He has only lived a day and a half, and the ranchers have not discovered him yet. The year is 1938, and it is high summer. The sprout is a sapling, and is now a little taller than the surrounding grass. What will become its trunk is now too tough and woody to be chewed, and curious cows will spit out its bitter leaves. The calf born that spring now grazes beside his siblings in the herd, having been weaned, and avoids the young oak tree, nibbling the grass around it. He has tasted the leaves of the sapling before, and he knows it does not make a good meal. The year is 1938, and it has been exactly a year since the sapling fell as an acorn. The calf is growing fast, and he will be a yearling bull in six short months. The ranchers have pierced his nose in preparation for a ring, as they plan to use him to pull the plow. The parent tree, ten feet away, drops more acorns. The year is 1938, and it is deep winter. The calf has been moved into a barn with his herd, and the oak sapling, along with its parent, loses its leaves and goes dormant. The year is 1939, and it is spring again. A mated pair of robins make their nest in the parent tree's branches, a few feet higher than the place where the sapling fell from. The calf is now a yearling, and has been given to heifers several times now. He is young and strong and full of vigor, and challenges older bulls whenever he has the chance. His whole life is ahead of him, though it will be shorter than he instinctively believes it will be. The oak sapling has grown twice as tall as it was last spring, and humans take note of it now, in passing. Its presences means little to them, and so they leave it be. The year is 1939, and it is summer on the ranch once more. The young bull is now a steer, and he feels different, though he doesn't understand why. The young robins who hatched in the branches of the parent tree fly freely now, all but one of their clutch (who fell from the nest as a hatchling) still alive and singing. The young oak is nearly a grown tree now, and its parent is growing acorns early. It will not grow acorns of its own for decades yet. It is the autumn of 1939, and the oak tree is two years old. The family of robins have flown south, leaving their old nest of twigs and cow hair vacant. A hundred feet away, the young steer struggles with his handlers. The ranchers mean to sell him for the slaughter, but since his castration, he has grown to distrust them, and so he fights them with every ounce of his strength that they value so highly as meat. After hours of struggle, they loop a rope around his nose ring, and lead him with seven of his brothers to a train station miles away. That will be the last time he sees the ranch where he lived his whole life. It is the cusp of winter, in 1939, and the young steer dies hundreds of miles from home, with the smell of blood in his nostrils. Winter passes, and the young oak drops its leaves again. The year is 1940, and the family of robins have all come back for the spring - the parents of the clutch, and half the clutch from last year. They all make new homes nearby one another, and the young oak's branches are finally strong enough to hold a nest. A young robin, the son of the first mated pair, makes his nest in its branches, singing loudly for any female who might hear him. One responds, and they nest together for the spring. The year is 1940, and it is summer again. The young robin and his mate had two clutches laid in the branches of the oak tree, the first of which was eaten by a crow. The second was successful, and they flit even now from branch to branch. For the robins, this is a land of plenty, with many worms and insects for them to eat. The year is 1940, and it is autumn once again. Another squirrel seeks acorns in the branches of the parent tree. More young bulls, steers, and heifers graze nearby. More are culled from the herd, and more will be born next spring. The robins have flown south – they will return.


Sunlight floods my room. At the first break of morning, I let go a sigh of relief. I know my worries are gone for good. Well, except for the mess in the other room, but I can ignore that for now. The scent has never caused anyone in the complex to complain before. I gently tiptoe around my linoleum tile room and dress myself in a light cotton skirt and thin tank top. My nails appear to be clean, but I paint them bright red as an extra measure. What if anyone noticed the blood?

I can’t remember what I did with last night’s clothes, but surely, I would’ve been careful with them. Did I burn them? Is fire cleansing enough? The only thing I have to do is avoid the kitchen. I need to leave the apartment first. I can deal with the mess later. Later is always better. I rush out of my apartment, and I narrowly escape the disaster waiting for me in the kitchen. The usual decorative half-empty coffee mugs were nowhere to be found in my home. This is the most definitive sign he is gone. I make my way downtown, eager to greet the bodega man. He is always kind, and he is understanding when my clothes are occasionally blood-stained. He is also always excited to show me his freshest oranges. The bodega always makes the world more tangible. As I graze my fingertips along the oranges, attempting to choose the ripest, I make eye contact with a smiling man sitting at the café table next to the bodega. I look away quickly – surely it isn’t him. As my blood runs cold and my mouth dry, I recall the previous night’s events. It can’t be him. I know it can’t be him. I saw his blood flood furiously through my kitchen just last night. I put the cold metal to his neck, and I slit him from ear to ear. His corpse looked as if it had a distorted smile. I hid his heart in my floorboards. Its never-ending beat screamed of my guilt. And yet, here he is. Alive. And drinking his favorite: black coffee. Whenever he appeared in my life again, he was always accompanied by a black coffee. Sugarless. Tasteless. A drink as dark as the sinister thoughts he whispered in my ear. I first met him ten years ago, in my early 20s. He was kind, warm, at first. He made sure I knew the realities of the world, and he wanted to protect me. He used to drink his coffee with cream and sugar. I am not sure when he changed, but he is not the same man now. It can’t be him. I killed him. I have killed him hundreds of times, but I am positive this latest attempt was successful. He never screamed the way he screamed last night. Hurriedly, I choose an orange, and I make my way to pay. I can barely focus on what the bodega man is saying. The man at the café is walking towards me, and he is whispering. Just as always. He says he only wishes to protect me, and he would never bring me harm. Perhaps I should listen to him – I don’t understand how he could be so different now. I ramble to the bodega man about coffee, and I tell him how it reveals the deepest desires of the soul. I leave – I shouldn’t listen to him. I shouldn’t listen to him. He is not who he used to be. When I finally arrive at my apartment, I know I am going to have to deal with a mess. His body is still there, lying on the ground, smiling. His blood will have soaked the floor mat by now. My neighbor, Nancy, tries to speak with me as I fiddle with my keys. Nancy is not real. She has never been real. I tell myself this every day, as she always tries to convince me she isn’t like the others. I am grateful Jim doesn’t look out of his peephole. Jim has kind eyes, and he never drinks coffee of any kind, but I do not trust him. He blares circus music late into the night. He is suspicious of me. I’ve invited him over for tea before, and he always stares at the kitchen floor tiles too intently. He knows what happens in my apartment. Even through the circus music, I am positive he can hear the screams. After what feels like years of trying to open my door, the knob finally gives way. Much to my shock and dismay, someone has already cleaned up my murder scene. The body is missing. There is no blood. Just once I wish the blood would still be there after I killed him. I do not know who always cleans it up, but surely, I would remember doing such a thing. I sink into the most comfortable chair I own. There are empty black coffee mugs everywhere I look. I hate the taste of black coffee, but he doesn’t. They weren’t here this morning. He wasn’t here this morning. He strolls in moments later. Just as he always does, he places a singular chrysanthemum in a glass jar. He cups my face in his hands. “You know,” he starts, “the bodega man wanted to kill you today. That’s why I was there.” I sigh. Of course, I already knew he would tell me this. I know the bodega man would never hurt me, but he is excellent in making me nervous of the kindest people. I would rather skip the conversation tonight. There is no reason to hear his thoughts on the strangers in the street who seek to harm me. First, I sniff the chrysanthemum and place it in my breast pocket. I then stumble around my messy kitchen as he babbles, and I find my prized knife. Just like I have murdered him every single time, I slit his throat. It is comfortably familiar. His bitter, black blood seeps onto my hands. This time, I killed him in the living room. Perhaps the change in venue will yield different results. After all, they say insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Maybe tomorrow the blood will be here.


I take a sip of my coffee while turning to the next page of the newspaper. I overhear a senior woman saying to a friend, “My grandkids keep pushing me to get this thing called an app. But I can barely figure out how to text them since that’s the only way they will talk to me.”

“I know what you mean, Beatrice. My son gave me a smartphone for Christmas, and I keep missing his phone calls because I don’t know how to turn the ringer on.”

I try to tune out the conversation; it’s the same one every day, old people complaining about tech.

More people shuffle into the dining room to get breakfast, and most are using walkers. I always sit in the back of the room to eat my eggs and toast so I can enjoy my cup of coffee in peace. When the complaining gets to be too much, I reach up and take both my hearing aids out—silence at last.

I’m almost finished reading the paper when someone taps me on the shoulder. I look down to see a small boy watching me. He says something, but of course, I can’t hear him. I let out a big sigh of annoyance, hoping he will take the hint. Yet he still stands there watching me. Begrudgingly, I put my hearing aids back in and turn in my chair to see him more clearly. “What do you want?” My voice rasping, being the first time I’ve spoken this morning. “Mister, what happened to your arm?” Before I can reply I hear a woman call to him. “Bobby, what are you doing? Don’t bother the nice gentleman.” Nice? I don’t think anyone has ever called me nice before. She takes his hand and leads him away while apologizing over her shoulder. She walks over to a young teenage boy who is watching me intently. I take my hearing aids out and go back reading my newspaper.

The next morning, I decide to go to breakfast early. Hoping today will be less eventful than yesterday. I finish breakfast and reach for my paper when I feel a light tapping on my shoulder again, and it’s the young boy from yesterday standing there. “What happened to your arm?” He asks again. I look around for the woman who dragged him away, but she is nowhere in sight. “Shouldn’t you be with your mother?” I turn away, trying to dismiss him.

“It’s okay. My mother brought me to visit my grandmother.”

Whoopty doo, I think and begin to pick my paper up again when I hear him walk around my chair to stand on my left side. He pulls the chair out and sits down, only to prop himself up with his legs underneath himself. “Can you do tricks with your arm?” “Look kid, you’re bothering me and you shouldn’t talk to strangers.” “You’re not a stranger. Your name is Roger.” “How did you know that?” His eyes are fixed on my arm as he responds. “My grandmother told my mother about you.” I usually don’t care for gossip, but this little boy has piqued my interest. “And what did she say about me?” “That you’re the only old person here who doesn’t act old.” “That’s a strange thing to say about someone.” “Can I touch your arm?” He starts to reach for my arm. “Bobby, you’re being rude.” Bobby jerks his hand away, looking embarrassed. The voice belongs to the teenager I noticed yesterday. “And who might you be?” I ask. “Come on, Bobby.” He ignores my question.

“You know it’s rude not to introduce yourself when interrupting a conversation.” Annoyance flares in his eyes. Still, he doesn’t respond. Bobby is at his side, and they start to walk away. It must be a knee-jerk response because I say, “Kids these days.” The teenager stops dead in his tracks and turns around. “You have no idea what ‘kids these days’ have to deal with. More than you ever had to, old man.” This makes me chuckle. “Really? You think?” I lift my left arm, which isn’t a human arm but a prosthetic one. I reach with it and pick up my coffee mug. I lift it to my mouth and take a drink. “Yes, Bobby, I can do tricks with this arm.” Bobby smiles and comes back to the table.

I shift my focus back to the teen. “What about these?” I point to my hearing aids. “Well, you’re old; of course, you have hearing aids.” He snips. “Okay, then ask me when I lost my arm.” The teenager looks around, debating whether to take the bait. But curiosity is a powerful motivator. “Okay, when?” He asks. “I was 8.” The teen raises his eyebrows. He steps closer to the table, placing his hands on the back of the chair opposite me. “How did it happen?” “Got it caught in a piece of farming equipment.” “You were working on a farm at 8?” Bobby asks excitedly. But the teen looks unimpressed. “How do you move your fingers?” Bobby asks. “There are sensors in the stump that communicate signals from my brain to the arm.” Bobby looks impressed. “Sounds expensive,” The teen dully says. “It was. I spent all my money on it. That’s why I’m in this nursing home.” “You wasted all your money on a fake arm that can only move its fingers?” His outlandish response makes me crack a smile. “After living most of my life without my arm, it’s been nice to get it back.” “But you could be living in your house right now or on a beach somewhere.” When I look back at him, he’s now sitting in the chair, looking intensely at me as if my response will be the most important thing he’s heard in his young life. “You’re from a generation with many things on demand, but above all, you have choices. Technology has given me choices today to have things I couldn’t have before.” “What, you don’t want to go back to the good ol’ days?” He scoffs. “What good old days? Heavy, uncomfortable prosthetics that don’t do anything?” “Well, what about the…” I don’t let him finish. “It doesn’t matter what time you live in, there will be problems. I’m saying that the things we have today have fixed many of mine. I think air conditioning may be the best thing ever invented next to this arm.” “Then what’s the point of trying to be better if it’s never-ending pain and struggle?” “For the days we do solve problems, the outcomes…” I lift my prosthetic arm and hold it out to shake hands, “are well worth it. I’m Roger, and it’s nice to meet you.” The teen looks at the hand with skepticism. But slowly reaches out his hand and places it in mine. When the metal fingers gently close around his fingers, he jumps a little. Then we slowly shake hands. He looks up at me, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “It’s nice to meet you, Roger; I’m Timothy.”

“What other things can your arm do?” Bobby asks with bright eyes. “Want to watch me give someone the middle finger with it?” Both boys laugh. “Bobby, Timothy, what are you doing? I’ve been looking for you.” Their mother walks up, putting her hand on each boy’s shoulders. “I hope they haven’t been bothering you, Mister.” She looks genuinely concerned that her sons have been harassing me. “No, ma’am, you have two exceptional sons here.” Timothy looks surprised at the compliment. The mother sighs with relief. “Oh, good. Okay, let’s go say goodbye to Grandma,”

Timothy gets up and starts to walk away but abruptly turns around. “Hey, take it easy, Roger.” He holds out his closed fist. I hesitate before slowly curling my prosthetic into a closed fist and fist-bump him. “Yeah, you too, Timothy,” I say. Timothy nods and walks away.