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


The hospital is packed. On one end of the building, the hospital has cordoned off a section to allow recovered patients to donate plasma. The opposite annex houses the pathology lab for testing. Thousands of people pour in on both of these wings, meaning the ground floor is constantly a swarm of people filtering in and out. As the warnings to wear masks, stay home and socially distance go unheeded, the number of cases are on an exponential rise. It is no wonder that the health systems are struggling to cope. As a result, the hospitals are taking in more patients than they can accommodate - and have become home to several well-meaning family members who insist on visiting despite the health risks. Dr. Song, however, is operating on a loophole.

As a doctor employed here, he isn’t violating any health codes by being present in the hospital. However, as a plastic surgeon with fewer than 3 (minor) surgeries in a day, he isn’t actually needed on-call either. He claims he uses his hospital privileges to volunteer on the sixth floor of one of the many newly converted COVID-19 wards and help lighten the load. Coincidentally, two of his family members are currently admitted to a room on that floor. Right now, he is rushing into the pathology wing, taking a shortcut through the plasma donation center, to check the results on his family’s most recent blood test. The blood had been collected a few hours before he had entered the hospital premises, and he wants to request the lab technician to analyze the sample from Room 615 urgently. He is nearly out the door, when he hears a name he hadn’t heard in a long time. ‘Ms. Rebecca Singh? You left your purse on counter 4.’ Somehow the impact of distant memories flooding his head causes him to stop in his tracks. He has vague recollections of his childhood home and friends but unable to place exactly when he knew that name. Why does it feel so impossibly familiar? However, he does not have to wonder for long because his mental fog clears the moment she enters the room.

The moment their eyes lock, he is transported back to 1983.

In a flash, he can feel the hormones rush back into his 54 year old body as if he was 17 again.

They were standing over his parent’s balcony when he first dared to cover her hand with his, his heart hammering against his barely-pubescent chest. She had pulled her hand away, slowly. Carefully, she extracted it from his grip. Though she continued to focus her stare directly beyond the balcony, over the horizon, he let his gaze drop for a moment to look at her hand. She was softly wiping it on the front of her dress. She was being kind, trying not to hurt him. She was trying to be as gracious as possible about his unwelcome advance.He could feel his heart sink to the deepest pits of his stomach, his cheeks burning red. He turns his gaze away from her, towards the peeling wall, wishing he had never invited her to study in the first place. ‘Rebecca, hi.’

Ms Singh, who has clearly returned in search of her purse, drops her gaze to his hand to see if he had it. When over his shoulder, she spots her purse. She breaks into an awkward smile as she prepares to cut around him to pick up her forgotten bag. At that moment, the doctor makes a (somewhat) calculated decision to pull down his mask for a brief second. In her surprise, she pauses. ‘It’s Robert... Robert Song. From Sainsbury High School…’ Then, suddenly, he felt a light brush against his fingers. He turned his head so fast, he got whiplash from his hair. Her hand hovered ominously close to his, palm up. Her gaze is still fixed in the far distance, but she had a shy smile teasing the corners of her lips. He thought he saw her eyes dart towards him peripherally, but they shifted back forward so fast that it could have been his imagination. Slowly - even though his whole body felt alive with nervous energy - he inched his hand closer to hers. He placed his palm atop hers, and immediately she intertwined their fingers. Recognition floods her eyes, as she stares

at him in awe. ‘Oh my God! Robert!’ She remembers him, and for some reason this brings a giddy smile to his lips. The warmth of his smile extends to his voice.

‘It’s so good to see you - you haven’t changed at all!’ ‘Flatterer!’ she says with a tone of surprise. Even though she runs a hand to smooth over her greying hair, a blush creeps across her cheeks. ‘How - I mean, what are you doing here?’ He must have eaten fireworks for lunch that day, because his stomach felt like an explosion. Yet, the only thing he could process was the sensation of her hand in his. He felt electric currents wherever his skin met hers. His heart was beating faster than ever and he could feel her pulse match his. They must have spent hours there, hand in hand, experimenting with pressure and strokes.

Dr Song glances down at his white coat, ‘I work here. 16 years now.’

Her smile is warm and genuine. ‘A doctor, of course’ She chuckles, ‘Your father must be pleased, I remember that’s what he had wanted.’

He waited on the floor of her bedroom as she put finishing touches on her hair. He was impatient to see her, and hold her. He kept trying to peer into her bathroom, but was keenly aware that her father was carefully pacing right outside her open (as was strictly instructed) door. The wait felt like agony - each cell in his body felt like tiny magnets being pulled towards her. Yet he had to wait until she was ready, and safely in the front seat of his old beat-up sedan. While he waited, his stomachs turned to knots at the anxiety of being apart. Over the months following the first time they held hands, the touch evolved to hugs and pecks on the cheeks, and then on the lips and beyond. They had become inseparable. Every waking moment was spent lost in each other’s thoughts, or in each other’s eyes. Together they felt invincible. Their love burned bright and hot, and it was easy for the world to fall apart when they were alone. He was just about to get up and poke his head into the bathroom, when her father walked in. They exchanged general pleasantries. In contrast with his father’s relationship with Rebecca, her father was usually friendly. They talked a little about some game that had recently transpired, and then Mr Singh asked what Robert’s plans were after highschool. Aiming to impress, Robert rattled off a section of his college essay to Mr Singh explaining how he wanted to study pre-med to become a doctor like his own father. Mid-conversation, Rebecca finally stepped out, glowing with her big coiffed hair and glossy lips. She jokingly reprimanded her father for interrogating her boyfriend (a word that still caused somersaults in Rob’s stomach) and then held out her hand to leave.

He laughs back, awkwardly, ‘Yeah, I suppose. What about you?’ ‘Oh, I’m in real estate! Let me give you my card -’ She reaches near her hip where her purse would hang and laughs out loud again. ‘Oh, right. My purse - I should… I left it on the counter. Let me just go get it.’ He hears her words but doesn't quite comprehend them. Instead, he stands there, transfixed. Rebecca Singh, whom he had known and loved at the tender age of 17 going on 18. They had lost touch so long ago. There is so much he wants to ask her - there is so much he could say. The woman in front of him is one he knew better than anyone else, and yet is a complete stranger now. He is grateful for his mask, which hides his attempts to find the words to say something to her. All he knows is that he doesn’t quite want the conversation to end just yet. He doesn’t want her to leave just yet. ‘My purse?’ She tries again. Her voice breaks his trance, and he is pulled back into reality.

‘Right, yes! Please -’ Robert says, as he steps out of her way. He is angry - seething - as he blocks her path. He refused to let her go without finishing their conversation first, and he let her know this. Some part of him must have known that he was aggravating the situation, but he was hurting. Anger was much easier to express than vulnerability. He was afraid of losing her. Sadly, his attempts to keep her close only drove her further away. Then, of course, as quickly as it had started, the romance had run its course. It appeared that they argued more than they spoke, fought more than they kissed and spent more time apart than together. Like caramel heated beyond its burning point, what was once sweet began to taste bitter. One particularly vicious fight, two nights before their senior prom, resulted in a break-up. Words were said that they did not quite mean, but it was already too late to take back.

Robert is waiting by the door as she returns. She holds up her purse at him as she crosses over. He holds the door open for her. As they stand at the reception area, they have both suddenly gone quiet. Rebecca looks down at her purse, fiddling at the strap.

‘Well, I should go.’ ‘It was lovely meeting you again.’ ‘Yes, you too.’ The moment hangs and he wishes he could give her a hug. Anything, to mark this strange moment, to give it an appropriate sense of closure. However, even without the pandemic, he feels that perhaps it would not have been possible. He moves to offer her a hand to shake, and realizes that too is not a sensible option. In the end, he raises his hand to give her a short wave. She smiles and responds in kind. Then, she turns to walk away. They both had taken different dates to the dance. Her date was quite a bore and wanted to sit at the table and joke with friends instead of dancing. His date wouldn’t give him a moment’s rest - she wanted to remain in perpetual motion. Still, they made a real show of having fun even though they felt miserable inside. They spent the whole evening looking over their shoulder at each other. What should have been a warm and happy memory became tainted with jealousy and rage.

He had tried to talk to her once that night, but she purposely turned away when she saw him. It felt like a knife to his gut. Filled with wounded pride, he responded by declaring war on her. The last few months in school, spread some unkind rumours about her. She was strong, and denied them. He felt awed and angry, in unison, at her calm and grace. Then, with graduation, they went their separate paths and managed to avoid crossing them… until now. ‘Wait!’ Rebecca stops as Robert calls after her. ‘Sorry, I just never asked. What brings you to the hospital?’ Rebecca looks down, then sighs, ‘I had come to donate plasma - we recently recovered from the virus. I wanted to do what I could to those who were still suffering...’

Robert takes a deep breath. He knows better than to ask who the other part of ‘we’ was. He can feel the rush fade, and all at once he feels very much his current age. Coming out of this sudden, unexpected rollercoaster tires him out. He can feel the years that separates Dr Song from the 17 year old Robert who passionately loved Rebecca the way only a teenager can. The emotions were wild and fierce, and as invigorating as it was destructive. He has experienced a lot since then, and changed even more.

‘I’m glad you’re better Rebecca. It really was lovely to run into you after so long.’ This time he fishes out his card and hands it to her. ‘If you ever need any cosmetic work done, give me a call. I better get going too. Take care.’ With that, they part ways again. He feels a weight lift off his shoulders. It is as if some latent guilt he had been carrying about his behaviours in the past dissipates. He isn’t that Robert any more. As he watches her leave, so do the residual feelings or chemistry or sparks. He doesn’t love Rebecca any more. He has known this for a long time, and he chuckles at the visceral reaction that made him question it momentarily. As he tries to clear his daze, Dr Song finally reaches the pathologist’s room where he has come to find out about his wife and son’s health.


Candles flickered in the Shadow King's throne room, illuminating walls and vaulted ceiling surfaced entirely from skeletons of innocent victims. Their blood gushed from grotesque magical fountains. I could see nothing out the windows - the Shadow King's power had filled the daytime sky with winged man-like abominations and insects in such great number that it blotted out the sun. The throne room itself, bereft of its owner's dark magic, had the spooky dimness of a cavern. It smelled just about as bad as it looked: Rotting flesh, blood, earthen smells. A massive, antlered beast man oozed black blood before me, its gray carcass doing final death spasms that still made me flinch. Beside him, the crumpled skeletal remains of its master leered motionlessly from its voluminous black-gold robes. One claw, even in death, refused to release the upper portion of its shattered staff. Our victory came at the cost of my boyfriend's life. His handsome, musclebound body had been mangled beyond recognition, armor crushed like a tin can. I knelt by his body, weeping as I brushed his braids away from his scarred and bleeding face. "Ben..." The ground rumbled, the building shook, chunks of masonry falling from the ceiling, but I didn't want to move. I felt a lonely darkness growing within me, far deeper than my inky surroundings. A short, pale skinned figure in an oversized red robe floated up to me, sandaled feet hovering a foot above the floor. "Woman, will you please get a move on! The building is about to collapse on our heads!" When I failed to answer right away, he added, "I know, it's a shame to waste such lovely architecture, but can we at least view the demolition from outside?" Our gnome familiar, never-ending fount of sarcasm. I smirked a little despite myself. "Go without me." "Oh ha ha," he scoffed. "And how, pray tell, am I to do that when I'm still magically bound to your charm amulet?" "Cyrano, I release you," I whispered. Cyrano leaned closer, eyes widening in shock. " What's that?  I could have sworn—" "I release you!"  I shouted, holding aloft the pendant on my neck.

"I release you!" Lightning shot down from the sky, erupted from the ground, striking the ruby on the front of the pendant again and again. The object exploded outwards, leaving me holding nothing but a chain. For a moment, the gnome just hovered in front of me, staring in astonished disbelief, but then he remarked, "Well. If this is how you wish to spend the last hours, or should I say `minutes' of your life, who am I to stand in your way?  Tootles!" The gnome closed his eyes, wiggled his pointy ears, and vanished into thin air. Had I truly done this for Cyrano, or out of a selfish desire to maximize my own self pity? In the back of my mind, I couldn't help thinking this wasn't what my dead boyfriend wanted for me, even if such a death might possibly reunite us once again. But what else did I have to live for? I heard a sizzling pop, and the little robed figure made a reappearance. "Dammit, woman, get a hold of yourself!  That's not the only musclebound lummox in the universe, you know!" "He is to me!"  I whimpered. Cyrano groaned. "If you want to commit suicide so badly, I can think of a thousand methods less painful than getting brained by falling rocks!" I sniffed, didn't respond. The gnome let out a heavy sigh. " I require the aid of a minstrel to help me sleep at night." Selfish, I thought. Usual Cyrano. Why wouldn't he just leave me alone? " Inquire at the town." A ceiling support crashed to the floor behind me, smashing through floorboards. Something in the dungeon below made a crunching sound. Funny how when you want to die, the universe is not obliged to fulfill your request. "Why must I inquire in town, when I have a perfectly good musician right in front of me? One, I might add, that seems to have nothing better to do than feel sorry for herself in the middle of a collapsing building?" " If you want a thrall servant to play music for you whenever you—" An immense beam tumbled down from the roof, the perfect size and shape to put me out of my misery. Cyrano threw up his hands, stopping the object in midair. "Curse you, woman!

Can't you see that I do not wish for you to die!" With a casual brushing motion and a muttered incantation, he magically sent me sailing out of the throne room, through the stone corridor beyond, and out the open gates of Castle Death. I landed on a path of hard paving stones, bruised but otherwise intact.

A black cat yelped, darting into a clump of dead plants surrounding the castle. The castle rumbled and fell in upon itself, its ramparts, towers, parapet and all raising up huge clouds of dust. A portcullis dropped into the dungeons sideways. I leapt to my feet. "Cyrano!" My eyes brimmed with tears as I watched the stonework toppling to the depths. Another friend lost, this time due to my own selfishness. "You cry for me?  I'm touched!" I whirled around and saw the gnome floating up to me from a nearby road. I wiped my eyes. "I...I'm sorry. I didn't want to put you in danger." Cyrano frowned. For once in a very long time, he appeared to lack words. "You didn't have to save me. You're free now. You can do whatever you want." "I know." I stared at him. "We've kept you as our personal thrall. A weapon to use against our enemy, all against your will. And you still want to be with me?  Why?" Cyrano did his usual annoyed scowling bit, but I thought I detected some warmth behind it. " I'm a thousand year old mage!  Must I debase myself with these petty human emotions?" He must have understood my facial expression, for then he sighed and turned his back to me. "All right, fine!  If you truly must know, I've had worse masters. And you, you are my favorite musician, the best minstrel in all the lands, and it would sadden me to see your body smashed into a bloody pulp by chunks of falling debris!" Cyrano glanced over his shoulder, as if attempting to gauge my reaction without exposing any of his own vulnerabilities. I smiled and gave him a hug. "How disgustingly mushy, " he muttered, but he didn't seem that displeased. "Oh, and lest I forget..." He snapped his fingers, and my boyfriend's body materialized. "I thought you might not appreciate his spirit haunting this picturesque abode of the damned, so I brought Ben outside for you." "Thank you." I wept on his shoulder. At first, he didn't seem to know what to do, but then he awkwardly reached around and patted me on the back in a consoling way. "You can't raise the dead, can you?" "Only if you want a zombie." I shuddered. I'd seen him do it with other things. "No thank you." With the help of Cyrano's levitation powers, we carried Ben a few miles away from that horrible place, to an idyllic meadow of wildflowers. It still looked dusky from all the monstrosities and insects, but I welcomed the pleasant scenery. "Thank you for all your help, Cyrano. I only wish that, before..." The gnome looked irritated. "Yes, yes. If there had been some way for me to help your boyfriend, I would have, but I had my hands full trying to destroy the Shadow King and his flying minions.

Speaking of which... " Without even turning to look, he raised a hand in the air, flicking a magic fireball at a winged beast that had swooped in to attack us. The horned creature shrieked, collapsing ashen and crispy into a bed of purple thistle flowers. Noticing it lighten, I glanced up. The hole in the sky had been shut, the sun beginning to peek through the cover of fell beasts and pestilence. Someone would have a lot of work to do before all of this were over, but we'd dealt with the worst of it. I said a few last words for the victim, and played his favorite ballad on the lute in his honor. Cyrano hovered over the body. "Did he ever tell you if he preferred burial or cremation?" "N-no," I stammered. The gnome wiggled his ears. Ben flamed and turned to ash. "Cyrano!" I cried. " I wasn't ready!" "You never would have been." He scooped the ashes into a leather pouch. "Besides, I...don't think that's how you'd like to remember him, somehow.

You weren't too keen on my zombie suggestion..." I used the broken chain to make the pouch into a necklace. " I...thanks, I guess." "You're welcome, I guess."  He settled on a rock to rest, well, after taking a moment to destroy another bat monster with a lightning bolt.

"So what now?" I knelt next to him, and felt the fatigue set in. "I don't know.  I think there's a tavern a few miles away..." "Ah yes, that's excellent.  Just drink your troubles away." I glared at him. "All right, imp! What do you suggest we do?" My friend sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Perhaps you're right. Maybe some rest and relaxation is in order. I have been enslaved for over five hundred years. Is it strictly a tavern, or does that place also have beds? " Cyrano and I had to slay a few more winged beasts on the dirt road leading to the nearest village. The creatures had ripped apart a few cows, thankfully no people. The gnome smirked as he watched me clean monster blood from my broadsword. "You're as sharp with a weapon as you are with a lute." I gaped at him. " Cyrano, is that a compliment?" He seemed... embarrassed.  "Just...an observation from seeing you in battle as long as I have. Not everyone can play a lullaby to a creature with their left hand while hacking it to death with the right." This made me smile a little. "Ay, weird times we're living in, eh?

In a normal world, a man would compliment me on me hair." "Uh, well," Cyrano cleared his throat. "That's nice too, I suppose." I giggled. "When is the last time you've been with a woman?" Cyrano's face, ordinarily pale white, now flushed pink. " More than a hundred years!  You should know, you've been carrying my magical amulet around all this time!" I suppressed more laughter. "Okay, okay, no need to get touchy!" I don't think anyone would describe The Warthog's Wart as a romantic dining location. Dimly lit, sagging in many places, and smelling of burnt food and old spilled ale, the word `dive' comes to mind. That being said, I thrive in such places, and I'd heard that The Warthog made an interesting concoction with sliced fried potatoes, cheese and ground beef. I ordered two of these from a large, muscular bartender, and two honey meads. I regretted the potatoes when they came out and I noticed the expression on Cyrano's face. "This looks like a good way to contract food poisoning." I rolled my eyes and sipped from my tankard. "Nay, if you wish to get poisoned, I've heard the best way is to order the bouillabaisse." I sent Cyrano's order back, but noticed him dipping into mine when we started drinking. "That's... actually not that bad! " We drank, talked about the many adventures we'd had together. People stared at us. I suppose I didn't blame them. "They look like they'd never seen a gnome before." "Maybe it's because you look so handsome in that little robe," I teased. "Flattery will get you nowhere, woman... Do you actually think it has something to do with us being seen dining together?" I leaned closer to him.

"Do you want it to be?"  I don't know, maybe it was the alcohol talking. Cyrano visibly shuddered, but I wondered if it were an act.

"A thousand year old gnome and a human? Are you mad?" "A single thousand year old gnome, and a lonely human," I corrected. " It only seems a little mad to me." The gnome grimaced in seeming disgust. "One thing I cannot stand is a woman who can't hold her liquor." "Oh come now.

You know it takes more than this lot to get me really drunk! " Cyrano, on the other hand, threw up when he started on his second tankard. "I'm sorry." I should have been disgusted, but I thought it funny. We'd been together, fighting monsters and what have you, for what seemed like forever, and I'd never once seen him get shitfaced. Most the time he'd spent with his little nose in a spell book.

"Now who's the one not holding their liquor? " "Lay off it, okay?"  Cyrano used his magic to clean himself up. "Did you mean to start talking like me?" "What? When did I talk like you?" "Just now. You said `Lay off it.'" "I also vomited on myself.  I am not in the best condition. If you'll excuse me, I must use the outhouse." He flew out the door.

The lightning flashes outside the pub's dirty windows indicated that he encountered a few annoyances on the way to the loo. I popped my head outside to check on him, but the smoking black carcasses and a slamming outhouse door informed me that my friend was all right. It turned out the Warthog had two rooms upstairs, but one was already taken. I informed Cyrano of the predicament when he returned from outside. "I'm so exhausted I could sleep on the floor... do they at least have a rug?" The offered room didn't look much better than the tavern, and it smelled like cheese. Water splotches marred the ceiling, the sheets appeared to be stained, and Cyrano detected small bugs. I wouldn't have stayed had the gnome not magically sanitized the place like his robes and body. Seeing a beat up armchair, I sighed and slumped into it. "Here. You take the bed." Cyrano scoffed, but I suspected he was being a gentleman.

"That lumpy thing?  I'd rather sleep on the floor." He gestured for me to have it. "It will kill a gnome's back, but I'm certain it's quite comfortable for a human female." I wanted to disagree, but really felt too tired to put up a fight about it. Turns out he'd only exaggerated about its lumpiness. I'm not sure how much time passed after that. In between the alcohol, and recovering from a long and grueling series of battles, I believe I must have slept until morning of the following day. The sun shined blindingly through the windows, filling our hovel-like surroundings with a golden glow. The sky had become bright and clear, no sign of our winged foes in the immediate vicinity. In fact, sparrows and cardinals chirped at us from tree branches outside the glass. Bright puffy clouds drifted through a robin's egg sky. I felt... strangely warm , and not merely because of the sun or the thick blankets. I shifted into a different position and felt hot breath, and a small naked body pressing against me.

When my alcohol fuzzed thoughts jumbled things together, adding in details like my own nudity, and a red robe with nobody inside it, blood rushed to my face, making me even warmer. "Good morning, Zara," Cyrano muttered into my ear. "Good morning," I stammered. "We... must have had an interesting night. "


My eyes were closed tight blocking the afternoon sunlight that peaked from my bedroom blinds, willing myself to fall back to sleep.

If I just fall back to sleep, maybe I will wake up and feel better. Maybe this will all go away , I thought. Just then, she woke me. As if she were right next to me in my bed shouting in my ear, I heard her, my Aunt Maureen, shout, “BRIGID, WAKE UP! WAKE UP!”

Her voice was so crisp and clear and loud, it felt like her lips were pressed against my right ear. My eyes shot open. My heart now was pounding, fluttering, buzzing, skipping beats all at once. I gasped for breath and slowly glanced to my side baffled.

Is she here? Is she dead? She is dead. She can’t be here. But, I hear her. Wait, did she die?

I felt drugged, confused, distorted. Her voice did not fade. Another shout. This time, her message was not clear. But that voice is unmistakeable. As my eyes scanned the room, I laid terrified to move my head, feeling the surge of pain up my spine like shock waves into my brain.

She isn’t here, I thought.

My Aunt Reen, who died of an aggressive cancer two years ago, could not be here but she is speaking to me. Screaming in my right ear drum. And I am awake. I am not dreaming. Is this what it feels like to lose your mind? Is this a psychotic break? Is this all a dream? An apparition, supernatural experience? If so, I am not comprehending the message. Am I dying? How do I explain this to anyone? What now? ————————————————————----- Twenty-four hours before, I was in my classroom, my students not yet with me, dry heaving into a trash can. The fluorescent lights felt brighter. The stale, moldy school building air had a more pungent aroma, and my head felt like it was on fire, like someone struck a match and my scalp was slowly sizzling. It did not feel like one of my typical migraines but I came to teach that day anyway willing it away with Advil and nausea meds.

It wasn’t long before my protein bar came back up and I found myself curled up in a ball around the little trashcan on my floor, hoping a student or colleague wouldn’t walk in. But, he did. “Brig, what the hell! You ok?” My friend James did just that.

Popped his head in with his coffee and much to his surprise, there I was hugging a trashcan in my teacher garb with watery eyes and sweat smearing my makeup.

All I could do was shake my head no. As he made his way over, I finally got out, “I think I have the flu or something. Maybe I should go.” I grab a chair and look like I’d fail a DUI test. “Ya think? Get out of here. Damn, you are unsteady. I’ll just walk you to the nurse.” I felt like a child. My vulnerability beat out my stubbornness and need for control, and I let him take me by the arm. I felt too shitty to care how this looked, weak and needing help. Deb, the old motherly nurse, took my temp and said, “Yep, low grade fever. You should really go, hun. I’ll call the office and they’ll handle your subs.”

I remember worrying about my sub plans. I don’t remember how they got done. But, I do remember walking down that hall slowly. My buddy James trailing me to see I made it out. Telling me to feel better. I did not return for 456 days.

Somehow I drove home, must’ve been like cruise control, because I certainly wasn’t in control and don’t remember that ride.

————————————————————----- My dead aunt is no longer screaming. But as I lay there in my bed deciding my next move, I see movement in my corner. Black, flickering shadows erratically circling in my corner. I blink. I blink again. They are still there, and they have multiplied. I see bats in my corner right in between my closet and my beloved rocking chair passed down from my Mommom Rose.

I have laid in bed many nights staring at it, picturing generations of women in my family rocking babies, myself included. Baby Owen first, and then Baby Hope, now in Kindergarten and Pre-K. I see that chair and I can smell that sweet delicate baby shampoo mixed with milk and I feel the warmth. Now, it is empty and surrounded by what appears to be bats.

First, my Aunt Reen and now bats in my room. Terror engulfs me. I am not ok. This is when I call my mom. Whether you are 3 or 33, it is mom. “Mom, I am still feeling bad in bed. I’m feeling a lot worse. I don’t know… feeling loopy.” She’s the most anxious woman I know, so I spared the details. “Can you pick the kids up from school, please? I need to figure out what to do.” “BRIGID, I don’t like the sound of this.” She emphasizes my full name as she does when she is serious.

“I am telling your father, too.” She calls out to him and repeats my words but with her motherly worry. “We both think you need to get to a doctor or hospital. I love you.”

“I will call Jeff. He will take me if I ask. Don’t worry. I will do Urgent Care. I think it’s the flu and I need meds. Love you.” If she knew bats were infiltrating my room and her dead sister was speaking to me she’d die of a heart attack and then I would really be screwed.

I take a deep breathe and call Jeff. He has called me dramatic before. We’ve had fights over it. I’ve gotten it in my head to rehearsal my words to him before I speak to assess how it sounds. I don’t want to sound dramatic. How do I say this without sounding insane? Looking back, I know now I should never have to rehearse words like this. And my fear of fitting his stereotype cost me some precious time. ————————————————————----- I am laying on my side in fetal position staring at the white wall. I have been in and out of a sleep state, but at the time that the ER doctor finally came to speak to us about my MRI results, my eyes were open but I wasn’t there. I was like a prop, no feelings, no affect, and too weak to sit up.

“It looks what we are seeing may be a mass. We don’t know what kind and she needs more testing.” The doctor said this without much empathy. The most peculiar part of this moment now looking back is my reaction. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hysterics. It was an odd unperturbed curiosity, like it was not me who she was speaking of. Like I was watching a movie. Well that’s something. Look at the plot twist here with this bat seeing teacher, lady. Wonder how that’ll play out. It was not long before I was in an ambulance on my way to University of Pennsylvania Hospital. Turns out the ER I hobbled into was not equipped for batgirl. In fact, they thought I was pregnant or had Lyme’s disease for the first few hours there. My sister, a nurse, made calls and found a way to get University of Pennsylvania Hospital to see me, and time was of the essence.

I am told I was fading. In and out of consciousness. That morning, I thought I was going to teach Shakespeare in front of 16 year olds all day. By 9pm, I was on oxygen on a stretcher in the ICU. Within minutes, they read the results, they did their doctor talk, and they made a guess in order to give me treatment.

Herpes Simplex Virus Encephalitis. Not a mass. The doctor, who I actually do remember looking like a George Clooney type, pulled no punches when he said the previous hospital completely misread my results and also me. “All of the signs are pointing toward Encephalitis and though we won’t officially know for a couple days, we want to give you the anti-virals, seizure medication, along with antibiotics, to keep you alive. We will help you.” Turns out my psychological thriller film of a day made complete sense to him. The pain, the vomiting, the bats, and even my aunt, my aunt’s voice I have not heard in two years. My brain was inflaming, under attack by the herpes virus, and as a result, I was having Simple Partial Seizures. Instead of a cold sore because I was run down that month, the virus chose my brain.

————————————————————----- My head and eyes are still throbbing.

There is a rhythmic beeping of hospital machines, muffled conversations and sneakers squeaking. I hear a voice again, clear and close in my ear. Panic sets in instinctually.

“You are still here. You are alive. You are going to be ok. You keep sleeping, sweetie. I love you.” It’s a whisper. I stir and blink, afraid I am alone with this voice, afraid to open my eyes for what I will see, but there is a hand and I squeeze it tight. I take a deep breath and exhale two days of pure terror. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who it was. I wasn’t alone. A single tear ran down my face and all I could manage was, “I know, Mom.”


Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Old Mr. James shook the snow from his boots and coat with practiced ease. His heavy frown and wrinkled forehead made his actions cartoon-like as he tossed his coat onto the wire coat rack. He hunched his sturdy shoulders as he walked through the department store, glaring at the brightly wrapped presents, decorated trees, and Santa’s elves as they waved from every corner at him. “I don’t know why they have to go to so much trouble. Christmas is just something corporate made up to get their fingers into every American pocketbook and every woman’s purse.” He was so deep into his muttering that he didn’t notice the slim, young girl staring up at him. He plowed right into her, and she gave a startled cry. “Hey!”

He jumped back immediately, glancing down at his sparkling Allen Edmonds to make sure they weren’t smudged, and then back up at the girl. “What were you doing in my way, girlie?” Her big, Christmas-red bow on her brown head trembled, but the white little face was set like flint. “I’m very sorry, Mister, but you weren’t watching where you were going.” She rubbed her arm where he ran into her and glared at him. “And you hurt my arm.” Mr. James stammered and stuttered as the little girl frowned. “My mommy says you need to apologize when you hurt someone.” She stood there, just waiting, her little lips pursed in disapproval. Mr. James turned on his heel after a moment and stomped in the other direction. “Humph!” He said, swinging his arms beside him. “Her mother didn’t raise her right, I guess.” He opened the door to his office in the back and sat in his leather chair with a thud.

Rolling up to the desk, he flipped open his laptop, and placed in his noise-canceling earbuds. He hated Christmas music, so he listened to classical music at the loudest setting possible. Maybe that’s why his hearing was going – he still wasn’t sure. Time passed so quickly, that when he glanced up, it was nearly the end of the day. He rose and headed back to the end of the hall for his coat. Thrusting his arms into the sleeves, he turned up the collar, and faced the door, ready to head out into the onslaught of a snowy winter. “Mr. Grouchy Man?” He heard the little voice behind him, and he turned his head slightly, not acknowledging the voice. It continued on without missing a beat. “Why aren’t you in the Christmas spirit?” At that, he whirled around and faced the little girl from earlier, her jaunty bow still held in place. Her big blue eyes held only curiosity. He tucked his chin into the collar of his coat and stared down at her. “My name is James Claus. And no, I don’t believe in Santa. Santa isn’t real. The Christmas spirit is just a scam that people who want to make sales made up.

There’s no reason for me to be in the Christmas spirit, and I wish everyone would stop asking me why I’m not!” He was shouting, now, and the little girl blinked owlishly at him. “You mean you don’t like candy canes or sledding or snowmen?” “That’s exactly what I mean, little girl. And where is your mother? Surely she didn’t leave you here all alone?” A lady, red burning in her cheeks, matching the wool coat she wore, hurried by the perfume counter. She was scanning the store, her head whipping around, until she caught sight of the little girl. “Emily! Why did you run off again?” Emily glanced from Mr. James to the lady. “Sorry, Mother. I was just asking Mr. Grou—I mean, Mr. Claus why he wasn’t in the Christmas spirit.” The lady stared at him. “Mr. Claus? Is that really your name?” Mr. James grunted. “I prefer to be called Mr. James. And, yes, it’s really my name.” “Do you play Santa Claus?” “No, I do not play Santa Claus.” He said, adamantly. “And I will not be coerced into doing it.” Emily sidled a step closer to him. “Please, Mr. James? We have hot chocolate.” “What do you mean you have hot chocolate?” Emily’s mother smiled. “I am the owner of a company who sets up in the middle of the mall. My Santa just called in sick earlier this morning. If I got you a fake beard and paid you what it was worth, would you be willing to do it for me?” “No.” “But—“ Mr. James crossed his arms. “I said, no. ” The woman’s eyes twinkled. “What about if I let one of my other girls help you out behind the perfume counter while you did it? Your poor sales lady behind the counter could barely keep up. I’m sure you probably lost some sales because of it.” Mr. James cleared his throat. “Sales, did you say?” “And I would even pay my girl so that you don’t have to.” He stared at the lady in front of him incredulously. “You really need a Santa, don’t you?” Her lips formed into a thin line, and she crossed her arms across her chest. “Sir, some of these kids that come in here are very poor. They need whatever Christmas cheer that we can bring them. If you don’t want to do it, I will continue my search, but I will have to cancel tomorrow.” Emily tugged on the sleeve of his coat. “Please?” He sighed, loudly. “Fine. But only until you find someone else.” “Yay!” Emily jumped up and down, clapping her hands. Her bow flopped crazily over her head, and Mr. James almost smiled. Not quite, but almost. The woman, whose name he learned was Susie Clemmonts, hurried him off to the middle of the mall. She rummaged through large, plastic bins until she found a Santa suit. She held it up in front of her, shaking it out, and Mr. James smelled the distinct scent of mothballs. He wrinkled his nose. “Do I have to wear that?” “Unless you have a secret Santa suit that we don’t know about, yes.” Susie handed him the suit, a fake beard, and a floppy red hat and directed him toward the nearest restroom. Moments later, he emerged. Emily and her mother stared at him with wide eyes, not moving a muscle. He stared back at them. “What? Does it not look right?” “It’s perfect, Mr. James!” Emily breathed. “Are you really Santa Claus?” A smile spread across his face – a small smile, but a smile just the same. “Good.” He said, hurrying back to change into his regular clothes. And when no one could hear him, he muttered to just himself. “I’m glad.” The next morning, true to her word, Susie had a bright-eyed girl of seventeen to work the perfume counter. She was a powerhouse, helping customers left and right. The store made more sales that day than they had made all week, but Mr. James wouldn’t tell Susie that, of course. By that afternoon, Mr. James was suited up, an elf on either side of him, and practicing his very rusty, “Ho, Ho, Ho.” Emily giggled every time he tried. “Mr. James, that doesn’t sound normal.” “Then why don’t you do it for me?” She shook her head, curls swinging around her rosy cheeks. “That would be silly! Elves don’t laugh like Santa!” Kids in all shapes and sizes came through the line to see Santa that day. Big eyes stared up at him, asking for all manner of toys and games. His heart began to feel funny after a few hours – softer, somehow. By the end of the day, he was smiling so big his face hurt. Susie appeared at his elbow, placing her hand on the head of a very tired elf named Emily. “We’re about done, Mr. Claus, but I have one more very special child to bring to you.” She nodded at two people standing nervously by the corner. They bent over, and soon Mr. James saw a very small boy being wheeled to him in a wheelchair. The boy’s legs were bent and shriveled, his body twisted and broken. When he saw Mr. James, a great big smile stretched across his face, and he raised skinny arms to his mother. “Santa!” The mother carefully lifted him and placed him on Mr. James’ lap. “This is Benji, Mr. Santa Claus. He’s been waiting patiently all day to see you.” Mr. James smiled down at the boy, but when he spoke, his voice cracked with emotion. “What can I get you for Christmas, Benji?” Benji’s smile lit up the room. “I don’t want any toys or games.” He said, thoughtfully. “I want my mommy to be strong enough to take me Christmas caroling.” Mr. James cocked his head. “Why Christmas caroling, son?” “Because, Santa. I want to tell people about the true meaning of Christmas. All of these toys and gifts don’t matter much to someone who can’t use them.” He thumped his small chest with his left hand. “But I want people to know that Christmas is about so much more.” He paused and looked right into Mr. James’ grizzled face. “Do you know Silent Night, Mr. Santa?” Mr. James nodded his head, a tear dripping down his grizzled cheek and into his fake beard. “I do, son.” “Would you sing it with me?” Mr. James nodded again, and when he spoke, his voice gruff. “Of course I would.” Benji leaned back against Mr. James' arm, his clear young voice beginning the song. And one by one, his parents, Susie, and even Emily the elf, joined in. Their voices blended as they sang about Christmas, and about a peaceful time. The hustle and bustle of the mall faded to silence as the song rang out through the rafters. “Silent night, holy night.” When they finished, Benji gave Mr. James a hug and waved goodbye as his parents wheeled him back the way that he had come. Mr. James dropped his head so no one could see the tears filling his eyes. He felt a small hand steal into his rough one and heard Emily’s small voice beside him. “If Benji can have the Christmas spirit, I think we can, too. Can’t we, Mr. Claus?” Mr. James Clause squeezed Emily’s hand, smiling through his tears. “We can, Emily. And I think me and you and your mom may just help out some certain folks Christmas caroling tonight.” As Mr. James rose to his feet, Emily’s hand still in his, he looked around the mall with a new pair of eyes. The tacky Christmas decorations were the same. The loud, blinking lights still hurt his eyes. This time, though, none of it bothered him. The reason to celebrate was not in the gifts, but now, it was in his heart.


SlowSurrender                                                                     Jean.B. Healey  16/01/2021 No movement. No breath. Why was she so still? Only recently we were snuggling up together watching snowflakes drifting past the foggy windows, a proper fire with proper logs in a proper fireplace, crackling, smoking, glaring at us. I’d stared at the snowflakes on the window and asked her why I couldn’t see the magical crystal formations I had expected. I’d never been this close to snow before. She just shook her shaggy head and wriggled back down under the blanket. She had seen plenty of snow. She had been raised in snowy landscapes, trooping across knee-deep drifts carrying a gun or supplies on her back, always alert to her companions. Many times she had needed to rescue reckless children in sodden boots and clothes lost in drifts as they chased the snowflakes and attacked each other with snowballs. Her job was to oversee their safety, retrieve their toys, sleds and boots and ensure they returned safely to their parents. She never failed even when tired, exhausted by following the skiing families to their chalets. She was quite well treated but forever homesick for the warmer climes of her birthplace. She had been taken from her home early in life and remained a visitor in a foreign landscape for many years until her return. Not my life. Not my life at all. Raised in sunny Queensland, Australia beside a glistening ocean, surfing all year round, warm and sunny forever. She was always there watching, making sure I was safe, providing a warm greeting when I came ashore. This trip to the Snowy Mountains in Victoria, Australia was an impulse we could not resist. ‘How about going somewhere cold for our holidays?’ I’d suggested. Her response was enthusiastic and immediate. Packing everything warm available, buying socks that would never be worn again we set off in the jalopy driving thousands of kilometres away from our familiar stamping grounds south towards the cooler state in mid- winter. The airbandb offered a ‘genuine chalet experience’ with said log fire and snowy surrounds. Kitchen facilities, toboggan, snow shoes, warm and enormous bed big enough for two, everything a snow virgin required to enjoy a genuine chalet experience. Except for a few essentials. No TV. No internet. No mobile coverage. And no power except the power of fire. Certainly there was a large pot for making soup over the fire. An exotic idea to start with. My first two efforts ended up in the rubbish as I refused to allow her to suffer the indignity of eating my mushy offerings. The short walk to the resort nearby ensured we could actually enjoy some real food and a decent drink but we soon realised the incoming snowstorm would prevent too many excursions so I stocked up on chips, cheese, biscuits and sweets to see us through this new experience for me. She was happy enough to share my taste in nutrition, showing only a mild grimace at the plates full of non-food I placed before her. She really favoured a well grilled wedge of prime fillet steak without boring vegetables and with plenty of gravy. She suffered in silence and merely nibbled at her meals. In fact it seems now she was possibly off her food …. The first two days passed eventfully since we were booked in for skiing lessons. Well to be precise, I was booked in and she was observing with a typically derisive expression from the sidelines. Many falls later she was enthusiastic when I finally managed to stand up and navigate the slope upright for the first time. She had seen it all before. Novice skiers were not a novelty in her view. But that was two days ago. She had been slowly slowing down since then. I first noticed a warm nose, unexpected at this location, then silence and less communication than usual, more sleeping and some apparent sighing not in her usual repertoire. Her eyes were not as bright, her shaggy mane of now greying hair limp and no response to my gentle caresses over her back. And now this. Silence. Closed eyes. No obvious breath. No movement. She had lain still for over two hours and I began to worry properly. What should someone do in this situation? I did not know how to check for a pulse. Looking outside I realised there was no hope of trying to go for help. The snowstorm was billowing all around us and sheets of white flakes were building at the window sills. I should wait a short time until the storm abated, I decided, then make my way to the resort to see if someone, anyone could assist. And so I waited. I patted her. I wrapped the blanket around her as warmly as possible. I made hot tea but she could take none of it. I whispered in her now cold ear how much I had always loved her, how she had filled my life with treasured memories of playing and loving and just being together, how precious every moment with her had been as I grew up and she grew old. And then the knock on the chalet door. ‘Chalet Squad ma’am. Just checking you are all ok in here.’ Dragging myself away from the sofa, I lurched towards the solid wooden door. Tugging at the latch and dragging it across I grasped the carved wooden handle and heaved the chalet door open a few centimetres until the friendly fur-framed face of the Chalet Squad leader loomed smiling next to mine. ‘You all Ok?’ ‘No. Not really. Can you come in for a minute? I want you to check everything’s ok.’ A brutal shove sifted the door open wide enough to allow his snowy and booted bulk to get inside. His companion stayed out in the snow, unconcerned at the cold and apparently grateful that I was seemingly safe. The Squad man stamped his boots and frowning, approached the sofa. He gently pulled back the blanket and pressed is un-gloved fingers on the pulse point. He turned and his face was ashen, ‘I’m so sorry. I think your grandmother has died.’


“Let me get the... red roses”.

I said reluctantly as I brushed through the catalogue. “Maybe a dozen?” She Loved roses, she would let them dry out once they died and make her own rose water. Or sometimes place them around candles or the table in our living room which she joked was her bruja alter. She’d place them Near her sage. In the far corner of the small apartment we shared. She even put rose petals in our bath on our romantic nights. Roses it is.

“Sure”. Said the clerk behind the glass counter.

As I waited for her to gather my order, doubt started to creep up on me slowly.

I Suddenly remembered that she loved tulips too. She had a favourite mug she drank her tea in every morning. Donned with large pink tulips.

Whenever I’d try to give it to her in another mug she would scrunch her nose up childishly and say “It doesn’t taste the same”. And retrieve it from wherever it was. Often times, it would be somewhere near her desk  where she stayed up to read or write the night before; Usually with remnants of loose tea leaves and film around where the cold liquid sat overnight. She’d then wash out her cup diligently and pour out what I had made her in her favourite cup. Sometimes I’d find it for her, or purposely give it to her in the wrong one just to watch the freckles on her nose bounce when she rejected my offering.

That was my favourite part of her.

 I scanned the catalogue to page 4 to go through my options. As the clerk came back with my dozen roses I sighed and smiled as her embarrassingly.

”Could I change my order? Sorry. I’d like the pink tulips instead”. “A dozen?” The clerk Asked politely. “Yes please”. I answered with guilt. “Sorry again”. As the clerk returned to the back to retrieve my new order I turned around and scanned the rest of the store. My eyes rested on the sunflowers that hung above the “OPEN” sign which swung in the door window. My thoughts took me back  the road trip we took 2 summers ago. We were driving  down a sunny windy road  surrounded by fields of corn, bushels of wheat and miles of barn yard animals. The smell of manure was stagnant in the hot July air but the summer wind made it beautiful; her sun red curls bounced under  the dusk light as we listened  to Nostalgia Ultra  loudly and sang even louder, because no one else could hear. I watched her in the corner of my eye as I drove while she smiled and sang horribly at the top of her lungs when suddenly, she abruptly cut off her rendition of “Swim Good” and  jumped from her seat. “Stop the car!” She squealed.

As I quickly pulled over to the side, thinking that maybe she just needed to pee, She hopped out,  and began to skip away from the car. By  the time I could figure out what she was doing all I could make out was the tail end of her beautiful lilac dress. The way it waved and danced in the wind as she ran into the field of tall bright sunflowers. I loved that dress. It clung to her as if it was tailored to her alone. From the drivers seat, I watched her dance in and out of the rows, I couldn’t think of anything more beautiful, she outshined the rows of colours; at that moment it was her who attracted the sun. The huge flowers were merely a backdrop. I was in Love.

My reminiscing  was interrupted by the clerk who returned with my tulips. I began to sweat as I realized that my next request may be too much. But I spoke anyway.

“Really. I do apologize”... before I could finish the clerk stared me down with a stoned face, annoyed by my indecisiveness.

“ You’d  like to change your order again... sir? “ she said. No smile, just disdain. “Yes, if you don’t mind, Sunflowers, instead.” The clerk sighed heavily. It was ok. It was her job. I couldn’t possibly be the first customer to come in here and not be sure what I needed. I just wanted it to be perfect, something many could relate to. Besides the customer is always right... right?  I felt that the sunflowers were it, but my overwhelming anxiety did not. No. Sunflowers  aren’t right. Lilies are her favourite. The way they opened in the sunlight, the vibration of their colours, and that they represent luck, womanhood. (She always found the deeper meaning in even the smallest things).

She always spoke about how much she loved them. Except for the one time we had a fight.

I, obviously being  in the wrong tried to sway her by buying her a full bouquet of Lillies. The stink of the beautiful arrangement was so pungent, it had a reminder of death, or as she put it, “Like a funeral parlour”, she had to throw them out. But not before she cried over how Beautiful they were. How she smothered me with kisses and we slow danced in our living room for hours because she forgave me. That feeling I will never forget. It was the scent of those lillies now that made it clearer. My brain fog began to disappear, I knew for sure. I turned around to face the clerk who was empty handed. She stared at me almost with pity. She knew.

“Lillies”. I swallowed. “Purple.” The clerk nodded and left me standing there almost embarrassed.

This time when she returned I shamefully paid for my order and left the store quickly. I closed my eyes and let the March

Air fill my lungs until it stung a bit. For the first time in a almost a year I could breathe without tears. I kneeled down slowly and kissed her tombstone.  I traced the engravement with my fingers as if I could feel her somehow by touching her name. I lay the Lillies in the cold grass and sat quietly. A year since my lover left me. Cancer stricken, the once beautiful smile which was more astonishing than the sun, smothered out too quickly. We had so many baths, teas, drives, fights and dances to go. And I never had the chance to propose. To give her my last name. To let her carry a bouquet of whatever flower she loved at the moment down the aisle. To make  a home for my child.  Instead she was Buried in her lilac dress. And all I had was the memory of her dancing with sunflowers left.


The sky smiled down at you and I, that beautiful June morning. Colors painted the sky in my mind's eye, that beautiful June morning.

“It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.” A week blows by, in the blink of an eye, and now it is July. You and I, licking our fingers dry from a birthday cake, blue as the sky. Ten candles blown out one by one, for each year we have done. “It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.” Christmas lights up the sky, twinkling way up high. Snow floats down from the blue, blue heavens, while the bows on the wreaths beckon and beckon. Snow in your hair near the trees that are bare, and no day can compare to the smile on your face when you stuff yourself with food after they say grace. “It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.” Summer’s in the air, but not without care because your beautiful, beautiful face is in despair. “No one will love me. Never the way you do.” And you cry and cry, while June is nigh, and the sun is high in the bright blue sky. “It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.” Autumn is here and the sky is clear, as we watch the deer with the balladeer.

“I am music and the music is me, for I am a devout and you have no doubt.” The leaves from the trees, and the breeze from the seas, the warmth of the chai, and the promise of July, with you and I side by side: “It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.” Spring is in full swing, here in Beijing and the flowers are a ring about your wing. The wings of a fairy, so light and airy, who could be wary of a girl so daring. When the butterflies fly and the clouds are shy, it’s you and I in the fields close by. “It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.” Graduation is here, and we all cheer, even though our futures aren’t quite clear. Your head’s in the clouds with your feet on the ground, and your heart knows no bounds, for you’re reaching for the stars. “It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.” July comes by to say hi, and you and I sit down by the lake. College is hard, and there’s no time to be off guard, so we sit by the lake, in our spot by the lake, and being with you is like coming awake. Now your hands are in my hair, your blue eyes so rare, staring in mine and laying me bare. As your lips capture mine, and our bodies align: “It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.” The wedding bells chime and your hand is in mine, as we run down the aisle toward a life worthwhile. Your white, white dress billowing like a cloud, and your beautiful, beautiful face make me feel proud. The words flow between us, the words once treasonous: “I love you. I love you. I love you.” Now you're squeezing my hand, as the baby lands in the arms of a nurse who was never adverse. She’s placed in your arms as she works her charms, touching your face as you name her Grace. With her mother’s blue eyes and her father’s brown hair, she learns to walk without a care. And when the cake is adorned with a big, giant one, she blows out the candle after the song is sung. She dances ‘round the house in her favorite blue blouse, and I know without a doubt that she will sprout. I take your hand and think of all we have planned. “It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.” On Valentine’s Day, we sway by the fire and listen to the music we inspired. The balladeer is here, a friend so dear, for he taught us to be devout and have no doubt. “I am music and the music is me, for I am devout and you have no doubt.” Grace makes a face, demanding to sing, and her voice makes me feel she knows everything. Sixteen candles on a blue, blue birthday cake, so soon she’ll be leaving us in her wake. You by my side, your eyes filled with pride: “It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.” When wedding bells chime for the second time, I know in my heart that she is quite smart. With a ring on her finger and a man on her arm, for certain he will never do her harm. I turn towards my life, gray streaks in your hair, a wrinkle or two from the laughs we’ve shared. And I’ll never be wary if you are nary. “It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.” Granddaughter in my lap, small teeth with gaps, she looks in my eyes and asks for french fries. We all have a laugh as she slides down my calf, crawling to the kitchen where we all pitch in. July is nigh, but you are my ally through everything, everything, even things beyond. “It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.” Christmas again, when our granddaughter is ten, now it’s snow in her hair near the trees that are bare and her smile is yours and your smile is hers. She covers herself in bows, sits in your lap and says, “Grandma, I have a gift for you to unwrap.” She’s the best gift given, for no day can compare to the smile on her face when Grace gives chase. They run ‘round the house the way Grace used to do before she grew. The tears in your eyes, as you look up at the skies: “It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.” It’s that beautiful June morning, in our spot by the lake, where I scatter your ashes and my heart breaks. The moon high in the sky, I know you’re nearby, for your shadow is in the water to say goodbye. The reflection of the moon, that early morning June, I say our words one last time. “It’s you and me,” I say. “Always you and me.”


The plane was coming back, it was definitely watching him. A small crucifix, dark against the blue sky, drawing and redrawing the same ellipse over the house. Honeypie watched it slip out of sight behind his tree. He loved his garden, and he loved his tree most of all. He loved it now for hiding the plane that was beginning to freak him out. He suspected it was trying to make him leave the garden, possibly force him to abandon his house altogether. The buzzing plane, the visitors who ignored him, the cat that he often felt staring at him from the ivy-choked flower beds. All of them were trying to get him to leave, but he never would.

He had always wanted to own a tree, possibly more than he had wanted to own the semi-detached house attached to the garden where it grew. No, not that much. But he loved his tree a lot. He was still sure of that, if not much else. His tree with its uncountable leaves moving on the breeze, falling and returning, measuring the autumns of his home-ownership. Honeypie thought of his tree as a beautiful, infinitely complex, organic clock. People let their dogs piss on trees. Honeypie loved trees and clocks, was less keen on dogs, was, at best, ambivalent about intrusive cats and increasingly indifferent to people. Although briefly hidden, the buzzing engines of the plane could still be heard. Honeypie’s loyal, bee-stuffed, blossoming tree buzzed back at it, in a higher key. With a dip of a wing it broke from its carousel groove and disappeared over the near horizon of the house’s tiled roof. Honeypie, relieved that it had lost interest in him, walked back up his once well-tended garden to his front door.

Once inside Honeypie relaxed in mortgage-free peace. Home again. He clumped down the uncarpeted hallway past the foot of the bare wooden stairs. He looked up the rough, gloss flecked stairs with their pike-toothed gripper rods. He thought of how much Sugarlump would enjoy shopping for a new carpet. She liked to make things look nice, liked to have things just how she liked them. The old carpet was ruined. If he was an astronaut in space, home would be Earth. When he had been on his honeymoon in Malta, when the name ‘Honeypie’ had had first begun to stick despite his weak protests, moon and pie both stickily sweet in the aftermath of the wedding, home had been England. When he got back to Heathrow home was at the end of the connecting flight to Newcastle. Bleary eyed in the small-hours chill of a Newcastle taxi queue, home had come ever more sharply back into focus. They rode a black cab, a last honeymoon extravagance, back to the marital semi. The driver had been instructed to stop by the blossoming tree, surreal in the sodium streetlight of early morning. The target of their homing instinct had continued to shrink until the bullseye was found in their bed. It was not possible for Honeypie and Sugarlump to be any more at home than they were in their quiet, stressless bed.

The bare staircase amplified the chuck-tock of the wall mounted clock. The wedding present, Honeypie’s favourite, gave the air of his home its own sound and shape. Sugarlump detested the clock. She despised Honeypie’s uncle who had given it to them, hated the sound it made and had complained bitterly and regularly about its failure to ‘go’. The matter of the clock was the only time that Honeypie had ever defied his beloved Sugarlump. He loved his uncle and his gift would stay, giving the air of their home it’s reliable sound and shape. A new carpet would soften the clock’s sound back to its heart-beat thrum, cover the stairs’ pike teeth, and hide the large brown stain at their foot. Honeypie hoped Sugarlump would prioritise the purchase of a new carpet. Honeypie had a vague anxiety that Sugarlump might try and sell the stained house. Admittedly, it would be difficult in the current circumstances. She would probably just have to hide the stain under a nice new carpet, chosen without discussion or debate, but it would still be there, like an anchor under the sea, chaining him to the house, making it his home forever. This was fine by Honeypie because he loved his house, with his tree, his clock and even his stain, which he thought looked a bit like South America. Honeypie didn’t know how long he had spent staring at the stain. He had to admit that recently he’d completely lost track of time. The budding of his tree, the swing of his clock, both had become abstract advice that he felt unable to take. Rhythms he had lost and could not pick up again. He had only a sketchy knowledge of a sequence of events which grew muddled and unfocused the further away they became. His recent past was the plot of an unengaging story that he had only skimmed. The sharpest recollection was the visit of Sugarlump’s mother. She had entered the house alone and looked at the stain, pale faced and serious. She had scrubbed at it with bleach, succeeding only in blurring Chile and erasing the Falkland Islands before giving up. Then she had taken the clock down from the wall and put it roughly into a cardboard box, killing its lovely sound and leaving the air shapeless. Honeypie remembered now, she had taken his clock. Was that why everything felt so strange? Was that why he had been losing track of time? He was sad that his clock had gone, but knew that this would please Sugarlump who hated the clock for reasons he could not fully recall. Before the visit of Sugarlump’s mother there had been the masked people in the white suits. They too had been interested in the stain when it was still on the old stair carpet, measuring it and marking its few outlying islands that clung to the walls. They had ignored him completely and he had spent most of the time in the garden, strangely detached from anything that was happening, feeling that their visit was significant but not knowing why.

The white suits had followed the black suits who had taken away the bloodless man who had lain upside down at the foot of the stairs. Honeypie had watched them lift the strange, much photographed, two-mouthed thing, dragging and heaving the uncooperative mass into a neatly zipped bag. When he had been trolleyed away the carpet was lifted and removed and followed him out of the house. Honeypie and the stain remained. Before the strangers had begun to visit it had only been Honeypie and Sugarlump together in their house. He remembered only his devotion and Sugarlump’s beauty. Her pushing and slapping him was merely the performance of passion. He knew he provoked it by stubbornly insisting on keeping the clock, even though it had been stopping her sleeping since they got back from Malta, even though it didn’t ‘go’.

If Honeypie climbed the stairs and looked back down them he felt the lurch of vertigo. He saw the clock installed at the bottom of the unstained, carpeted stairs. He could not hear its soft knocking over the screaming, hers then his. Then a push that sent the whole house cartwheeling around him and brought his head to the edge of the bottom stair, splitting a mouth into the back of his skull. The mouth spat his brains onto the ground. In a few ticks of the clock Honeypie’s ruined mind had imagined a black and creeping South America for the first time. He had not seen Sugarlump since. Was she in Malta? Out shopping for a new carpet?

Honeypie moved away from the top of the stairs to find some other place to wait. He would remain in the house, walk its rooms, and wait patiently for Sugarlump to return. He felt sure she knew what had happened, that she would be able to help him clear up whatever it was that had happened between them. Whatever it was, they could move past it. Whatever she had done, he would forgive her. If she got his clock back. He would apologise for his part and reassure her that whatever she had done, he would never leave their home and that they would be together forever.