‘Passengers’

                                         Artist - John L Gronbeck-Tedesco

“Passengers”

I met her in Thailand. An accident, the exactness of which escapes me. Could’ve been a lighter. Maybe some tobacco.

Not that it matters—the circumstances in which you meet someone, the how. The important part is the act of meeting itself. The exchange of human pleasantries. The learning and memories, the entropic tune, the breath of fresh air. The gathering of facts, the divulsion of personal details, and the subsequent formation of a friendship destined for impermanence. The acceptance of some new soul into your sphere, even if it be saddeningly temporary.

The meeting.

That’s where the substance really lies.

*

We sat side by side on the ferry, passing a spliff. Studying the darkling waters of the Gulf of Thailand; the moon no more than a glimmer, its fluorescence unable to fight through the oppressive nighttime clouds.

“Reminds me of a Van Gogh painting,” I remarked.

“Who?”

“Really?” I answered, all incredulity. “Starry Night, you know, the suicidal painter who severed his ear?”

Understanding dawned.

“Ah, you mean Van Gogh?”

“Is that how you pronounce it?”

“It is in the Netherlands.”

*

Her name was Lieke.

She was from the small town of Steenbergen in the south of the Netherlands; the third daughter in a family of farmers. Generations of cattle-rearing and cheesemaking, of shoveling shit and bottle-feeding runts, of tilling land and pulling weeds. Generations of dedicated laborers working what land they had.

And she was one of them.

There were a dozen chickens, the names of which I don’t recall. There were pigs too, but they didn’t have any names. She used to name them, she said; although, she stopped when she learned what death looked like, when she heard the blood-curdling scream of boar and sow alike. But now, older and hardened, the slaughter had become as routine and mundane as brushing one’s teeth. She even joked that Canadian bacon was just as likely Dutch. There was a flock of sheep raised primarily for wool, with grazing their secondary purpose. Rarely were they sold for butchering or killed to feed themselves—for even though she had reconciled one animal’s death, neither her nor the remainder of her family could stomach the notion of slaughtering something so young; and, in this nuanced manner, they abstained from the consumption and commoditization of lamb. Other than a few horses, a herding dog and some cattle, the rest of the land was dedicated to botanical life: wheat, tomatoes, feed crops.

She extolled the place, speaking with fondness and pride, and but for one neighboring family, there was nothing but genuine affection expressed.

Yet, the subjects were not proportionately discussed, and indeed this neighboring family occupied as much of the conversation as her family and the farm they tended to. I listened and learned. Of the children she said very little, other than that there were four of them, two sons and two daughters. The mother’s name was Ilse, and she was a strict disciplinarian and, perhaps paradoxically, a spineless zealot.

Other than that, I gathered nothing.

She was too busy talking about the father.

His name was Willem, and his beliefs were as antiquated as an abacus, as outdated as a mimeograph machine. A man as irascible as he was ignorant. A truculent man who loved repeating himself, loudly and long-windedly. He supported Geert Wilders and his Party for Freedom, and like them desired a Dutch world devoid of Islam and its practitioners. A xenophobe who arbitrarily assigned blame to the Turks and other immigrants. A fundamentalist, he happily sermonized on the sacrilege of homosexuality. Black Pete was a staple of his Christmas décor, he considered the atrocities in Indonesia ancient history. In general, he believed that the only people of color worth allowing were the ones on national sports teams. He was a proponent of gender norms. He was an altogether distasteful and unpalatable man. A stubborn, prickly vestige of a past best left unrevived.

And yet, he was a man whose ideological principles, although once ostracized, were not dead—they were far from the fringes, and they were spreading like an infection. A moral pandemic where twisted thinking was contagious. Where hate had been normalized. Where it was winning politics. Where it was ubiquitous.

Because of people like him.

*

I understood the anger, the disgust, the shame. I understood the need to release those emotions.

But her reaction was different.

The length at which she spoke of Willem, the subtle seething, the almost unnoticeable agitation, it all suggested something deeper. Something personal.

A family feud beyond repair, perhaps. Or an individual wrong. An interpersonal conflict maybe, between the two of them. She had been equivocal about the children, the mother. Were they somehow involved?

*

Waves lapped at the ferry as we gently waded the waters. Cigarette smoke danced briefly around us before disappearing into the night’s fog.

The thirty minute trip from Koh Samui to Koh Phangan was coming to an end. Already passengers were collecting their luggage and lining up to disembark. We put our cigarettes out and joined the queue.

I felt unsatisfied. We had arrived at our destination, but the conversation hadn’t reached its proper conclusion.

We walked to the street. I was staying in Haad Rin, but she was going northwest to Haad Yao.

Before she went searching for the best priced tuktuk, I asked if she wanted a farewell joint. She shrugged her shoulders and we made our way down to the beach. We took our shoes off and stood in the sand, smoking.

“Why are you so mad at Willem?” I asked.

Lieke took a deep drag, debating.

Then she whispered:

“He took Mila away from me.”

“Who?”

“His daughter,” she said. “He exiled her to Belgium to stay with relatives. We were in love. And now that’s gone, because of him and his perverse beliefs. He ruined everything.”

She pushed the tears from her eyes.

“I loved her,” she wept. “We were in love. We still are.... I still am....”

THE END

Martin B. George is a world traveler and writer. He seeks to connect people through the art of story, or simply make them laugh. A proud member of the LGBTQIA community, his interests include painting, reading and exploring international cuisine. Find him at @the_wandering_nickel on Instagram to follow his adventures.

‘A Promised Forever’

Photographer- Perseverance Fey

I’m being questioned. Words barked in sharp cold tones. But they sound so far away. A distant waterfall of static noise. So unimportant against the memory of her lips on mine. Of her last words.

It had started just like any other day. Another assignment on a night like any other. We’d been debriefed on our target and once dropped off we’d wished each other luck in our usual way; a breath of a kiss. We parted like the sea against the shore, rushed and fleeting, but with the promise to return. Our ritual.

We turned, no longer our true selves, but the emotionless weapons we had been molded into. We fled into the darkness in opposite directions. Good little soldiers following orders. I’d held no fear, we’d find each other again even if something went wrong. If only I had known what would transpire in the next few hours.

She’d been so quiet. Aerona was never quiet.

I’d asked in secret, fingers gently tapping out words onto her pale skin. We’d needed such secrecy, working in such an organization. Breath was precious, and words could be dangerous. It was easier to touch. To skim fingers across flesh, make subtle movements that only we would understand. A twitch of the mouth, the tilt of a head, an altered blink—this was our language.

With a soft smile, Aerona soothed the worry in my chest. Apologising with a quick brush of her lips across my ear. I did not question her again. Why would I?

Everything had been going according to plan. I found myself moving quickly and silently through empty corridors. In one of the larger rooms the scientists and engineers were celebrating their success. Of what, I didn’t know, it wasn’t my job to know. The reasoning of our ‘superiors’ had never mattered much to me. Perfect, obedient soldiers lived. Questioning ones died. Were broken and tossed aside like rancid roadkill.

I arrived at my assignment. The office door was cracked open. I could hear drunken voices giggling beyond. My target had brought a friend. An annoyance, but not a problem.

I waited until a series of clicks sounded in my ear, and then threw the door open. The couple had no time to react. As I rushed in, blood burst from their heads. The bullets flying harmlessly past me. Curtesy of my partner.

I caught both bodies in my arms, thankful for the crimson carpet beneath my feet. Not that it would matter if there had been obvious stains. No one would find the bodies, nor suspect our organization’s involvement. No one ever did.

With a grunt, I dragged the corpses towards the large open window in the back. Without much thought, I tossed the bodies out the window. First the woman and then the man I had come for. I looted the desk; folders and the man’s own personal laptop go into my bag.

As I stood again before the window, a warning click rang out. I swung over the edge, clinging to the side of the building, shutting the window behind me. Not two seconds later the building shakes from the series of explosives I had planted earlier. Sirens blare as I leapt from the building, landing firmly on my feet. I hefted the bodies once more and turned, finding Aerona waiting for me.

She smiled at me. Dark green eyes skimming over my form, as if committing every inch to memory. A sweet unnecessary gesture, for we both knew every inch of each other even without sight. Knew how the other would react to any situation, we could practically read each others’ thoughts.

Many questioned our closeness. Our relationship had never been a secret, but how deep it truly went, well, that was only for us to know.

“Let them think it merely physical.” Aerona had said so long ago. Even in the dark I could tell she was smirking. “They know nothing, and they will never know any more than we tell them.” And I’d been fine with that, no one needed to know, and I trusted Aerona’s plans, even if I rarely knew all the details.

I returned her smile, falling into step beside her, barely slowed by the weights upon my back. Together, we fled back into the night, away from the crumbling and burning building.

We walked for some time. With little navigational trouble despite the lack of light. I could see Aerona, and she would never let me slip or stumble It was easy to fall into step behind, following just at her heels.

Finally, we arrived at the appointed rendezvous. A small meadow cut out of the surrounding woods. I rolled my shoulders under the pressing weight of the bodies.

“Need a hand?” Aerona asked. I nodded distractedly. My breath caught as I gazed upon her. Though covered in her combat gear, her sniper-rifle slung over her shoulder, I couldn’t help but think her beautiful bathed in silver-blue moonlight. A predator known to so few, yet so gentle with me. With some manoeuvring, she claimed the bag and heavy gun from my back.

“You got everything, right?” I nodded. Then I noticed her expression. Those green eyes I loved so much filled with fear, concern, and an emotion I’d rarely seen her wear, guilt.

“Of course.” I said. Brow’s furrowing. But when I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong, she cut me off.

“Good.” She muttered numbly. Then she raised her pistol and aimed it at my head.

“I love you.” I’d whispered, so long ago. The words falling from my lips without hesitation onto the skin of her throat. She kissed me in return, long and passionate. And so so sweet.

“I love you too.” Aerona breathed harshly against my lips. Pulling me close, pressing her face into my collarbone. I closed my eyes, content to fall asleep with her in my arms. But she spoke again, tapping out words against my spine.

Promise you’ll always love me?

It took me a moment to translate, but once I did I held her even tighter. Writing my response on her flesh in turn.

Yes. Always.

My heart froze as I stared down the barrel of her gun, eyes wide. This couldn’t be happening. Aerona would never—

“...What are you doing?” I whispered, making no move to disarm her like I’d been taught to do. I’d been shot before. I’d been trained to deal with more pain than that, and if need be I could use the bodies as shields. But I couldn’t move. If it were anyone else...but it wasn’t. I stayed where I was. I wouldn’t ever move against Aerona, and she knew it too.

“I’m sorry.” I saw the pain in her damp eyes, but I could also see her unbreakable resolve.

“Why?” I begged. Mind racing to understand, to find some reason for her actions.

“I can’t.” She replied, eyes shimmering. “I can’t, not yet. I promise I’ll find you again.” She cocked the gun, her hand steady. I moved. Rushing to her side like I had so many times before.

“Don’t—”

She fired. Blackout. Everything stops.

I guess we’re partners now? I’m Aerona.

Do you trust me?

Don’t let them see you break. Don’t let them hurt you.

I will always find you.

Us together forever, right love?

I love you.

When I wake, my eyes meet the bright sterile white of the infirmary. I blink and shift with a wince. Immediately, one of the masked nurses is at my side, checking my vitals and asking all the usual questions about my status. I answer briskly, head full of cotton. I look around dizzily.

“Where’s Aerona?” I whisper. The nurse stares for a full minute before turning back to their tools.

“She turned traitor, shot you and stole the objective.”

They leave then. I’m glad they do. My memory returns sharp and quick, and I’m forced to stifle a cry behind my teeth. I try once more to reason with my thoughts. She couldn’t have meant it, she’d never hurt me, she loves me. But the pain in my abdomen and the dull throbbing at my temple says otherwise.

Later, my superiors scold and interrogate me. I give my report numbly, sitting still and quiet under the barrage of demeaning and biting words. I should be paying attention, but their words themselves go over my head. I’m miles away from here, clinging to the ghost of our last kiss.

I argue in my head, defending my lover regardless of her actions, though I wouldn’t dare voice them aloud, not to anyone in the organization. She’d been sorry. I’d seen the guilt in her eyes. The fear and uncertainty in her actions. Aerona had never been like that, not in the two decades we’d worked together. I trusted her completely, as she did in return. This wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned or done something that would label her a traitor to the organisation. I wonder what they would do if she was caught?

The fear of what they might do to her when they find her, and, on a smaller scale, what they would do to me, burns in my chest. She may have turned traitor, had violently left the organization, but I had betrayed them too. In my hesitation. In my firm belief that I would sooner slit the throats of all the members in the organization before I would ever betray Aerona.

I return to my (our) quarters, lying awake in bed. I press the pillow against my face, catching her lingering scent. All her things had already been removed, possibly disposed of. There, in the choking lonely darkness, I sign my life away in silence.

I would wait for her. Wait for my beloved other half to set me free as she said she would. If Aerona had decided she would no longer support the organisation, neither would I. I will play the obedient soldier. I will relearn to walk alone, to live in the silence that had been my companion before her. I can do that, I can handle anything if it means seeing her again.

Even if I have to bath in the blood and agony I know will come for me.

Rachel Racette, born 1999, in Balcarres, Saskatchewan. Interested in creating her own world and characters and loves writing science-fiction and fantasy. She has always loved books of fantasy and science fiction as well as comics. Lives with her supportive family and cat, Cheshire. Lives vicariously in fantasy settings of her own making. Published in: Poet's Choice - Free Spirit, Coffin Bell. Website: www.racheldotsdot.wordpress.com Twitter: Rachel S Racette - Author

‘Cormorants’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Cormorants

IT WAS HERE at last – Learning at Work Week, the annual opportunity to ease some of the bureaucratic grind and elevate himself, and possibly his colleagues, to a place of greater happiness. In amongst the thicket of e-mails rearranging his priorities, assigning further tasks without renegotiating existing deadlines, he’d already delivered two seminars locally on haiku: Birds (with a plethora of feathery examples from the classical literature) and Fuzzballs (squirrels, foxes and assorted other furry urban-dwellers).

He got them comfortable, ran through a PowerPoint on the history of the form – putting Issa’s randy houseflies to extended use – then broke and invited them to leave the building, walk around outside with their eyes open. Then he led them haiku step by step: observations, connecting images to small line-bursts of emotion, paring it back to an essence that fused the elements into something higher.

Next up was a trip north, to Pitlochry and the fish people.

But first he had to rewrite this damned Education circular. One message responding to the initial issue, bristling with exclamation points, had pointed out its flaws: did he realise it took two long drives, expensive harbourside parking, a return ferry trip and three days in total to get her child to the dentist, from the island in question? Could he possibly take this into account, in the next edition of his little pamphlet? It was a fair cop, but he would soon be done, and leaving mid-afternoon for the Freshwater Laboratory, and tomorrow’s final workshop: Fish.

‘You finished, Neal?’ asked Karen. ‘Need to zip that across to Mal for the stats, then whatshisface to get it set.’

There was an acid note under the banter. He glanced at his watch, then stuck his head over the rim of his cubicle. Two hours, forty nine minutes and – thirty eight – seconds to go.

‘Almost – be right with you!’

Outside, something slithered up to the edge of the abandoned dock, plopped in. A gull honked past indifferently.

He got back to work.

*

There was no travel money for the trip, and the day and a third came out of his holiday allowance. No subsistence, either, so he’d packed peanut-butter and banana sandwiches, hoped to find somewhere cheap in the woolly wilds.

But still Neal felt his spirits lift as he waited for the carpark barrier to rise. The Circular was done, on its way to the printer’s; he would come back to something concrete from the latest stage in his ‘fast-stream journey’. At home, Daniel was working his usual hours – hours paid far better than his own – and he didn’t expect to hear from his partner till he pulled back into the driveway. Neal rolled his shoulder, tuned the radio and got comfortable.

Pitlochry, here we come!

On the back seat was a warm stack of prints. No screen or projector was available, so he’d gone old school: handouts, scratch paper, a box of pencils filched from the School Inspectorate’s stockroom. He’d amended his slides a bit, made them proper handouts, and he smiled as he remembered the examples.

Draining the ricefield –

a fish also

heads home

(Issa)

Or

Old well,

a fish leaps –

dark sound

(Buson)

They were delightful, and he hoped to see some really specific, salty work emerge from the experts. Daniel had shuddered. He was on his way from vegetarianism to veganism – it seemed a lot easier now than years ago – and could see the joy in flying birds, small mammals scuttling around the undergrowth. But fish?

‘Ugh – reminds me of Fridays!’

Craig, the genial organiser of L@WW, didn’t get it either. He’d made Neal a cup of tea, adding three sugars.

‘Birds, alright – majestic, an that. Poetry. Foxes, too. Slinkin around winkin wi’ cunning. But fish?’

‘Well, yes – fish.’

‘Don’t they sorta – ya know, sit there?’

‘Sit there?’

‘Under yon riverbank, or swirlin about a bit in the tank. Swim round. Dinnae do a lot, duthay?’

Neal had scratched his chin, taken a sip of the awful tea. Then it came to him – cormorant fishing!

‘Well, you might have a point, at least in regard to ordinary fish. But we’re talking about Japanese fish. There’s this thing where they hoist up cormorants – ’

‘Seabirds?’

‘Yeah, only on rivers – inland. Hoist them up, tie a sort of snare around their necks, then train them to dive down and yank out the fish.’

‘Don’t they just eat the fish?’

He looked a little less perplexed, though the fish seemed a bit passive in this peculiar miracle.

‘No. That’s where the snare comes in. It constricts them a bit, so they swallow the little tiddlers – that’s their payment, I suppose – but makes them hold the larger fish, the ones the fishermen want, in their gullets. They hoick them out, reset the snare, and start again.’

Craig scratched his chin, took a long draw on his sugary brew.

‘Alright, but yer actual fish, right – ’

‘They’re part of the process, which is interesting. Listen, fishy folk will love it – trust me.’

And he thought they would.

The thought sustained him down the shore and towards the bridge, into the long trek up the motorway.

*

For the first half-hour things were pleasant enough, but after a while he began to feel the effects of the coffees he’d drunk cramming the Circular. After he’d switched to a smaller road, the amenities dried up and a string of brief, tantalising vistas – rolling valleys, low tree-capped hills – opened up ahead. It was uncomfortable; then pressing; then he began to feel like a bag of liquid horrors waiting to burst through from another dimension. He sped up, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Eventually he barrelled round a corner and a sudden turn, large enough to warrant its own traffic-island, appeared on his right. He floored the brake, screeched into a gravel car-park. ‘House of Froward, the sign said. It seemed to be some sort of fancy clothing store, with a visitor’s centre and café attached. Whatever! He locked up and scuttled across the car park across a patio studded with navy-blue umbrellas into the café.

Inside it was small, more like a fish and chip shop than a proper sit down place. Still, at first glance the food looked alright, the prices surprisingly reasonable. But first things first.

Neal beamed at the first of three staff behind the counter.

‘Where’s the gents, please?’

He was hopping from foot to foot to damp down the raging ache in his abdomen.

‘No toilet.’

‘Sorry?’

‘No toilet here. You go to next town.’

‘What?’

But the man had turned away, his two colleagues suddenly attentive to the task in hand.

‘But this is a restaurant!’

Ordinarily, the flinty resistance of the civil servant would have kicked in, and he would have demanded to see the manager – the manager’s manager – about such a public outrage. But if he didn’t get to a toilet shortly he would cause his own outrage, so he fled back to the car and the main road, pulled off as soon as the slightest bit of roadside vegetation offered a minimal screen, and disappeared into the bushes.

A full minute later, with a suspicious-looking red-leaved bush dripping, his hands wiped on the tops of a stand of damp ferns, he stepped back over the low guard-rail and sat for a minute, spent. The anger had gone – well, almost – and in his relief, he looked round, checked his watch. Quarter to six. He still had more than an hour to go. The roadside was quiet, and he could see between two pine trees and the gash in the bushes into which he’d darted to the hills on the far side. The air was fresh; the view (dripping bush aside) quite pleasant, and he felt like stretching his legs.

He did it all the time at Alexandra Quay, but only ever between his desk and Karen’s, or down through the atrium to get coffee. Contrary to his seminar instructions, he usually kept his eyes firmly shut.

Now his feet crunched over gravel washed to the side of the road by passing lorries, and he picked up a stick from a divot in the metal rail, gave it a tap as he passed. It bonged, off-key, and he smiled. At the top of the hill he turned back, determined to forget all this nonsense and get in early to the hotel, perhaps have a beer and put his feet up, leaf through his fishy gems for tomorrow.

At the car he pulled back his arm and sent the stick whickering through the air. It turned at the last minute, revolving in its normal course, and sailed unimpeded between the top two branches.

*

Neal had originally planned only two sessions – birds and fur. Both local, both focused on generalities: the dawn chorus, foxes making sweet love by the bins, blackbirds digging for worms in freshly-turned earth. All the small delights his new-haikuists were certain to have encountered. But Craig scratched his head.

‘Tea?’

‘No, thanks. Happy to slot them in whenever you need them, even pop down the road.’

Craig stirred his plumber’s brew.

‘Look, Neal – I was thinking. You’re one-a my best folk. You do this every year, people enjoy it, and when the sign-in sheets go round, yours fill up richt away.’

‘I enjoy doing it – takes me back to a different life, makes a nice change from Karen, at least for a few hours.’

‘Yeah – I geddit. Should ask her to do ae course on micro-management, next year.’

‘Nano-management!’

Craig grinned. He slurped his tea, held up a finger.

‘But, young man, I’ve a bit ae a dilemma. Most o’the courses – yours, juggling, home-finance, joys ae urban chickens, ya know. They’re here, Edinburgh, in one ae yon two big buildings, or at a stretch, Glasgae.’

‘Well that’s where everybody is.’

‘No everybody.’

‘Ninety percent of them, surely?’

‘I’ll gae ye that. But there’s a few scattered round who get a bit vocal this time of year. Stirling, soma the rurals, ya nae. Pitlochry.’

Neal looked him square in the eye with his best flinty Education Department squint. It did no good.

‘Come on – be good fer ye. The drive alone’s a tonic.’

Neal sighed.

‘What do they do up there?’

‘Fish, mainly, but not, ya know, the out-at-sea kind.’

‘Fish.’

‘Yeah – yer know, lil salty flippers wi the funny smiles. There’s a bloke called Henry Shadbolt pushin fer somethin.’

In the sudden silence, Neal could hear Alexandra Quay going about its sorry business, clueless about birds, furry creatures and fish; knowing little, and caring less. The sound of self-satisfaction hummed on regardless. Craig took a triumphant slurp.

‘I’ll even call Karen for yer, clear the way. Howzat?’

*

Half an hour more, and the road seemed to roll on in pines and vistas and moody grey skies, seemingly forever. It wasn’t unpleasant. Daniel had this huge project, and his company was still primarily working-from-home, so every moment of stress and pressure radiated out from the spare room into the confines of the flat. Neal knew he had to be bringing home an equal amount – of rage, most likely – but could seem to do nothing about it.

Up ahead, a small ‘P’ sign indicated a stopping-place, and he decided to pull off and stretch his legs. The refuge of the road was fine, but he could use some cool and silence – even better, a cup of coffee and a bacon roll. The parking place came up after a stand of trees. There was a wheelie bin, a baby’s stair-gate abandoned in a bush – heaven knows how that got here – and, praise be, a burger van at the far end. He could see another car parked beyond, the driver handing money in through the hatch. He got out quickly and shook out the tension from his legs, trotted down to the van.

‘You’re working late!’ he said. The man inside just nodded, angled his head at the board. Soon Neal had a hot roll and coffee. He walked back towards the car and noticed a gap in the scrub, to the left of the baby gate. It led a short way down a bank, between two pines and out onto a small ridge above a stream. There was a weathered picnic bench, another bin beside it. The trees screened the noise of passing cars, and he sat down to eat with a sense of gratitude for the scene. Just what he needed, right when he needed it. It was not a familiar feeling.

He remembered talking to Shadbolt, the coordinator at the Lab.

‘Aye,’ Henry said. ‘You folk tend to forget us, up here in the woods, but we’re part of government, too.’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt it, Henry,’ Neal said. ‘Not at all. It’s just that – ’

‘Too busy, are ye – wi the big bosses, an all?’

‘Well, yes, but it’s not that. Or not entirely that, you know.’

‘Well, what is it?’

And suddenly Neal was unburdening himself.

‘Well, Henry, it’s a lot of things, actually. To start with, it’s my boss – you don’t really need to know her name. It’s Karen. Karen is a bloody nightmare – nitpicking everything down to the atomic level, and do as I say, not as I do. When I got here I had to call the movers to arrange a date for our stuff to come out of storage. She leans over the cubicle wall. “No personal calls.” Okay – weird, but then she goes back into her own stupid little hole, and makes a call to her car insurer! Then her bloody boyfriend. And – well, you don’t need to know the whole sordid history. Suffice to say she covers all her deficiencies with our achievements, and doesn’t give a flying fuck about anyone but herself.’

There had been a rather significant silence on the line.

‘What the hell,’ Henry said. ‘Don’t you fancy getting away for the day?’

Now he sat with a bacon roll on a battered picnic table, pinching and yanking at an awkward sachet of ketchup, sipping at coffee between fruitless attempts.

‘Come – bloody – on!’ he said. On the fourth tug it creaked mightily, then gave up the ghost. A spray of sauce dotted the roof of the roll, and he used the dead sachet to smear it over his bacon, closing up the roll and taking a big bite. In the evening cool it was heavenly, sweet, salty and crispy, all at once. He chased it down with a long swallow of coffee. Under the bench, Neal rearranged his legs, crossing and uncrossing them, then finally jammed both feet on the middle rung. It made him sit up straight and look at the view. A car passed in the background, and he heard the other customer get back on the road. The van seemed to be closing down, too.

Soon everything was quiet.

He had no idea where the picnic-spot was; he could be five minutes from the hotel, or hours, or just outside the city. He realised it didn’t matter. What mattered was the stuff under his fingers: the squidgy packet; the soft roll; the heat of black coffee radiating through the double-walled cup. Even the gnarled wood of the table itself. Someone had chiselled an insult, or an endearment, into its surface – so long ago he couldn’t tell which. He sat still, enjoyed the stillness.

After a few minutes the wildlife wised up, resumed its business. A squirrel dropped to the spongey turf from a nearby tree, did a quick side-to-side reconnaissance, tufty ears pricked up and sleeked back, then dropped to all fours and scampered across the clearing. A blackbird cawed, somewhere out of sight, and what he thought must be a magpie – really just a blur of black and white – streaked across the middle distance like some secret, flashing signal.

Neal smiled. He wished Daniel was here, and not sweating out his latest assignment. Then, just as suddenly, he wished to stay alone. There was something satisfying about this moment, and he wanted it to endure. Perhaps he didn’t get enough of them, or what he did manage to snatch from the constant flow of demands in the office, was insufficient – the sort of observation his seminars tried to banish, in favour of a longer, more dedicated look.

He thought about the cormorants again. That thin silken cord, wrapped just so, in order to allow the bird to follow its natural instinct to dive, to chase and capture, but coming back to the surface, permitting only the smaller fish to slip down its waiting gullet. The rest were caught, trapped like – well, bigger fish – and levered out of its maw into wicker baskets. He could imagine the calls of the men from one flat-bottomed boat to another, the squawks of the birds, the relentless splashing of the waters in the background. He wasn’t sure which of the figures he identified with – the supreme fishermen, sleek and deathly in silent pursuit, or the men standing idly by till simple technology stole the best of the catch.

He'd hoped to convey something of this cultural complexity to his students. They knew all about fish, or so Henry said; their habitats, behaviours, tendencies and characteristics. Just the sort of specific knowledge, derived from close observation, that drove the best, the seemingly-simple haiku whose sparse lines – when written well – conveyed turbulent depths.

But he had reached the bottom of his coffee, and nothing much was happening in the clearing. Another car went by, here then gone, and he thought of the office: its low-walled cubicles and endless chatter; new demands heaped up, one another, on the old; the latest version of the Circular swarming up from the deep with a bellyful of corrections. Suddenly his neck tightened, gorge rising as if squeezed up by some invisible cord.

Neal stood up quickly, dumped his rubbish and got back in the car.

He started for home.

James Roderick Burns is the author of one flash fiction collection, To Say Nothing of the Dog, and five collections of short-form poetry, most recently Crows at Dusk; a collection of four novellas – The Unregulated Heart – is also forthcoming in summer 2024. His stories have twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and he serves as Staff Reader in Poetry for Ploughshares. He can be found on Twitter @JamesRoderickB and his newsletter ‘A Bunch of Fives’ offers one free, published story a fortnight (abunchoffives.substack.com).

Girl with the Flaxen Hair

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Girl with the Flaxen Hair

She was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. Her hair was like straw and her eyes were mud. She was a pig’s dream and I loved her. The first time we spoke was when we were kids, catching crawdads in the creek that separated her house from mine. Kids don’t talk all too much, they just smile and play, singing old nursery songs together that they haven’t quite yet outgrown. Then she went to school, and I stayed behind, and we stopped our games. Our games turned into waves; the waves to smiles; the smiles to nods; and then we were strangers. The year was 1932. I had only spoken to her a handful of times since then—her father was the protective type and never cared all too much for me. Course there was no reason for him to give me the time of day. I was their neighbor, but not much of one. I did what I could here and there, but I don’t got much. My home is one bad look away from being just a dilapidated shack and was surrounded by the bones of lonely tools taken by rust and rot. The fields surrounding me, once luscious and profitable, are now occupied by weeds and tan grass, tenants that I could never rid.

When I was a kid, wheat bloomed far as the eye could see. We had a good ol’ horse whose name slips my memory that would go out and yank it up ‘til the sun went down, sometimes sneaking in a few bites for herself. That thing ended up being a sack of bones that my father shot out in the back to put her out of her misery. At least that’s what I was told. He was always mumbling about that “good fer nuthin’ piece of shit”. Sometimes the thought crosses my mind that he just got fed up and fired the gun in a fit of rage. It saddened me, but at least it was only the horse. After that we couldn’t do too much. The fields became overgrown and moldy, and pests ran amuck. Our cat fattened as our stomachs sucked in. We were never rich folk and didn’t pretend to be.

I had a habit of getting up at the crack of dawn so I could watch Addison fixing breakfast. It started as a coincidence, but I just couldn’t help myself after that. I was an alcoholic drunk on her beauty. My eyes must have started to drill holes through their walls and shatter their windowpanes. I always thought of myself as her protector, someone who wants to see the best for her. Once their chickens disappeared—at least their bodies did. The heads were left sittin’ at the bottom of the coop. I wanted to look out for the poor girl and brought her some eggs from my own hens. They were for Addison, but I knew her family enjoyed them too. After that she started waving to me across the way when I would get home, and I would nod back. Farming did not agree with me. So I just worked where I could, finding odd jobs that no one else wanted. I had a jack that would take me into town. It wasn’t a far trip, one that was greatly shortened by the jack when I brought a switch. He was more stubborn that I was.

My favorite days to go out are the ones like these—sunny and bright, warm with a breeze. These days weren’t uncharacteristic for this time of the year, but still always appreciated. I needed to make the trip out to the town, my funds were running low again. Winters are always tough. Everyone just keeps to themselves and it’s too cold to go out and search for work anyways. As I traveled down the barren road, I thought about all I could do if I had more money and said a little prayer. I don’t believe in God, but maybe I would if he sent some luck my way. My mother, God rest her soul, told me stories of how my father used to care for her. He’d come home from a long day of work singing and dancing and they’d swing me around so that I would laugh until my throat was hoarse. I was too young to remember. “Amazing Grace” melted off my lips as I rolled into town and tied the jack up to a post. I went to every single shop to see if anyone had some work that I could do. A few dollars was all I could get, but I was grateful. This routine repeated itself until the jack brayed with hunger. I saw Addison walking out of the post office with her father and the world seemed to stand still.

He was a fat man without any defining features. It seemed like everything that was not her was simply foreign. I could feel my eyes narrow and my heart beat. If I didn’t know better, I coulda swore I was drooling. I just stood there in front of the pair until we were almost nose-to-nose. I would have kissed her if I was worse of a man. Her father cleared his throat.

“’Scuse me,” my words were calm, but I was brewing a fresh pot of anger as I stepped out of the way.

I watched the two leave and the fat man turned around and gave me a nasty look. There’s many things I coulda done if I were a worse of a man, but I’m not. Watching her leave was a terrible feeling. The sun licked my skin like fire on this August day, but I continue to clench my jaw and bear the heat. There’s not much that can be done. I’m damned in the winter and damned in the summer. Sometimes I feel jealous of the old horse. The fear of being shot was never one I was a stranger to. Most of my memories of my father include a gun. He would come back at night, staggering ‘cross the floor, knuckles bloody, waving a revolver in the air. I would hear my parents yelling about money and shots would ring out, but never anything fatal. Always damned. I walked over to the creek that Addison and I once played in to dampen a rag to put over my neck. It was barely a trickle. I stood there and stared at the water and for a split second, the thought of pushing the fat man’s face down in it flashed through my mind. I looked up and saw Addison with a man. I had seen him around before, but we had never spoke, and he had certainly never spoke to her. He looked stupid with a shit-eating grin and arms that were too long for his torso. The way they laughed together was vile. I could only wish that she was laughing at him and not with him. She stopped the banter and waved when she noticed me. I did nothing. That’s something they never teach you when you’re young—the pain of seeing your lover with another man.

I used to beg and beg my father to go into town with him and sometimes he would take me. We would go into a five-and-ten owned by an ugly lady with a giant mole. Least I think it was a lady. My father would yell at me to behave as he went to the back, he said he was “gunna go ‘cross the street real quick-like”. The sign on the building said it was a tearoom, but I only say a couple ladies go in and out. It was mostly disagreeable men with eyes like rats. When my father came out, he always seemed cheerier. Fists never flew when we got back home, but still my mother (the Lord bless her) would cry and cry and cry…

I kept staring at Addison and gangly man. The fat man came out and stared me down, his eyes daggers. Maybe he could read my thoughts, maybe he was still mad about the chickens. I can hear the jack’s brays from inside my house. He was family to me. I hadn’t been talking to nobody but him lately. Going outside has become a chore when all I can think about was her. It just ain’t right. I know I’m a good man, but I just don’t feel like one when everyone walks out. Even one day the jack will run away, or I’ll have to shoot him out in the back like the horse, too. These thoughts all circled around my head, making me dizzy and confused. It was debilitating. They spun faster and faster and faster.

I sat and thought, and my face twisted up until it was unrecognizable and wet. A cold breeze ran underneath the floorboards of my house, tickling my feet and reminding me that I am alive. It let me know that while life is exasperating, it sure is beautiful and I’m lucky to be here, living next to my future bride. That feeling of peace was quite something. I remember how my mother felt a similar feeling of peace once. She was beautiful woman who fell ill before I even saw my teenage years. Mama used to be Her body began to ache in a way where she said she felt as if she were turning into a rock, her forehead was as hot as a coal, and she shriveled up into a pile of bones. A doctor came out once and told us to keep our distance, because this disease was taking many. I never wanted to stay away from her or be apart, but every time I snuck into her room, my father would yank me away so hard my arm would bruise. She always gave me the softest smile when I left, so meek and demure. Helpless.

The last time I saw her, she was gasping for air between fits of coughing. I stumbled into her room, scared of whether my mother would be there or if she would have disintegrated. That look in her eyes was one I could never forget. She must have known her time had come because I had never seen someone quite so at peace with the world. She looked genuinely content for a woman about to pass on. A smile left her lips and pulled me towards her. I clung onto her arm and cried all night, until I was once again yanked away. The next day we put her in the coffin that my father and I had built a few days earlier.

Life sure is a strange thing.

The clock ticked by slowly. It was already November. Addison and the young man were betrothed to wed. I found out when I went into town to find some work and I saw the pair. A beauty and a gangly beast. They were surrounded by people young and old, congratulating them. A load of horse-shit if you ask me. For a split second my gaze caught her eye and I thought I saw something in it. An apology maybe? Or longing? Did she know that she had made the wrong choice and I was the one that she was supposed to be with? How could a man with such a stupid smile take care of her, and how could the most beautiful woman in the world actually like a man with such unruly limbs?

I knew in that moment that she did want to be with me. I stood there and stared at the couple until the surrounding people’s looks to me became unsettling. My eyes were wide, glazed and unblinking. Thoughts raced through my mind like dogs, but I still felt peaceful, at ease. I am the picture of serendipity. A deep sigh escaped my lips. My chest rose and fell with the breaths that gave me life.

Breathe In,

Out,

In,

Out.

My feet carried me home, but I had no recollection of the movements I had just made. It felt like I was floating, my body was in control, and I was only a passenger along for the ride. The sole passenger on a lonely train. The thoughts that my mind produced in that time I can’t recollect, but I cannot imagine they were those of a good man, with how hot my brain felt.

My house was cold, combating the heat that was escaping my body and cooling me down to a temperature where I could survive. The house started to look vile to me, a memory of what was and what could have been. My father had left years ago when I was a scrawny young cock. He opened the door, looked at me, and disappeared forever. His gaze was cold and lacking in any emotion. The lack of his regard for my well-being showed that his heart had never been there. It was as hard and moldy as a knot of wood left in the rain. I never saw him again. I can only assume he’s dead—or at least I know he is dead to me.

In,

Out,

In…

The wind was howling with anger, furious to be alive. It was a welcomed alarm; the wind’s fury was invigorating. At one point in my life I would have said the wind was as angry as I was, but that is no longer true. I have found peace and I have found how to get to where I belong in life.

My feet carried me across the way to the house where my future bride spent most of her time. I pursed my lips and whistled once again. Raps on the door came from my fists and the ever-beautiful Addison answered. A confused look swept across her face, changing to the characteristic welcoming smile of any woman that properly belonged in this town, and her eyes crinkled. I had never noticed her crow’s feet before.

My body carried me, and I was no longer in control. Shots rang out, clearing the neighboring trees of any birds that nestled inside. Crows screamed and flapped their winds, intrigued by the commotion. I turned around and saw the fat man running towards me with a shotgun he was threatening me with. An old Winchester. Yelled as he saw Addison hanging from a tree next to me by a rope necklace I crafted special for her.

“Damn you! My God, damn you!” His sobs boomed.

I heard one last shot. My ears rang and I fell to the ground. Above me I could see my bride, her face white and pure, sleeping peacefully as the howls of the wind pushed her side to side. My eyes rolled back into my head, and I drifted away. We would be together always, and it was our love that could never die.

Amazing grace

How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me…

A.H. Brewer is a Pacific Northwest native author who currently resides in Japan. She has always been drawn to dark and grotesque, which is reflected in all of her works. She is excited to share her debut work as a testament to her lifelong love affair with the art of storytelling.

‘Breaking It Apart’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Breaking it Apart

Hemant, tired of his lawn mower acting up every time he tried to start it, pulled the cord once more. This time, the lawn mower roared to life.

I don’t like doing this, Hemant said to himself as he pushed the mower toward the far side of the backyard. Here the property sloped down to the ditch behind the fence, making the task more physically strenuous.

Knocking Hemant off his thoughts, Neelam’s voice bellowed from inside the house. “Hem, we’re getting late. Are you going to get ready?”

Hemant, who had stopped mowing momentarily, resumed as if he had not heard her. He wondered if he would put his daughter on the deck by next spring, and let her watch him mow the lawn. Would the noise of the mower scare her? Maybe he should get a quieter one by then. Or, he should buy a big automatic mower like Sean had recommended.

One of those John Deere tractors, he told himself. It immediately reminded him of Tim “the tool-man” Taylor from Home Improvement. Recalling Tim’s obsession with bigger, more powerful equipment, Hemant tried one of Tim’s trademark ‘ho-ho-ho’ grunts.

Not quite there, he muttered, critiquing his grunt.                        

“Hemant, are you listening? I am screaming my lungs off here.” Neelam was standing on the outdoor deck now, arms akimbo.

Now that she was facing him, he could not pretend to not hear her. “I’ve been screaming my head for the past ten minutes, and you’re acting like I don’t exist,” she said, brushing the loose, wet hair off her forehead.

Hemant shut the lawn mower down. “Well, I couldn’t hear you with the lawn mower running.”

“Obviously, this lawn-mowing thingy is more important to you than keeping my doctor’s appointment!”

Hemant left the mower on the grass and began walking toward the house, while Neelam turned her back and went inside. Hemant paused to wipe his feet on the deck mat before stepping inside.

 Neelam’s eyes blazed as she stared at Hemant from the couch.  

“If you aren’t interested in attending the pregnancy and Lamas classes,” she said, “you could have told me that ...”

“I never told you I wanted to attend those classes,” said Hemant without raising his voice.

“So, are you not going to come with me?”

“I didn’t say that either.” Hemant’s voice was flat and devoid of emotion. “I’d much rather prefer to drop you off at your doctor’s.”

“So you are not going to be there at the delivery? Is that it?” Neelam walked up to the wall and banged on it with clenched fists.  “God, why do I always have to be this miserable!” She clutched her head and began to cry.

Hemant waited for his wife to calm down a bit. “I didn’t say I won’t be at the hospital,” he said, turning around to close the backyard door behind him.

“How useful will you be if you are not going to take the lessons?”

“All I said was I would like to take the classes at my convenience.”

“When? After the baby is born?”

Hemant stood silent and still like a petulant child, his hands in his sweatpant pockets.

“Hemant, classes are not available at your convenience,” Neelam continued.

“I will find one.”

“So, you expect me to attend these classes alone?” Neelam stomped her feet. “When every fucking slut who shows up there has either their boyfriend or husband tagging along?”

“So that’s what this is all about. Announcing to the world that you have someone to chaperone you around?”

Neelam screamed—her screams loud enough to be heard down the street.

Sean, Hemant, and Neelam were at King’s Island, having just finished the annual spring picnic for the employees of GE Engines, where Hemant and Sean worked. On their way home, the three stopped by one of the outdoor restaurants for a drink.

Sean watched Hemant, whom he had known since their graduate school days, help Neelam onto the low lounge chair. They made such a cute couple, he thought.

“Have you guys decided how many more kids you’d like to have?” asked Sean Mitchel after Hemant had taken his seat. A thin smile played on his lips.

“Maybe like five,” said Hemant, watching a young mom helping her toddler onto a swing behind Sean.

“What?” said Neelam, her voice excited and shrill while Sean laughed.

The toddler took a big arc on the swing, and the mom and the child broke out in delighted squeals.

Hemant smiled at Sean. “How about you, Sean?” he asked. “How many are you going to father? Like ten?”

“Ten? Me?” Sean frowned, his face turning serious. “I’m not planning on having any kids, buddy.”

“I wonder how Amy feels about that?” said Neelam, smiling. “Seriously, you should reconsider, Sean. It will be the best experience of your life.  Even Hemant used to be so blasé about becoming a dad. But now, he’s all excited.”

Glancing at Hemant, she added, “Of course, he doesn’t like to show it.”

Sean nodded. “Drawing emotion out of Hemant is like drawing blood out of a kid.”

“Tell me about it,” said Neelam while Hemant cupped his mouth as if trying to stifle a yawn.

Neelam and Hemant—who grew up in India— and Sean, who grew up in a rural town in western Pennsylvania, attended grad school together at the University of Kentucky in Lexington. Now, they lived in the same neighborhood in a Cincinnati suburb.

“When exactly are you due?” asked Sean, watching Neelam squiggle uncomfortably in her seat.

“Long way to go,” said Neelam, looking at Hemant, who was watching the trees around him glow in the sun, showing off their bright green newborn leaves.

 “Another four months. October fifteenth, to be exact.”

“Nice to see your excitement,” Sean said to Neelam before turning to Hemant, who was still lost in the park's scenery. “Whereas this guy… he always keeps his cards close to his chest.”

Neelam threw her head back and laughed. “Just like Hemant, right?” Brushing a strand of hair off her face, she added, “However, he’s more expressive at home. More so ever since we learned it’s a girl. He always wanted a girl first, you see. And I am glad I got it right.

“You know,” said Neelam, staring at her well-manicured long nails. “I didn’t want to get pregnant immediately after graduation, but Hemant was insistent.”

Hemant wore a wry smile on his face.

 “How do you put up with such an unemotional robot?” asked Sean, looking at Hemant picking up his beer from the tray.

When the waitress withdrew, Neelam said, “Boy, am I glad someone else appreciates what I put up with!”

The waitress arrived with their order of drinks and nachos, and everyone picked up their drinks.

Sean took a quick sip of his beer, and asked, “Have you guys picked a name for your daughter?”

“Of course,” said Hemant.

“I bet it is not something simple like Arianna or Brianna.”

“You’re correct. But are those simple names?” Hemant frowned.

“Absolutely.”

“Maybe simple for you, but not for our folks.”

“Well, what is it going to be?”                                                              

“Mpumelele Mbangwa,” said Hemant, without missing a beat.

“What?” Sean’s jaw dropped.                                                               

Hemant grinned. “Mpumelele Mbangwa,” he repeated.

“Mpu WHAT? Is that a name? And how exactly do you plan to spell it?”

“M-P-U-M-E-L-E-L-E and M-B-A-N-G-W-A.” Hemant patiently spelled out the Zimbabwean name.

“Are you sure you can spell your daughter’s name the same way the next time I ask?’

“Absolutely.”                                                   

“Jesus Christ. Mpum...” Sean gave up. “Mpum, whatever. Are you telling me your folks find that easy on the mouth while Ariannas and Briannas are tough?”

Laughing, Neelam sprayed the iced tea she had just gulped.

 “Without a doubt,” said Hemant.

“My tongue would be up in knots if I got the name right even once. For god’s sake, guys, she’s an American, right? Why can’t you give her a reasonable American name? At least leave her with a middle name like Maggie or Michelle.”

“Good suggestion, Sean,” said Neelam, turning to her husband and running her fingers over his forearm. “We should think about it, Hemant.”

“Sure, we’ll consider that suggestion, Sean,” said Hemant.

Neelam, who had planned to do some shopping before going home, finished her iced tea and got up

“You guys enjoy your bromance,” she said. “I have some chores to run.”

Sean watched Hemant walk Neelam to the parking lot, holding her hand. He had known them both for four years now, and knowing that Hemant and Neelam had known each other since childhood gave him a warm feeling.

Sean ordered a second Margarita.

When Hemant returned to the table, Sean said, “I like how you two are so good for each other. You have such great chemistry.”

“Thanks,” Hemant said, smiling as he flopped down on the chair he had vacated a few minutes earlier. I'm sorry about that, Sean. Neelam doesn’t know you broke up with Amy.”

 “No issues. I guessed as much,” said Sean, sipping his Margarita. “Talking of breakups, I’m terrible at breaking up,” he added

“You’re kidding, right?  You have had at least three new girlfriends in the last year, haven’t you?”

“Maybe.” Sean giggled. “Still, I am terrible at breaking up.”

Hemant chuckled, hailed the waitress, and ordered a Bud for himself.

“I’m not kidding,” Sean continued. “After I told Amy that we were breaking up, I had to face a barrage of tears and accusations from her. At the end of it, I felt so guilty and bad, do you know what I did? I went and bought a ring and decided to propose to her that weekend. Then I called her on the phone. But by the time I was done talking to her, thankfully, we were both hopping mad. She said she never wanted to see me again. I went ahead and returned the ring.”

Hemant shook his head. “Phew, that must have been a pretty close call.”

“Tell me about it. It gives me the creeps when I think about it.” Sean shook himself up and heaved a big sigh. “I came this close to being tied up with that fruitcake for the rest of my life.”

“How are things between you and Katy?” said Hemant. Katy was Sean’s current girlfriend.

“So far, so good,” said Sean.

The following weekend, Hemant stopped by Sean’s place. Hemant knew that Sean’s mother and sister were visiting him that weekend but Sean had asked Hemant to come over and help him prepare a marketing PowerPoint presentation for the coming week.

Sean opened the door and told Hemant that his mother had stepped out to run a few errands. Could they wait for her to return to start? Then, they could go to a coffee shop and work on the slides.

“Fine,” said Hemant. “But why don’t I take a cursory look at what you got while we’re waiting for your mom.”

Sean left Hemant on the living room couch with his laptop and disappeared upstairs.

 As he skimmed through the slides on Sean’s laptop, Hemant lifted his head from his laptop when he heard a little girl’s voice: “Sean, can I come and watch?” There was no one at the top of the stairs.

“No. Didn’t your mom tell you to stay in bed?”  Sean answered from his room upstairs.

“But I’m bored,” the girl protested. After a moment of silence, Hemant heard footsteps, forcing him to look up.  A girl who looked about four or five years old, wearing a pink Winnie-the-Pooh T-shirt and yellow sweatpants, was watching him from the top of the landing.

“Sam, we are working,” said Sean as he walked down the stairs to the couch and sat next to Hemant.

“I won’t bother you. I promise,” said the little girl.

“Stay right in your room where your mom left you, Sam,” said Sean. “Remember, those were her orders,” said Sean.

“You’re mean.” Sam stared at Sean, her voice choking. “You are always mean to me.”

Hemant watched the girl stare at Sean, her lips pouting and then turned his head to see Sean smiling awkwardly at her.

“What’s your name?” Hemant asked the girl who disappeared inside without answering his question, making Hemant wonder if she was accusing him of taking Sean away.

“What’s her name?” Hemant turned to Sean.

“Samantha. Sam,” Sean said, his eyes focused on the screen. He then began to read aloud the bullet items from the first page of the PowerPoint presentation. 

Reviewing the slides, Hemant occasionally glanced upstairs to see if Sam was back. She was not.

A car door slammed shut on the driveway.

“That’s Mom,” said Sean, closing his laptop. “Let me use the restroom, and I’ll be right back. We can go over to Champs and review the slides without distraction.”

Sean waited for a woman, lean and with long blond hair, seemingly in her forties, to push open the garage door with her shoulder before walking in. She held brown Marsh grocery bags in both her hands.

“Mom, Hemant. Hemant, Mom,” said Sean, getting on his feet and heading upstairs.

“Hi, Hemant.” Sean’s mother looked at Hemant after dropping the grocery bags on the floor to shut the door behind her.

“Hi,” said Hemant, walking toward the door to the garage. “Can I help?”

“I’m fine,” she said, bringing two of the bags closer to the fridge.

But Hemant still walked to the kitchen, picked up the remaining bags on the floor near the garage door, and followed her to the refrigerator.

“Did Sam bother you and Sean?” asked Sean’s mom.

“Not at all,” said Hemant before noticing that Sam had appeared in the kitchen. Her curly blond hair was all over her face, and she was clutching tightly to her red-stuffed Clifford dog. The tip of her nose was red and showed signs of rashes. He dropped the two bags at Sean’s mom's feet and looked at Sam.

“Is that your name - Hammond?” Sam asked.

“That’s right. Do you not like it?” said Hemant, brightly.

“But that’s an American name.”

“I am an American. You don’t think I am?”

“Well, maybe.” Sam hopped away to the living room. “But you look more like Shanti’s dad.”

“Shanti, who?” Hemant heard Sean’s mom giggle as he followed Sam to the living room.

“My friend at Sterling Heights,” said Sam.

“And Shanti is not an American?”

“No! She’s Indian.”

“I see. Well, what can I say?” Hemant exaggerated a shrug. “I’m Hammond, an American who happens to look like an Indian.”

“Fine.” She paused to think. “Are you busy?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Sam,” Sean’s mother interrupted immediately. “I told you to be quiet and not bother.”

“She’s not bothering me at all. I have all the time until Sean gets ready,” said Hemant.

Sean’s mother poked her head from behind the fridge and smiled at Hemant. “Thank you,” she said. “That girl just loves attention.”

“Who doesn’t?”  said Hemant as he followed Sam upstairs.

“What would you like to do?” Sam turned around on the stairs. “You have two choices. One, we can play with Clifford. Or I can draw pictures for you.”

“I prefer the picture-drawing thingy,” said Hammond.

“Sure, if that’s what you want.” Sam paused to sneeze before laying down her Clifford on the landing. “I forgot to bring my crayons, but we can use these marker pens. Do you mind if I use marker pens?”

“Not at all. Are you sick or something?” asked Hemant.

“I have Bronchitis,” Sam said after wiping her nose with the tissue she had in her pocket.

“Oh!” Hemant’s voice didn’t conceal his surprise or his concern.

“You didn’t know that?”

“No.”

“Can’t you see my nose is red?” Sam said, raising her eyebrows at Hemant.

“Sorry, sweetie, I didn’t know red-nose meant Bronchitis. So, does Rudolph have bronchitis?”

Sam allowed herself to smile. “You are funny.”

“Thank you.” Hemant sat down on the hardwood floor above the stairwell. “Do you have to take a lot of medicines?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you see all the medicines on the kitchen counter? They’re mine.” Then she pointed to the dining table downstairs. “Those are my inhaler things.”

“Do you like your medicines?”

“Eew, I hate them.” Sam scrunched her mouth. “Especially that white one. Amoxicillin. It’s yucky.”

 “Is there any medicine you like?”

“Mm...” She looked up thoughtfully. “Robitussin, maybe. Especially the cherry-flavored one.”

Sam sat and got busy drawing with an orange marker pen.

“Can you guess who it is that I’m drawing?” she asked, momentarily looking up.

Hemant furrowed his brows in deep contemplation. “Sorry. I give up,” he said.

“Hello, it’s Abe Lincoln. Can’t you see?”

Hemant decided to be indignant. “How is this Abe Lincoln?” he asked.

“Can you not see?” She pointed to the chin with her marker pen. “He has a beard. It has to be Abe Lincoln, right?”

“Is that so?  Well, I didn’t realize that was a beard. I thought those were ants crawling up a guy’s chin.”

Sam looked at Hemant sternly and then broke into a big giggle. “You really are funny.”

“You think so?”

Sam nods. “Yes, you are.”

“All right, Hemant. I’m ready,” said Sean, shoving his laptop into its bag and stepping out of the master bedroom. “Shall we go?”

“Can I complete this picture for Hammond?” Sam’s face paled before she could complete her question. “Oh, never mind,” she added.

“No, that’s all right. I’ll wait,” said Hammond before turning to Sean. “Sean, give me a minute. I want Sam to do something for me.”

Sean walked past them and down the stairs while Hemant waited for Sam to complete the picture.

Sam colored her picture frantically before handing it to Hemant. Then she waited for his reaction, putting the bottom of her marker pen in her mouth.

After running his eyes over the picture, Hemant said, “Nice. Can I take this with me?”  

“Of course,” she said taking the marker out of her mouth. “I drew it for you.”

“Thank you.” Hemant tousled Sam’s hair and descended the stairs.

On his way out, Sean’s mom followed Hemant— presumably to close the door. He showed her the picture. “Look!” he said. “Sam drew this for me. A picture of Abe Lincoln.”

Sean’s mom snickered. “I’m glad you like it. She loves drawing pictures.”

“By the way, I’m Darlene,” she said, extending her hand.

Hemant grabbed her hand and said, “I’m Hemant, but you already know that. Nice meeting you.” He opened the door to hear the sound of the car engine running in the driveway.

As Sean pulled out of the driveway, he looked like he had something on his mind.

“Sam’s a cute kid,” said Hemant. “She talks nineteen to the dozen.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” said Sean, listlessly.

“Where’s your sister, though?” said Hemant. “Did she step outside, or did your mom just bring your niece with her?”

“What?” Sean took his hands off the steering wheel and threw them in the air. “What are you talking about?”

“Sam is your niece, your sister’s daughter, right?”

“My niece indeed! Sean snickered. “I wish! Sam is my sister, dumbo!”

“What?” Hemant’s eyebrows arched up almost an inch. “Sam is your sister?”

“That’s what I said,” said Sean.

“You are not yanking my chain, are you? She’s a little too young.”

“Are you kidding? Of course, she’s fucking young. Like nineteen years younger than me. Can you believe that? I have a sister who’s young enough to be my daughter.”

At Champs, Sean and Hemant sat at a relatively quiet table, away from the crowds that had collected in the sports bar to cheer the Cleveland Cavaliers playing the Chicago Bulls. They worked on the corner table until Sean was happy with the slides. Sean closed the laptop and smiled, pulling the power cord from the wall outlet.

“That must be really neat,” said Hemant, stretching his back and glancing at the game on the TV. The Cavaliers led by six at the end of the third quarter.

“I didn’t know you have such a young sister,” he said and then scrutinized the puzzled expression on Sean’s face.

“Neat, huh?” Sean wiped his face with a napkin and snickered. “And you thought she was my niece!

“You never had a baby for a sibling after you were an adult, did you?” he asked.

“No, I didn’t.  But I think it must be wonderful to have a baby sister.”

“Yeah, right. You are confusing a sister for a daughter, dude. Sam was born when I was a freshman in college. What were my mom and dad thinking?” he said before adding, “Actually, I know what they were thinking.”

The waitress stopped by to ask if they needed anything else or if she could bring the check.

“Check, please. We’re wrapping up,” said Sean before turning to look at the parking lot behind the glass wall. Staring at his faint reflection on the glass wall, he added, “I don’t think I have ever held her when she was a baby or entertained her.”

“Hope you don’t mind me asking,” said Hemant. “I’m guessing your parents didn’t plan for Sam’s birth?”

“Oh no! She was planned all right.” Sean wiped a non-existent stain on his chin. “Planned by mom.

“You are so fucking dumb, Hemant,” he continued. “You think all couples are like you and Neelam.”

Hemant shook his head and looked away.

Sean paid the check, and he and Hemant rose to their feet. “Hemant, do you care for a game at the pool table?” he asked.

Hemant nodded.

His parents had been discussing divorce even when Sean and his older sibling were in middle school, Sean recounted while setting up the pool table. Sean’s father was in a relationship with another woman for as long as Sean could remember and he had made his intentions clear to his wife. He would wait for the children to be eighteen and then separate. Darlene had agreed to the plan.

“But mom had her own plans, I guess,” said Sean. “So, just before I left for college, she got pregnant. So Dad is back in the line, waiting another eighteen years for his latest to grow up. How do you like that?” Sean stared at the tip of his cue as he wiped it.

“Can you believe it - a woman plotting to have a baby at forty-two with a man she doesn’t care for, just to make sure she can screw him over?” Sean laughed aloud. “That, for your information, dude, is the Great American love story!”

“What happened to that other lady?” asked Hemant, aiming for the red ball.

“I’ve met her a few times,” said Sean. “Where I grew up, everybody knows everybody. She had already spent a good deal of her life waiting for Dad. She moved out of town once she realized he wouldn’t show up.”

“I don’t like the way my mom drops in on me every now and then with her baby as if this was her home,” Sean complained to Hemant when he dropped by Sean’s house a few weekends later. Sean was building a deck in his backyard, a project that consumed most of his weekends.

“You mean, drops in with your sister?” said Hemant.

Sean, shirtless and sweating, glared at Hemant from his kneeling position. “When my mom is here, she rearranges things. I don’t care about it because I don’t even notice these things. But when Katy is here, she notices and gets hopping mad.  Not that Katy and I are getting along great otherwise.” Sean raised his voice above the drone of the power drill.  “The only thing I like about Katy these days is that she hates my mom more than I do.”

Since spring, Sean’s mom had been visiting Sean frequently on weekends, bringing Sam along.  Whenever Sam was at Sean’s place, Hemant stopped by to entertain her. He walked with her on the trails around the lake in their neighborhood, helped her chase the ducks that lived on the lakeshore, and fed them breadcrumbs.

Sean told him that whenever Sam visited, she asked, “When will Hammond come by?” Hemant was delighted to hear that.

Soon, Sam had gotten comfortable enough to walk over to Hemant’s home and ring the doorbell. Meanwhile, Hemant—who went to his racquet club every evening with religious zeal—occasionally gave up his Squash time to take Samantha to the lakeside or the Park.

“Where is Sam?” Hemant asked, watching Sean hammer one more row of nails on the deck.

“Mom has taken her to the salon or something.” Sean looked up at Hemant and held his gaze.

“You know, Mom was looking for Sam the other weekend, and when she couldn’t find her, she asked me where Sam was.” Sean continued, “And I told her she had gone out with Hemant. I smiled to myself, realizing what I had just said. It sounded like, ‘My sister has gone out on a date with my friend,’ when, in fact, you’re babysitting her. Do you see how ridiculous that is?”

“I don’t see anything ridiculous,” said Hemant.

Sean grinned and got up as if he was done for the day. “You won’t ever. That’s what makes it even more ridiculous,” he said.

The next time Hemant walked over to Sean’s house to pick up Sam, Sean again told him she had gone out with her mom. His eyes avoided Hemant’s.

“Something is wrong, isn’t it?” said Hemant.

Sean tried to hold a straight face but couldn’t help a sheepish grin when Hemant kept looking straight at him. Noticing Hemant was not being distracted by his grin, he dropped it.

“Neelam called, didn’t she?” asked Hemant.

Sean’s face twisted into an uncomfortable smile. “You want to talk about it?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Hemant, not really looking forward to hearing the details.  “So what did she bitch about?”

“She wasn’t exactly bitching, Hemant,” said Sean in a placating tone.

“I guess she must have said I was never home and was spending all my time with Sam?”

“That,” said Sean, getting up with a wry smile, “more or less, was the gist of it.”

“Thank God she didn’t call to complain that I was having an affair with your sister. Not that I would put it beyond her.” Hemant covered his face with his hands.

“All right. I need a drink. Let’s go to Champs,” he added.

“Sure,” said Sean, patting Hemant’s shoulder.

“Give me five minutes. Let me go home and change,” Hemant walked to the door. “I’ll be right back.”

When Hemant was about to close the door behind him, Sean said, “Hemant, don’t talk to Neelam about this, okay?”

“I’m not that dumb, Sean. Besides, she isn’t even home now.”

It was another crowded late afternoon at Champs. The Cleveland Indians were on something of a run— a welcome success for Clevelanders after the Cavaliers’ dismal year. Hemant and Sean took a seat next to the window while outside, the trees swooshed in relief at the break from the sweltering heat. The previous night’s rain had brought down the summer temperature.

They ordered drinks, and Hemant began to talk. Hemant’s and Neelam’s fathers had been friends since their college days, said Hemant, and lived in the same neighborhood in Mumbai. Neelam’s father was a well-known businessman in the city who wanted his daughter to go to the US, finish her master's, get an MBA, return, and help him run his business.  While Neelam and Hemant had known each other since childhood and were very close, it was never a romantic relationship. “At least not from her side,” Hemant quickly added. Moreover, Neelam had been in a relationship with Zafar Abbas since her undergraduate years.

“Zafar? That dude from St. Xavier’s who used to visit you guys while we were at Lexington?” Sean put his glass on the table so hard that Hemant thought he broke it.

“Yes.”

“Good fucking lord! I thought he was more your friend than hers when I hung out with the three of you.”

“Well, I knew him through Neelam.”

Zafar was not just a Muslim but one whose extended family lived in Pakistan. Zafar’s grandfather relocated to Mumbai from Lahore, now in Pakistan, before India was partitioned.  During her visit to India last year, Neelam informed her family about her relationship with Zafar.

“Remember,” Hemant said. “Three years ago, Pakistani terrorists, supported by that country’s intelligence agency, had gunned down more than a hundred and seventy guests and security personnel and injured more than three hundred at two five-star hotels in the heart of Mumbai.”

Even without that added incentive, there was not a chance that either Neelam’s dad or her family would bless her marriage to a Muslim, and one whose extended family was Pakistani to boot. Her father told Neelam that she was no longer his daughter if she chose to continue that relationship.

She came back to Lexington seriously depressed. “Or so I thought,” Hemant said.

Months later, Neelam confided to Hemant that she had broken off with Zafar. Hemant and Neelam started a relationship. Her family, and Hemant’s too, were excited to see that they were getting together—something they probably wanted to happen all along.  But before he could get to know Neelam well as a partner, she was in a hurry to get married.

Hemant ordered a third drink, unusual for him. And that, too, this early in the day.

“When we went to India last year, even before our flight landed in Mumbai, wedding preparations were in full swing. Everyone— parents and grandparents and relatives— were like, ‘Your marriage has to happen before you fly back.’  But I was the only one protesting that that wasn’t our plan because Neelam was so totally with them. So much so that I began to suspect that she orchestrated it. As the wedding approached, I even wondered if she really broke up with Zafar because she didn’t want to lose her family, as she told me. Or did she do it because her father had threatened to cut off all her inheritance?        

“But she had stopped seeing that dude before you two became a couple, right?” Sean asked, his eyes hovering over Hemant.

“Of course,” said Hemant wearily. “Besides, he moved to California.”

Sean’s eyes strayed toward the glass door while he chewed his lips.

After the wedding, he did not want to have a child immediately, said Hemant. And Neelam told him that she would make sure that she wouldn’t get pregnant. However, her behavior after she revealed that she was pregnant made Hemant feel that she had planned this as well.

Sitting before Sean, Hemant looked like a boxer who had been knocked out in the first round as he took another sip.

Sean excused himself to go to the restroom. Standing in the urinal and glancing at the artsy graffiti on the walls, Sean felt a surge of helpless anger shoot through him. “Shit,” he hissed, looking at his reflection in the mirror as he washed his hands.

Returning to the table to take his seat next to Hemant, Sean said, “Hemant, I want to tell you something.”

“If it’s advice, hold on to it,” said Hemant. “I’m too drunk to listen.”

“I’m not advising you, shithead.” Sean gently pushed Hemant by the elbow. “What I wanted to tell you was… Sam and I get along fine these days, and I want to thank you for it.”

Hemant looked startled by the first good news he had heard in a while.

“That’s… that’s awesome,” he said. “Actually, I wanted to tell you this. I know it’s weird, but whenever I picture my daughter, somehow, it’s Sam’s face I see.”

Sean put his hands around Hemant’s shoulder and hugged him. “No, it is not weird, Hemant. That’s touching.

“It was when I saw you hang out with Sam and how eager she was for your company,” said Sean, taking the final sip from his margarita and smacking his lips. “I began to think how she must miss having an adult guy in her life. I realized then that actually she does have a dad and an older brother. Just that they both didn’t and don't want her around.”

Hemant looked at Sean, dumbfounded. The waitress stopped by to ask if they wanted anything else. Sean and Hemant shook their heads.

Sean continued, “Mom would tell me she’d draw pictures for you back home in Canonsburg. That’s when I wondered, why hold it against Sam for being my parents’ kid? In fact, she was more like my sister than my parents’ daughter.

“It still bothers me that she’s a baby,” Sean continued. “But it is not her fault. If anything, she is worse off that she has such old – and devious —assholes for parents and brother. So once I started to not obsess over ‘Jesus, what a baby to have as a sis,’ I realized I didn’t mind spending time with her.”

Hemant’s eyes glittered. “Sean, Thank you. You just said exactly everything I have been meaning to tell you but couldn’t articulate.”

“I know you like taking Sam out,” said Sean. “And she loooves hanging out with you. She thinks you’re the funniest guy in the world, though I don’t know why.” Sean grinned.

“Just don’t tell Neelam when you leave home that you are coming over to take Sam out.”

Hemant’s face scrunched up, and his mouth opened wider. “I don’t like lying. And for what?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Hemant.”  Sean watched Hemant shake his head. “Listen. Lying is useful. And, don’t think it is easy. It is a lot harder than blurting out the truth.”  

Hemant's lifeless eyes drifted to the parking lot.

“Women are like that,” said Sean. “You don’t tell them what they don’t want to hear.”

Hemant asked for the check and paid it.

Sean got up on his feet. Hemant followed, and they began walking toward the car.

In the car, as he waited for Hemant to put on his seatbelt, Sean said, “Life sucks, doesn’t it?” before easing his way out of the parking lot. “I thought you and Neelam were perfect for each other.”

Hemant stared ahead through the windshield. “That’s another of our problems. Everybody assumes that,” he said.

The next morning, getting out of bed, Sean looked through his bedroom window. He saw Hemant squatting in his backyard and fiddling with his lawn mower before sitting down on the grass next to the equipment and staring into the distant sky. Hemant’s face looked gaunt and exhausted.

Sean remembered Hemant saying, “Of course,” when he asked Hemant if Neelam had stopped seeing Zafar, and yet… Sean had seen Zafar and Neelam together in the Barnes and Noble bookshop in the nearby mall two weekends back. He had gone there to pick up a New York Times bestseller on Marketing that his corporation had recommended. It was that time of the day when Hemant would be at the racquet club for his regular dose of Squash. He had watched Zafar’s hand resting on Neelam’s belly, and he had winced.

Looking at Hemant staring into the distant sky, Sean wondered what was going through his friend’s mind. Was he wondering how he could vanish into thin air? Sean put his hands to his face and pressed them hard as if that would make him erase the picture in front of his eyes. He could visualize Hemant morphing into his dad twenty years from now. A man lost and broken, inside and out, his shoulders drooping, hanging onto nothing…

“Fuck,” said Sean stomping his foot on the floor.

“Sean, can I come in?” Sam’s voice sounded from outside his door.

“Of course, Sam.” Sean spun around, excited for Sam’s company to distract him.

Kripa Nidhi, born and raised in India, has made Houston, TX, his home for the past 20+ years. When not writing, he works as an engineer. His short stories have been published in a couple of online magazines.

‘TALES UNTOLD, SO SAYS LANCELOT’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

TALES UNTOLD, SO SAYS LANCELOT

With a retinue of eight knights lifting his body, Lord Galehaut, a Knight of the Round Table, was carried to his grave.  Ferried behind two white stallions from Tintagel Castle, King Arthur’s fortress on the sea, Lord Galehaut was brought to Joyous Gard, to be buried. And when the time comes, I shall lay next to him.  

====

You don’t need to open literature to know of me.  The fables and stories of lords and maidens, of magic and sorcerers, of King Arthur and Guinevere, of Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table.  I am Sir Lancelot. 

In truth, only the wealthy and powerful earned idolization in Sixth Century writing.  With tedium and boredom stretching the days of the royal and rich, it is understandable that love often became obsession, with little else to do when not training for war or warring.  Most women had no voice or rights.  Only beauty was prized, when not seen by protective family as a detriment, fearing expected abuse by men’s base desires.  From Cleopatra to Helen of Troy, beauty was, for the most part, the primary pedestal on which a woman was valued.   

I loved Guinevere.  She was exquisite; beauty beyond description.  Forbidden as she may have been, I often could think of nothing else.  The love for King Arthur, my chosen brother now and in Heaven, should have made it impossible for me.  And when he discovered she and I had bedded, he never spoke to me again.  I should be grateful he didn’t have me put to death.

But this isn’t the story I mean to tell.  The days of Camelot are recited with varied dramatic plots and interpretations over many centuries.  But during those years of battle sieges and knightly protection, there was a figure, believed to be the son of a giant — part God if you ask me — that came to Camelot.

=====

In the Sixth Century of our Lord, there had been no one I met that stood taller than I.  At more than 195 centimeters in height (about 6 foot 5 inches), Lord Galehaut was the first and only man from Rome’s Empire to the realm of Logres to put me in his shadow.  No woman or man, enemy or friend could deny his physical dominance. 

In battle or tournament, I dressed with a face-shield for protection and anonymity, which was not unusual.  Fighting for King Arthur and Briton against the Saxon devils, I began as one of the youngest men knighted to be at Camelot’s Round Table.  Barely 16, I’d been brought to Castle Tintagel by the woman I called my mother, Viviene, the Lady of the Lake. I was put to test by King Arthur, jousting in five tournaments against formidable knights, winning all my competitions.

(My father who was himself royalty, died when I was a young child, leaving my birth mother abandoned and destitute. Finding me wandering alone, the Lady of the Lake took me to her magic realm and raised me as her own.  I knew none of this until I was a grown man).

My battle artistry, though practiced against burlap sacks and other lifeless targets, was either inherited from birth or gifted by my upbringing beneath the enchanted lake.  On the battle field, I was known as the Black Knight.  In those first years, I never fell in tournament or war.  To hear Galehaut tell it, that is what gained his attention.

====

The earliest Camelot accounts don’t mention me.  My presence was erased for nearly 700 years.  Not for my pairing with Elaine de Corbenic, who gave birth to my bastard son, Sir Galahad.  Nor for my unbearable longing for Guinevere, breaking King Arthur’s heart.  But for indictments of an intimate nature between Lord Galehaut and myself.  During war’s despair and aloneness, no one questions Man’s shared desires.  In cases when the perfumes of a woman are not within reach, men will do what they must.  But loving another man this way?  No. It is rumored that Greek and Roman soldiers took young slave boys with them into battle to use as you might a woman.  As for allegations of love between Galehaut and myself, there is no proof.  But it is true.  I care not if that is the cause for my being deleted from early manuscripts.  I would have done anything for my Lord, Galehaut.  And with the exception of a brief period of the Round Table writings, Galehaut was rendered insignificant or banished from the stories of Camelot altogether. 

====

We met on the battle field. 

A difficult charge.  Defending the King’s realm, I didn’t have the heart to tell my Lord, King Arthur, that our army was outnumbered and out fought by Saxon invaders led by an exceptional warrior.  As the battle day was nearing its end, there was no denying the exhaustion of my remaining men.  Yet, within sling range, I saw the Saxon giant, known as Lord of Distant Isles, rein his horse to a full stop mid-field, his shield barely marked and his lance, unbroken.  His flanks fell back, as he stood alone.  In the quiet, the giant brought his mount to a canter and rode without his lance lowered for battle.  He dismounted before Arthur.  He took a knee, bowing before my King. 

Head lowered, the Lord of Distant Isles said, “I have never seen man, noble or soldier, fight with the majesty of your Black Knight.  I yield to you, my Lord.  I will not take your land and castle.  This soldier, whoever he may be, is Godlike and worthy of the day’s victory, unchallenged.”

“Stand, Sir,” said King Arthur.  “If I am not to battle or yield to your armies, send them on.  You fight with dignity and power.  Join my Knights of the Round Table and you may stand side by side with the Black Knight and the other worthy knights protecting the lands of Logres.” 

Cerdic of Wessex, enemy to King Arthur, ruled the Saxon lands.   While Lord Galehaut had fought loyally, he abandoned his allegiances and joined the Round Table, knighted with the sword, Excalibur, by King Arthur himself.  But it was not for love of Briton and the Logres realm.  Sir Galehaut did this for me. 

It was a fast and equal friendship.  He and I rode in battle together.  We often slept side by side when traveling or in camps; and when accessible, bathed together in springs.  There was no one I trusted or loved more.  Our conversations, complex and easy, never went dry.  I did not talk with women this way; not even Guinevere. 

====

I have loved two people in my life.  Queen Guinevere and Lord Galehaut.  Both had my heart and devotion. How the passion between Guinevere and I played out has been written over and over.  It killed my brother-ship with Arthur and was eventually the cause for Guinevere’s exile to a secluded convent where she would die of starvation. 

==== 

Patrolling the realm as a Knight of the Round Table and protector of the Briton lands, I was ambushed near Saxon Rock, where I alone fought 20 soldiers.  I left the 20 men bloodied or dead.  But l barely escaped.  My horse, who stayed as brave an ally as I have ever known, died from battle wounds after carrying me through the assault.  I walked until I could walk no more.  Four of my brothers found and carried me back to safety.  My wounds were numerous and painful.  Sir Gawain, a fellow Knight and a true friend, brought a surgeon to tend to me.  The doctor performed what he could, sewing my torn shoulder and other open wounds.  I would not be able to access the magic from witches at Lady Viviene’s secret realm beneath the lake. I was on mortal fields of war.

With little evidence of improvement, my men lowered me into a pool of warm spring water believed to have healing minerals, hidden by rock caves some distance from our camp.  Submerged to my chin, I ordered my men to leave me be.  I closed my eyes and lay neck deep until I drifted into either dream or fantasy.  I lost all sense of time. 

While in a dreamlike state, I heard a voice.  “You shall not die here. I will not allow it.” 

I did not open my eyes.  I felt hands caring and with purpose, run tender fingers through my blood-knotted beard, washing the clots free, as a nurse might remove mud from a child’s hair after play.  I reached my injured hand up to find his, and we threaded our fingers together.  “I will not die as long as you do not leave me.” 

“I will never leave you.” 

Sir Galehaut, Lord of Distant Isles, no longer dressed in chain mail armor, disrobed what remained of his clothing and slid into the mineral pool beside me.  We sat naked, side by side, hand in hand, beneath the warm water.  Turning me cautiously onto my side away from his face, he wrapped his giant arms around my bruised and broken body, pulling me with impossible gentleness into his chest.  Not since I was a boy cradled by the Lady of the Lake had I felt this secure.  Myself being 183 centimeters in height (about 6 foot 1), there had been no one larger than I from the time I turned 10.  Galehaut, pressed against my back, fitted to my frame, his arms enveloping me as I fell into his body.  “I am here, Lancelot.  I am your servant, my knight.  I am here.”

I have loved Arthur, my friend and King.  But this total and utter adoration was nothing I have known with another man.  I pulled away only enough to turn and face my companion.  Without pause, I pressed my lips to his and kissed him deeply, and said,  “I will not die.  Not here, not now.” 

Men are not by nature, gentle creatures.  Sex can be violent.  When with Guinevere, which at this date in time had only been once, the passion that took over was heated and frantic from our extended and secret longing.  When finally we were alone in her bed chamber, I clumsily spread her legs and with untamed desperation, thrust myself inside her over and over as she moaned, digging her fingernails so deep into my skin, blood was let.  At first I did not know if she was in pain or rapture when she arched her back and screamed as I unleashed what felt like decades of imprisoned energy.  It was violent ecstasy.

With Galehaut, this was unexplainable passion of a different breed, as our mouths opened upon each other.  I was in physical pain, but not from him.  He could break me easily in this state.  Instead, an action of uncommon trust came over me.  An experience neither of us questioned, I said, “I am yours, my Lord.”  This stimulation, arousal man to man, was unexplored desire in love.  I had seen him naked many times before but now I looked on his beauty with awe and longing.  He was a perfect specimen, whether giant or human by definition.  I had not considered that this coupling meant something different for Galehaut.  He never mounted or enslaved any women of conquered villages as spoils of war, which soldiers tend to do.  He had not a woman he longed for or was promised to for betrothal.  He was completely mine. 

There had always been ties between Galehaut and I.  On the day he knelt before Arthur and took his place with the Knights of the Round Table, he told me in private he would never be anywhere but beside me.  For myself, we had been linked by valor and battle and that was the clear bond.  But for Galehaut, he had seen the destiny of our love from the moment he saw the Black Knight defend a losing Kingdom. 

Galehaut helped me back to a bed set for me at the camp.  He would be riding back to Castle Tintagel and the Knights of the Round Table come daylight.  He slept beside me.  In the morning, when I awoke, he had gone. 

The travel home was uncomfortable and took longer than expected.  But I did recover and took my place among the other exceptional knights once more.   

==== 

There is a great deal of Medieval history that has been scribed.  Disputed or not, I will leave that to the curious to research for themselves.  As for Galehaut and I, we rode together many times over the years and just as often, were sent to separate fields to defend or conquer.  And when together alone, we had passion and love.  

====

Toward the Northern Territory, traveling alone, I was surprised by a band of robbers.  Without armor for bodily protection, I still was able to fight them off but suffered life threatening wounds.  Once they retreated, I walked toward a wide stream, removing my blood-soaked garments, thinking I would find some relief.  Before I reached the river, I fell to my knees and lost consciousness.  My bloody clothing was discovered at the water’s edge, but not I.  It was reported back to Camelot that I had drowned.  

When the news of my death reached the Knights of the Round Table, Sir Galehaut stood and walked to his sleeping chamber, bolting the door.  He refused all company, food or drink.  He would not even accept a royal visit from Guinevere, who herself was privately mourning.  After days of Galehaut refusing anyone’s service, Gawain came to his chamber.  With no response to his demand for entry, Sir Gawain brought two men and, employing a wooden ram, knocked open Galehaut’s door.  The Lord of Distant Isles lay on the floor, no breath left in his body.  Sir Gawain knelt beside him, tears running down his face. 

I had not drowned.  I’d been rescued by a hermit who found me unconscious by the water.  With a cart and mule, he towed me to his hut, hidden in the forest where he tended me back to health.  When strong enough, I traveled back to Castle Tintagel.     

As I approached, the draw bridge was lowered.  Two knights on stallions rode to meet me, which I thought unusual.  Sirs Yvain and Percival.  With what at first appeared to be great concern for my health and safety, they rode with me flanked in-between them as we crossed over the moat.  I did not ask for Guinevere nor Arthur, who even in his denial of me, I held hope would again embrace me.  Still weak, I dismounted.  My two comrades escorted me to a quarters reserved for members of the Round Table.  Agravain and Tristan joined Yvain and Percival, but not Galehaut.  Sir Gawain came in last, kneeling before me. 

“My Lord and friend.  We believed you to be dead.  We thought...” said Gawain.  

I interrupted, “I was not able to send a message.  I was rescued by a kind hermit who nursed my wounds.  But my hands were injured and he could neither read nor write.”

“The Queen will be very relieved, my Lord.  She has been beside herself in sorrow,” said Percival. 

“I will visit with her shortly.  I should like to first bathe and dress appropriately.  And I should like to see Sir Galehaut.”

Gawain began speaking: “Lord Galehaut, he is...  not here, my Lord.”

“He is dead,” said Agravain plainly.  “He is dead.”  

Absolute silence.  Then, “where is he?!” I screamed.

Sir Gawain stood, saying “My Lord, his body is —“

“Take me to him!” 

That is the last I remember of the day. 

Galehaut was lain out on a table, not meant for death.  In secrecy, Sir Gawain took me aside and told me Galehaut had died of a broken heart.  Believing I had been killed, Sir Galehaut, Lord of Distant Isles, did not want to live anymore.

The Knights of the Round Table were permitted the honor of burial on the grounds of Castle Tintagel.  But I wanted to bring Galehaut to my home.  And though King Arthur would not travel there, white horses carried Galehaut, Knight of the Round Table, to be buried at Joyous Gard. 

I did not speak of my great love to anyone.  It was simply assumed that my closest friend had died.  And that’s not incorrect. 

I would return to Guinevere’s bed a number of times before she was publicly shamed and exiled by Arthur.  I walked away from the Knights of the Round Table and returned to my home at Joyous Gard.  I would outlive King Arthur, Guinevere and of course, Galehaut. 

====

Honoring my wishes, I was buried next to Sir Galehaut, so we may lie together for eternity.  And though my love for Guinevere would be scribed and rewritten over the centuries, my love for and time with Galehaut vanished from the tales of Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table, like fallen leaves in an autumn wind. 

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 70 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.

The Diary of James Eggleton: Deep Shit, Arkansas

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Diary of James Eggleton: Deep Shit, Arkansas

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

New Year, new job, thank God. Start tomorrow at Brobdingnagian Corp's H.Q. on Madison Avenue. After all these months stuck at home, it'll be great to get out of the apartment. If nothing else, Emily will be pleased now that I have something to do.

I don't think she'll ever understand why I left the last one, I had to resign. It was the moral thing to do. Anyway, Brobdingnagian is steeped in integrity, so I should be OK on that front. Maybe I can do some good in this world.

The job's incumbent sent me this email today:

            James,

Congrats on your new gig on the borrowing desk. It should be a dream. These last six months have been so quiet that I've managed to read five novels a week.

Best/Henry.

P.S. Don't call your boss Fruit Bat to his face. The last guy who did that got sent to Argentina.

Wednesday, January 6

As I left for work, Emily said: “Good luck, and don't screw this one up.”

Spent the day arranging my desk – no one has an office. My new boss Darren seems a little surly. Barely spoke to me, except when he explained the bonus plan. If I do well, we could afford a house in Connecticut like the one that Emily's wanted for the past two years.

Discovered the company is in loads of different businesses – everything from aircraft manufacturing to supermarkets. Who knew?

Thursday, January 7

Predecessor Henry was correct: Nothing much happens in the office. Forgot to bring books. Ordered a slew online.

Back home received a hand-written invitation to an Adventurers’ Club event later this month. It’s mostly climbers who get invited and I qualify on account of being the former president of the Princeton Mountaineering Club. A Ranulph Fiennes-type person is scheduled to expound on his latest expedition. I expect he'll flog some books too. I'll take Charlotte. She and I love talks by adventurers. Emily says she's too busy with friends, which is weird since she used to enjoy such gatherings.

Still puzzles me why Emily didn't go back to practicing law after she had Charlotte. I know better than to mention it these days.

Friday, January 8

Heard not a peep out of Darren today, other than a sound that resembled something between a grunt and the word “morning,” as he passed my desk. Today he wore the same ill-fitting, crumpled grey suit that he had on yesterday.

Read Mikhail Lermontov's “A Hero of Our Time.” I like his theme: What is the role of the unnecessary man? Good question.

Charlotte's thrilled about the Adventurers' Club event. Hope they serve soft drinks. We can't have her going to school hungover.

Saturday, January 9

My turn to make Saturday brunch. I decided on Charlotte's favorite: Eggs Benedict. She toasted the muffins while I showed her how to poach the eggs. First, I put a few drops of vinegar in the boiling water, then stirred the water-vinegar mix into a vortex to drop the eggs into. The result produced near perfect artisanal poached eggs ready for the muffins and a coating of homemade Hollandaise sauce that I put together before she woke up. I skipped the bacon for health reasons. Yum!

Monday January 11

Started the morning reading Charles Bukowski's “Ham on Rye.” Great book about the rough side of town.

Late-morning got jolted into office-mode by the sound of Darren shouting “Motherfuckers” down the phone line, then throwing the same phone to the floor and kicking his desk. After that, he jumped over to me and spoke a complete sentence.

“Jason isn't it?” he asked. I readied the words “James, actually,” but I couldn't get them out in time. He was on a roll, and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. This was not the time to take issue with him.

“Well, whatever your name is, we are now officially living in Deep Shit, Arkansas,” he said. I could see swollen blood vessels pulsating in his neck. He's quite a character swearing like that in the office. I don't think he's an Ivy Leaguer.

The story has nothing to do with Arkansas. Must be slang. Anyway, this morning the union went from hissy fit to full-on strike with a picket line at the Ohio factory gates. It's about who can or cannot unload trucks. This factory makes aircraft brake pads as well as vital widgets we supply to all our other factories. As a result of the latter, all of our factories are shut.

The bottom line: I must borrow $200 million every workday to keep the company going. Called our banking contact, then two hours later got an email confirming a $195 million loan. Spent an hour completing the paperwork. Darren didn't seem too bothered that I was $5 million short of the requested $200 million.

Worked late into the night writing code to automate the borrowing process. From now on I’ll just enter how much I want and then click a button.

Arrived home at 10.30 PM to find Emily asleep.

Tuesday, January 12

Borrowed $250 million.

Read more Bukowski.

Wednesday, January 13

Borrowed $400 million.

Mid-afternoon saw Darren at his desk looking worried in a way that said his stress level had surpassed “Deep Shit, Arkansas” status. He wasn't wearing a jacket, so everyone could see the sweat stains under his armpits that went down to his elbows. His face looks more ashen each day.

He called my telephone even though he sits 10 feet away. He wanted ideas to fix the strike situation fast. “Look genius, I need a solution,” he said. I didn't have a clue what to suggest.

Read “A Time to Keep Silence” by Patrick Leigh Fermor.

Thursday, January 14

Borrowed $500 million. Figured that the more I borrow the better and Darren hasn't mentioned anything so it can't be a problem.

This evening took Charlotte to the Adventurers’ Club. It's in a swanky townhouse just off 5th Avenue at 80th Street. I was shocked to find a stuffed grizzly bear on the second-floor landing. Judging by the bald patches, the creature died long ago.

In the main hall, they served canapés and drinks: deviled eggs, miniature Beef Wellington’s, and top-class Martinis. The bartender made Charlotte a Shirley Temple alcohol-free cocktail. She beamed when he handed it to her.

The talk by Edgar Henley-Bruton was inspiring. He's climbed most of Asia's peaks, including K2, and discovered new animal species. I bought two signed copies of his book – one for me, one for Charlotte – and he also gave me his business card. He's a fascinating man, and I wish we could have chatted longer.

“Why don't you do something like Mr. Henley-Bruton, Daddy?” asked Charlotte as we walked the few blocks home. “You could be an adventurer.” I smiled, remembering the expeditions I’d led as a youthful student. Maybe I could have been an explorer, but life is so different now.

After Charlotte was in bed, I mentioned the explorer idea to Emily. She looked at me as if I'd gone mad.

Friday, January 15

Borrowed $700 million.

In the afternoon, Darren told me his idea to fix the strike. “We'll starve these fuckers,” he said. His foul language is starting to grate on me, and his idea is uncivilized.

The detail went like so. Brobdingnagian ran all the supermarkets in a 20-mile radius of the Ohio factory, so he'd close them and leave our workers with nowhere to buy food. Darren didn't ask if we should, he merely stated that we would take this action. To my shame, I said nothing. At the time, thoughts of mountain climbing filled my mind.

Read Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness.”

At home, when I mentioned starving the workers to Emily, she shrugged and said they were probably communists, so what did it matter if some had to tighten their belts? I decided now wasn't the time for a conversation about human rights and common decency.

Emily said she’d spent most of the day with her girlfriends at the Coffee House club in Midtown.

Saturday, January 16

Went for a run in Central Park. Darren's strike-stopping idea is still irking me. The idea of pursuing my dream and becoming a full-time explorer looks more appealing each minute. At the very least I can’t go on with this job for long.

I checked out the websites of the British Antarctic Survey and the U.S. equivalent at McMurdo Station. Both organizations need loads of people, but there was nothing suitable for me.

Still, that didn't stop me writing a letter to both. Sent some emails to my Princeton mountaineering buddies, plus one to Henley-Bruton. Figured Henley-Bruton might remember me favorably.

Sunday, January 17

Charlotte's 11th birthday. Took her for afternoon tea at the Waldorf Astoria, which she loved. Scones with jam and cream are her favorite. Then we had fun wandering around St. Bartholomew's Church, next door to the hotel. The time passed quickly, and I was surprised it was dark when we left the building. Again, Emily was too busy to join us.

After dinner, read Charlotte J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” until she was asleep with her toy bunny under her arm. She loves that story. It’s the fifth time I’ve read it for her. As always, she was asleep in 10 minutes.

Monday, January 18

Public Holiday. Charlotte made me a surprise breakfast of Eggs Benedict – double yum. She learned well.

No sign of Emily or any replies from Princeton buddies.

Started reading Ranulph Fiennes’ “Living Dangerously.” He's said to be the world's greatest living explorer.

Tuesday January 19

Borrowed $800 million.

Darren shut down the supermarkets today. He said it in the same matter-of-fact way you'd describe ordering an extra-large-double-frappe-mochaccino-with-sprinkles at a coffee shop. I can now understand why colleagues called him fruit bat. Some might say, he’s “batshit crazy.”

Spent the rest of the day reading P.G. Wodehouse’s “A Pelican at Blandings.” It’s one of his best farces, but still the book's absurd plot looks sane compared to what we are doing.

At home, thoughts of starving our employees and their families continued to dog me. This would mean children going without food -- lots of hungry Charlottes because of what we were doing. Felt sick.

Wednesday, January 20

Borrowed $1 billion. The bank says investors are asking why we need to borrow so much? I just said I was new in the job, and they accepted that as an explanation.

Read Evelyn Waugh’s “Decline and Fall.”

Thursday, January 21

Borrowed another $1 billion.

Spent rest of day reading Colin Wilson’s “The Outsider.” Spoke to no one, but I pondered whether Brobdingnagian was right for me and how best to pursue my goal of becoming an explorer. It’s clear I can’t last long in this job. Either I’ll be fired, or I’ll have a nervous breakdown.

Friday January 22

Lots of bad press about the strike. “Brobdingnagian’s New Year’s Gift: No Food!” screamed one newspaper headline.

Darren told me to stop borrowing for a few days.

Read “Girl, Interrupted” by Susanna Kaysen. Spoke to no one in the office. Lack of good conversation is driving me batty.

Sunday January 24

Took Charlotte out for brunch at Penelope’s Bistro on Lexington Ave. at 60th Street, followed by ice skating in Central Park. She’s getting really good. Quite an improvement since last January. When we finished, the daylight was over. Emily stayed in bed all day, claimed she was sick.

Monday, January 25

At noon Darren announced that the union had ended their strike. He did so while standing on a desk and screaming: "Another win for the good guys." People could hear him at the other end of the room 30 yards away. "We beat those assholes in record time," he said and beamed as if he was now undisputed World Heavyweight Boxing Champion. But underneath the outward bravado, he also looked tired, drained by stress, and as mentally crumpled as his suit.

I wasn't sure he'd hit the nail on the head with his victory comments. Yes, we beat the union, but I couldn’t shake the repulsive idea that he was prepared to starve children to achieve that.

Read “The Heart of a Dog” by Mikhail Bulgakov, a satire of Soviet life.

Tuesday, January 26

Read Hunter S. Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.”

Still no reply from Antarctic Survey, or McMurdo, or Henley-Bruton, or anyone.

Made dinner with Charlotte – shepherd’s pie.

Wednesday, January 27

This morning, before I could choose which book to read, Darren walked to my desk and leaned over. “Hey genius, how are you feeling today?” he said right into my ear. “I’m feeling like we're all living in Double Deep Shit Arkansas, especially you.”

Had I let a herd of hogs run wild in the building? Had I forgotten to wear pants? Or was it a discrepancy on my resume? Nothing of the kind!

The problem was I’d been too good at borrowing money, and I should have stuck to getting $200 million a day. Apparently, I’d doubled Brobdingnagian’s debt load, and the interest costs were now taking a large bite of the company’s profits.

That wasn’t the worst of it. Darren said we would now cut costs and I'd have to go to Hamburg to fire 3,000 workers. He said he’d been looking for an excuse to close the factory there for years and ordered me to leave tomorrow.

I asked if there was another way, but he looked at me the same way Emily did when I told her I wanted to become an explorer.

Spent the rest of the day looking through a spreadsheet full of workers names, each with age, length of their service with the company, and the amount of redundancy money we would pay them.

Tedious, yes. But these are real people. Heinz Schweitzer, Rolfe Penk, Andrea Schulz… the list went on and on. I couldn't help thinking of all those families that would lose their income, and how they would cope, or even if they would.

But my job wasn’t to worry about that. It was to ensure we knew how much it would cost. In practical terms it isn’t feasible to check 3,000 individual calculations, but you can review randomly selected ones. If those few checks are all correct, then probably everything is ok – at least that's what they taught me at business school.

Packed for Hamburg.

No time for a novel.

Thursday January 28

At 5.30 AM, I received a text from the airline while the taxi took me to JFK Airport. “No flights are running today,” it read. The reason: Lack of brake pads for the airplanes, due to our recent Ohio strike. At least that’s what the airline staff told me.

Got to the office at 6.15. Darren glared when he saw me. When I explained about the brake pads, he put his left-hand palm to his forehead and then walked away. Five minutes later he was back. “Let me show you how we do things round here,” he said.

He put my phone on speaker setting and dialed our Hamburg office. “Rudolf, it’s Darren here with the genius boy-wonder,” he said. “We’ve gotta close your factory. Just lock them out of the facility tomorrow morning and tell them they’ll receive a letter shortly. Don’t worry, I’ll get you another gig here.”

After the call, he said I was lucky to have a job, but because he liked me, he'd give me another go. My new project was to distribute $1 billion of executive bonuses to be calculated individually using a near-incomprehensible formula that he scribbled on a note pad. He explained that these bonuses were based on last year’s profits and had nothing to do with the borrowing mess I’d just made.

Spent the rest of the day doing calculations for the bonuses and sent Darren the spreadsheet.

Took a bath at home, followed by some Valium. If ever there was a day for medication, this was it. Then went to bed and began reading “Fight Club” by Chuck Palahniuk before drifting into a deep, tumultuous sleep.

Friday January 29

Woke up at 4 AM. Not sure when Emily got home. Watched some T.V. The news of our factory closure had broken, and the media was showing scenes of enraged workers in Hamburg. Some of the people were throwing rocks at the company building.

Turned off the T.V. and opened my laptop. Rechecked the bonus numbers. The calculations were wrong. Overspent by $1 million. I envisioned Darren having a fit. I closed the laptop. Maybe he wouldn't notice. Perhaps I could explain the error once I got to the office. My left eye twitched. I settled on fessing up in person.

Went for a walk at 6.30 AM with a view to returning home and calling in sick. On the way out the doorman gave me a hand delivered letter. Red sealing wax stamped with the initials EHB held together the envelope.

Dear James,

Please accept my apologies for not writing sooner.

Our plans are for a trip to a remote part of Nepal where we think we can locate the striped Shapi, which some say is extinct.

The expedition’s bursar has fallen sick and so we now have a vacancy that would seem to fit your skills.

If you can ready yourself over the next few weeks, we’d love to have you manage the expedition’s finances and we would benefit from your mountaineering expertise. Please call to discuss.

Yours/Edgar Henley-Bruton

Sweet news. I pocketed the letter and sauntered down Madison Avenue with a view to doing some window shopping. But quickly ended up at Headquarters where I offered my resignation to Darren.

His response was to shake his head. “Let’s step into my office,” he said, which is weird because no one has an office. He read my thoughts and told me to follow him and soon enough we were sipping pints of Lagunitas IPA at Langan’s bar.

“Cheers,” Darren said. “Look, I can’t in good conscience accept your resignation. The truth is I found out last night we are both getting laid off.” He then explained the current cost cutting would hit the charities that the company supported as well as the work force. However, he and I would still get a load of money to go quietly on our way – two years of salary plus bonus and healthcare. “We’ll send your mini library of Congress to your apartment by limo later today,” he said.

“Not bad,” I said. Now I could get new climbing equipment for Nepal trip.

Darren continued: He said I shouldn’t take any of his rants to heart, and that he really loved working with me. “A lot of folks in that role just get too fussy,” he said. “And don’t worry about overspending the bonus pool – nobody will notice.”

I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by fussy, but I was touched by his sentiment.

We kept drinking until 3 PM then I walked home and ordered some mountaineering equipment before taking a nap.

Saturday, January 30

            Slept from 6 PM last night through to 5AM and got up to make some breakfast and watch the T.V. The news had gotten worse. Brobdingnagian’s share price had gone into freefall and Germany’s government as well as the senior Senator from Ohio wanted an inquiry into what was fast becoming a disaster.

As a laid off employee with a golden goodbye I wasn’t too worried. I switched off the T.V. and pondered how to tell Emily I was off to Nepal shortly. She hadn’t come home last night and hadn’t told me where she was.

Around 8 AM the climbing equipment arrived which I unpacked in the living room before making some more coffee in the kitchen.

It was then that Emily walked into the room. “Morning,” she said. “I want a divorce and you’ll look after Charlotte.” As she marched away, I called after her, but I got drowned out as she successively slammed first the kitchen door then the front door.

I went to the bathroom for some Valium, and then pondered what to do. How could I simultaneously go to Nepal and look after Charlotte? Not possible. And then which would I rather do? That had started becoming clear over the last few weeks – look after Charlotte, by a country mile.

After that self-revelation I wondered how to tell EHB, but just as I did the phone rang. “Edgar here. Look I have some bad news. Our major corporate donor Brobdingnagian has pulled out. The Nepal trip is postponed for a while.”

I was relieved.

Received text from Emily. She’s moving in with her billionaire boyfriend in Greenwich.

Later Charlotte entered the living room. “Are you OK, Daddy?”

“Couldn’t be better darling,” I said. “We are going to have such fun together.”

Max Peña spent the best part of a quarter century working in corporate jobs in New York City. These experiences have inspired his creative work. He also holds a master's degree in creative writing from Edinburgh Napier University. He now lives in the south of France with his wife, dog, and cat.

‘The Creation of Joe Costello’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Creation of Joe Costello

The man awoke. It felt as though a bullet was ricocheting around his skull, destroying his memories. Closing his eyes, he collected the most basic of information and then saw something glowing deep within. He reached out. From the pulsating mass of grey matter, he pulled out a name.

It was Eric.

Eric gasped. He was sat on a dusty fabric seat, travelling at a high speed, and realised that this was a train. Eric sat, knuckles whitening as he squeezed his thigh. He breathed deep as the carriage plunged into the tunnel. The overhead lights failed to illuminate, burying him and those around in darkness. He breathed out, and when he tried to inhale, his chest tightened. The darkness around was thick. Eric clutched his chest, and his vision faded; he was about to pass out. Then, light flooded the carriage, and with it, air into his lungs. No one else seemed to feel what he did. The woman across the aisle was staring out of the window with longing, and a light, thumping bass came from her headphones. Eric cared little for music; it all sounded the same. In front of the woman sat a suited man, who kept glancing over his shoulder with a look of annoyance, but she didn’t notice.

The sounds of children surrounded Eric, but all he could see was a silent, small girl, standing by the doors holding a red, heart-shaped balloon. She smiled at him, and her eyes held intelligence beyond her years. Then, an announcement rang out; the next stop was coming up. Eric couldn’t remember why he wanted to go here—or even where here was—all he knew was that he had to get away, away from his life. Eric got up and swung his backpack over a shoulder. He approached where the little girl once stood and waited. And through the window, the towering city lay bare before him. Skyscrapers stood on end like the hair on the back of giants. The streets were pristine, and devoid of cars, busses, trucks. People walked through the city; others were on push bikes. Pollution-free air wafted in through the window. Eric smiled as a light mist descended from the sky like an ashen blanket.

The train pulled into the station, and the doors slid open. The terminal was empty, except for several families that stood waiting for those aboard. A woman stripped off her headphones, and ran into the arms of another, kissing them. The suited man lifted a child into the air and smiled, tears gathered within his eyes. But no one waited for Eric, at least, so he thought. Then, from the distance, a dark-skinned man approached. His eyes were light, and his hair dyed a disgusting shade of yellow. He smiled at Eric and said: “Hey Joe, took you long enough.” Before pulling him in for a hug.

Eric went to correct him but realised he couldn’t remember anything about himself. How sure was he that Eric was even his name? The idea of not knowing himself caused a point of pressure to form within his mind—it was about the size of a pinhead. As he thought about it, the name Joe did feel more like him. He did not know who this person was, but he wanted a friend. So, he took the name with pride, and said: “Hey, how are you?”

“I’m good man,” he said. “Come, let me show you to your apartment.”

“How do you know where I’m staying?”

“That’s my job,” the man said with a smile. “Come on then.”

Joe followed the man, not caring to ask for his name. As they left the station and stepped into the street, the mist enveloped them, and Joe could only see several feet in front.

“Where are you from?”

“Nowhere interesting,” Joe said. “Always found myself moving from place to place.” He figured lying was simpler than having to explain his lack of memory.

“Ah, a drifter. Man after my own heart. You see, I’ve been guiding people to their destination for a long, long time. It always warms my heart to help someone like you find their way to where they belong.”

Eventually, the man brought him to one of many high-rise apartment buildings, which punctured deep through the mist and into the sky. As the door came into view, someone walking in ahead of them, and a red heart-shaped balloon slipped inside. He felt oddly at peace here. The city was, in his mind, idyllic and appealed to him on a level deeper than he understood.

“Here we go,” the man said. “If you need anything, just call. You still have my number, right?”

Joe pulled out his phone and looked through his contacts. Blank. “Think it got wiped when I changed SIMS, sorry.”

“No worries, pass it.” The man took the phone and tapped away. “There we go.”

Joe glanced at the phone; the man put himself down as Mike. “Cheers, Mike,” he said. He approached the apartment building and paused. He thought to himself, Do a Columbo.

Joe turned and said, “Remind me, which room is mine?”

Mike laughed. “Penthouse, Lieutenant.” He winked and walked away. After several steps, he too ‘did a Columbo,’ and said, “It should rain soon. Your favourite weather, right?”

Joe nodded and smiled; he didn’t expect this guy to catch on to what he was doing. He figured his weather comment was a lucky guess. Rain is popular, after all. But he waved and entered the building. In the distance, he caught the face of the little girl from the train. The elevator doors slid shut in front of her; he could have sworn she was smiling at him.

Stepping across the threshold into the lobby presented Joe with a cavalcade of scents. The sanitised, sterile smell of a hospital provided a canvas for the aroma of a greasy English breakfast. And despite the smell, and the clinking of silverware, the restaurant across the lobby looked to be empty, with a dim light flickering towards the back end, illuminated various buckets of paint and wooden offcuts. An absence of presence within the hotel increased the pressure building within his frontal lobe. The entire city had this emptiness. It was the same emptiness that permeated from the depths of his soul.

The lobby itself was small, with a circular desk manned by two people sitting in the centre. Behind them, shelves ran along the walls, lined with decorations from plants to statuettes. Above, small bulbs hung onto scaffold shaped wood, like fireflies hanging motionless in the air. Joe approached the desk, and the young woman smiled. She had dark hair cascading down her shoulders and olive skin.

“Mr Costello? We’ve been expecting you. Here’s your key.” She slid it across the table.

Joe Costello? He thought. Sounds more like me than Eric Costello. I’ll take it.

“Sir?” The woman’s name tag read Genevieve. “Everything okay?”

“Sorry, Genevieve. Thank you. I’m in the penthouse, correct?”

“Correct sir. Please, just call reception if you need anything.”

“Will do.” Joe walked towards the lift and hit a button. After several moments, the doors slid open. Revealing a chimpanzee dressed in a white shirt and red vest, loose beige trousers, Joe’s attention was drawn to the red, polka-dotted tie he was wearing.

“Going up?” The chimp said.

“Penthouse, please.”

“Key card, sir.” The chimp held out a calloused hand.

“Oh yeah, of course.” Joe fumbled around and handed him the card. “There you go.” Something felt wrong. Could Chimps speak? Something in the deeper wrinkles of his brain was screaming at Joe, telling him that this was not normal. Eventually, he acted on these urges, and said, “Worked here long?”

“Most of my life, sir.” The chimp slid the card into the elevator panel, and it lurched into action.

 “Is English your first language?”

“Technically.”

“What do you mean?”

“‘Chimpanzee’ isn’t an officially recognised language. Doesn’t matter now that I’m here.”

“Got any family?”

“Please, sir, I would rather not talk about all that.”

“Of course… My apologies.”

“No worries.” The elevator bell dinged. “Ah! Penthouse Floor. Have a lovely stay.”

“Thank you…”

“The name’s Archibald, sir.”

“Thank you, Archibald.” Joe smiled and stepped out. Before him was an almost barren room. The blinds were closed, and the lights were off. The room was illuminated by a television set playing Ransom for A Dead Man. It revealed the all-white room, even the sofa and television set were white. There were no decorations, and the room was hardly furnished. Then, the sound of rain pattering down on the window broke the dulcet tones of Peter Falk. Joe rushed towards the curtain and pulled it open, revealing a large storm overhead. Rain was beating down on the city, and he smiled. Joe walked back towards the white sofa and sat down, drifting to sleep.

He awoke sometime later; the TV had stopped playing Columbo hours ago. The city lights from outside illuminated his room, and on the TV, he could see his reflection. Slouched back on the white sofa was a skinny man, no older than twenty-five. The man was clean-shaven and had dark hair, and even from within the depths of the television, his face distorted as it was, he could see the sadness in his eyes. He couldn’t remember why he was sad; he just was. And the last thing Joe concluded was that he looked nothing like a Joe Costello, the name wasn’t his—he was sure of it. But he had nothing else, so he clung to it. To have at least one thing he could call his was enough to maintain him for now. The material things surrounding him weren’t really his, were they? He had assumed this identity after all. But, even then, within his soul, within the essence of himself they felt like they belonged to him. His brain throbbed from the thought.

Joe pushed himself out of the chair and sauntered towards the television. He knelt and pushed the button; it flickered to life. A blue light bathed the sofa, and Joe slipped back into his seat. The TV flickered. For a moment, a woman’s face appeared. Joe jumped out of his seat, and again it appeared; he couldn’t make out the details. All he could see were red lips and blonde hair. He stayed standing for a moment; the TV fizzled and on it, Bruce Forsyth began introducing contestants on The Price is Right.

Joe shook his head and switched off the television. He was delirious. The day’s events had taken a toll on him. As Bruce’s face disappeared, the room reflected itself at Joe, and behind him, he could see a little girl with a red, heart-shaped balloon. But when he turned around, no one else was to be seen. He took a deep breath and checked his watch. Five A.M. and still dark out, he figured it must be late December or early January. In an instant, his vision faded, and he saw flashes from the past. Fireworks, a blonde hair girl, and liquor were all he caught before something dragged him back to reality.

Joe clutched his chest and limped towards the elevator. On the door was a scribbled note, which read:

I know who you are. Meet me. 8 pm, bar on St. Michael's Street.

Joe couldn’t catch his breath. The pressure within his mind continued to build and hit the elevator button. The memories that flooded him were dissipating fast. Who was that woman? Was she the one on the TV? What about that party, New Year's presumably? Joe figured someone had to know something. Maybe the girl with the balloon could help? Did she write the note? No one else could have. As he pondered this, the elevator slid open to reveal Archibald. “Going down, sir?” he said.

Joe stepped into the elevator and said, “Lobby, if you would.”

“Certainly.”

The two stood there in silence for a minute, until Joe said, “So, Archi, what brought you into this business?”

“There’s something satisfying about helping people who are lost.”

“My driver said something similar when he dropped me off—wait, you believe I’m lost?” 

Archibald let out a thin smile. “If you don’t mind me saying, sir, you do seem extremely lost.”

“Tell me about it.” Joe laughed in an exhausted manner. The way one does not out of bemusement due to defeat. “Honestly, I don’t even know the date.”

“Are you feeling well?”

“If I’m being honest, I can’t remember anything.”

“Why would you divulge this to me, sir?”

“You just have a trustworthy face.”

“It’s because I’m a chimp, isn’t it?”

“What? No, I hardly noticed—”

“It was a joke, sir. Either way, today is the first of January 2023.”

The elevator came to a halt, and the doors slid open. “My stop. Thanks Archi.”

“Just a moment, if you don’t mind, sir,” Archibald said, walking out of the lift. “Perhaps I could come with you, show you around the city? Help with this memory issue?”

“You can’t just leave work, can you?”

“Oh this? This is a hobby. Come on now.” He walked past Joe and gestured for him to follow. “Hey, Genevieve.” He waved to the receptionist. “I’m off out.”

“Stay safe.” She waved to Joe. “If you want breakfast, I recommend the café just down the street. The hotel restaurant is under renovation.”

Joe jogged to catch up; the ape moved faster than expected. He ran out and looked up and down the street. Archibald was nowhere to be seen.

“Archi? Archibald!” His voice echoed across the empty streets, but no one returned the call. His guide disappeared and Joe didn’t feel as though he truly knew himself. The pressure within his mind had swollen so much that it was like a balloon had been inflated within; it was close to bursting.

Not being sure what to do, he decided the best idea would be to follow Genevieve’s suggestion and find the café. As he walked, he continued to yell out for Archibald, but as he did, the rain rolled in and his words were lost in the wind. He couldn’t hear himself over the pattering of rain. It pounded down, harder and harder. It obscured his vision, and he couldn’t see more than three feet in front.

Despite this, Joe was fine. The rain was warm and pleasant to the skin. As it enveloped him, depriving him of all senses, he felt at peace. But then, from the silence and within the grey void outside his vision, came the sound of music. Joe stood still. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was familiar. He stood, letting the rain drench his clothes; they were heavy. Cogs in his mind turned, and he stepped closer. Then another. Soon, he could hear a voice over the bass synth. It clicked. The song was Believe by Cher.

Joe shook his head. Tears ran down his cheeks and into his mouth; their salty taste was the only thing differentiating them from the rain. Wiping his face, he ran. As he did, the café broke into his vision, destroying the sense of deprivation. The music was coming from within but seemed more subdued and, as he entered, it had almost faded in its entirety. It played in the background, overridden by the bustle of conversation. The sweet scent of a buttery sweet coffee dancing up his nasal passage, accompanied by the soft cinnamon notes of a pastry. Taking it in, he figured the beans must have been sourced from Guatemala. When Joe first saw his reflection, he didn’t take himself for a coffee connoisseur, but he figured looks deceive—a fact proven as he approached the counter.

Behind it was a tall, well-built man. A man you’d expect to be cutting into a tree in a forest or cutting open wolves and saving grannies. But here he was, smiling and working at what looked to be a coffee shop.

“Hello,” the lumberjack said. “Can I get a name?”

“Sorry?” Joe was taken aback. The pressure continued to build within.

“Your name.” The man’s tone never strayed away from pleasant.

“But, why?”

“To mark your order. It’s just so no one else takes it by mistake.”

“But I know what mine is.”

“Aye, but no point taking that risk, is there? Just tell me who you are, and we’ll know what yours is.”

“I don’t…” Joe paused. He knew his name wasn’t Eric, nor was it Joe Costello. Was it? If anything, he was more Joe Costello than anyone else—it was all he had. He didn’t know who he was. Letting people assume you are someone is one thing, but pretending to be that person? How long does that last? How long until you are that person and no longer yourself? Joe didn’t know. He had no other identity and didn’t want to let go of what little he had. But also, he saw this as an opportunity. He could become anyone with any name. The name’s Lucian Ambrosius Everard. No, that’s ridiculous. Bruce Willis maybe?

“Are you okay?”

“What?” Joe shook his head.

“Are you okay? What’s your name?”

With that one simple question, the balloon within is mind burst. “Shut up,” Joe said. “Just shut up. Who cares who I am, Eric, Joe, Raphaël, Bruce? I don’t have to tell you anything, you’re just some guy. Leave me alone.” He ran out of the café.

As Joe ran to the door, a girl stood watching across the street. A red heart-shaped balloon hung above her, and she smiled. He pulled open the door, and she was gone. Joe ran across the street, to where she was once stood and looked around. On the floor was a small polaroid which displayed a couple; both of their faces were burnt out. But Joe could make out a man with brown hair and a blonde girl. Joe let his thumb fondle the Polaroid for several moments, before sliding it into his back pocket and heading back to his apartment.

When he arrived, the receptionists were gone. He drifted through the lobby and pondered on what had occurred. The poor barista didn’t deserve that, but the question was too much. What is my name? He thought. I towards the elevator. Soon it arrived and inside stood Archibald. “Archi!” Joe said. “What happened?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“We left, remember?”

“I never would have left my post.” His lips twitched into a forced smile.

“Are you okay?”

He paused, then pulled Joe in closer. “I shouldn’t have got involved. This is something you must do alone.”

“What? What do you know, Archi?”

The bell rang. “Penthouse!” Archibald said. “See you soon, sir.” With that, he ushered Joe out of the elevator and smiled as the doors shut.

The room had changed. Believe was playing, and Joe realised he enjoyed the song. The room, whilst still white, now had a desktop computer in the corner. It was switched on and its fans hummed beneath Cher’s pitch-shifted notes. On the monitor, a video game was booted, titled, Disco Elysium. The other recent addition was on the television; no longer was it condemned to play solely Columbo and late-night game shows. On it was a homebrew streaming service, which advertised Columbo, alongside all the Die-Hard movies. The time was in the corner of the television, and it read One Thirty in the afternoon.

Somewhere within Joe’s reptilian brain, synapses fired. He stepped back in fear. What was happening? The names he contemplated taking were here. He ran out towards the bedroom. Inside was a plain, white bed facing a bay window revealing the city skyline. In the distance, the sun was falling behind the skyscrapers, which now looked like the silhouette of a hand reaching out, trying to escape an earthy entombment. Joe checked his watch; it was now six in the evening.

“What the…” he muttered and looked to the bed, a suit had been lain out for him, with a note. Wear this x.

He got dressed and returned to the elevator. When the doors opened, inside was a small, bald man. He was so old that it was impossible to guess, anywhere from seventy to one hundred. The man smiled as Joe entered. “Going down?” he said.

“Where’s Archi?”

“Say again, my hearing ain’t what it used to be.” The man’s hands were shaking as he hit a button.

“The ape? Archibald?”

“An ape? As an elevator operative? Surely not.” The man shook his head in disapproval.

“I’m being serious. He was here just a few hours ago!”

“If you see an ape, you should call the zoo or something.”

“But he could talk!”

“I see what you’re doing. Very funny kid, it isn’t polite to prank the elderly.” The old man smiled as he spoke, and the bell rang. “Lobby!” he called out.

“One second, sir,” Joe said with as much politeness as he could muster. “Which way is it to St. Michael's Street?”

“Left when you leave, cross the street and head straight until you reach a crossroads. Then right.”

“Thank you.” Joe walked away, confused. What happened to Archibald? Whatever it was, he didn’t have time. He ran outside. He had to find this bar. Maybe it had the answers.

He was met with crisp air and empty streets; the lights of the city were off. In the silent darkness, the only sound came from Joe’s feet beating the concrete. He ran for twenty minutes, and soon he came across a sign for St. Michaels. Doubling over, he hyperventilated. He couldn’t remember the last time he ran, and then he laughed at the thought. He gave himself two minutes before standing straight. This street was like the others, apart from a neon sign in the distance. The words were hazy from where he stood, so he couldn’t make out the name, but it had to be the bar; nowhere else was open.

As he approached, the sign came into focus. In pink neon, it read: Claire’s Castle. Below the sign stood a bouncer. As Joe came closer, the man nodded and gestured for him to enter.

Something changed as he stepped through the door. The bar was of a higher class than it appeared. The lighting was dim, but warm. And within were red sofas, all of which were occupied by familiar faces. Mike was sitting with Genevieve and the other receptionist. The suited man from the train was here with the elderly elevator operative, and behind the bar was Archibald. Serving a drink to the barista Joe had fled from. For a moment, Joe and Archibald locked eyes; the ape shook his head and nodded towards the end of the bar. Standing there, alone, was the girl with the red balloon.

She smiled and gestured for Joe to approach. As he did, someone walked past him, and the scene shifted. The girl in the red balloon was gone. Replaced by a small table and two chairs. Sat down was the blonde-haired woman, the balloon in hand.

Joe sat opposite her, and she smiled. After several minutes, he broke the silence with, “Who are you?”

“Wow, straight to business.” Her voice was that of a child’s. “The better question is, who are you?”

“I’m—”

“Easy, no need to decide right now.”

“What?”

“Ask me another question. Humour me,” she said.

“Right… Where are we?”

“Come on. Look around and you’ll figure it out.”

Joe looked around the room and concentrated on the faces. Recognising no one, he shifted to the smell, and finally the sounds. As he did, the music faded into existence. Believe. “New Year’s Eve, 2022,” he said.

“Great work, detective.” A wry smile danced across her lips.

“Why are we here?”

“To find out who you are.”

“What about that other place?”

“Where do you think that was?”

Joe paused. Deep in his heart, he knew, but he had never accepted it. Even now, he couldn’t say it aloud. “Does that mean you’re…”

Her smile was sad. “You’re an interesting case. Before arriving, you were stripped of your memory. It took me a while, and some observing, but I figured out a way for you to take it back. All of it.”

“How?”

“Look. If you do this, there’s no going back. The pain of the past will haunt you. Forever. And you will live with it. Leave this memory, return to the city and you will enjoy a new existence, as someone without the weight of the past haunting them.”

“Say I leave and abandon my memories. What about my name?”

“Why do you care about a name?”

“That’s who I am.”

“Is it?” She cocked her head. “Have you ever heard of the ship of Theseus? The idea is, if you have a ship and over the years, you replace the parts. You change everything about it: the crew, the sails, the type of wood used for the stern. If all that is changed, is it still the same ship? Just the name remains unchanged. In my mind, the ship ceases to be when the crew is gone. Without them, the ship is simply a ship—no matter the construction.”

“But I’ve only lost my memories.”

“Your crew,” she said. “You’re just an empty vessel now.”

“Even without the crew, the ship still belongs to Theseus.”

“Does it? If an empty vessel is drifting across the sea, would you know which ship it is? Without the crew, there’s no identity. Without memory, you’re nobody. What are we, if not our experiences?”

“I don’t want to be nobody.”

“Then become someone new. You need to let go of the past; the name means nothing. I am giving you an opportunity to be someone else, to live a new, better life. You’re more Joe Costello than the man who walked into this bar on New Year’s Eve. If I tell you this other name, then it is meaningless without the memories to go with it.”

“But those memories are already leaking through. I can’t change who I am.”

“Are they? What if those flashes of memory are simply your brain attempting to fill in the gap? Your brain reached into its depths and pulled out what it could. The name Eric?” She paused. “Just a Pratchett novel.”

“What? I must have reached out to that for a reason.”

“Do you remember anything about it? Do you like it? Maybe you hate it. You don’t know, your brain just took what it could. It knows Columbo exists and decided you like it. Storms? Everyone loves them.”

“But why? Surely I’d remember nothing if I didn’t care for them?”

She sighed. “Without something for your consciousness to spring from, you’d be a philosophical zombie. Yes, your body would continue as normal, but you. A conscious individual. You’d be nothing. It saved you. And you should know that creating a personality on the fly isn’t easy, and memory is such a fickle mistress; most memories from childhood are not real. They’re events created by your brain based on the anecdotes of those around you.”

“What are my options, then?”

“You can relive this night and spend the rest of your time holding on. Or you can leave and continue living as Joe Costello. A fresh start. That’s what you wanted. That’s how you got here.”

“Will I see these people again?”

“Only if you stay. But then, you won’t want to.”

Joe looked back towards the doorway. From it came the warm, welcoming light of Claire’s Castle. He couldn’t see anything within the orange haze. Having decided, he looked back toward the woman; she was gone. In her place was the little girl, her red balloon slipped out of her hand, clinging to the ceiling. Joe stood and took one last look around the room. At the faces, which he realised now meant nothing to him. He approached the door and leaned against the doorframe.

Without looking back, Joe Costello smiled before letting go.

Jordon Jones has a MA Creative Writing and a BA in History from the University of Lincoln. He is originally from the northern town of Warrington, and his passion for storytelling started young.