Death is one of those things you might be able to prepare for, but it knocks you over when it happens. Once the services are done and the casserole dishes scraped and put away, you're left with an emptiness that aches to the very core of your being. It's the finality of it, the knowledge that the one you loved, the man that raised you is gone. No more calls. No more texts. No more barbecues.
You could search your whole life and never meet a man like him. The kind of guy that would give you the shirt off his back, and the cash in his pocket, no questions asked.
A proud American and a veteran, he was a corporal during the Korean war. He never saw combat and often joked the only fighting he ever saw was swatting the giant mosquitoes in Oklahoma.
The end of his life came swifter than any of us thought. Happy Fathers Day, you have lung cancer, gone the Sunday before Thanksgiving. The weeks leading up to his passing were an endless array of tests, medication changes, and hospice care. He was 86 and decided from the beginning no treatment and no resuscitation measures.
God was with him at home and I was honored and blessed to be with him when he left this earth.
The grief never goes away, it just changes. You recall beautiful, funny memories instead of pain and sickness. I miss him every single day and want so much to be in his presence again.
I love you Dad. My hero.
Margaret Springer picked her way through the rubble of her London street on her way to work. As the chief curator at the Victoria and Albert Museum, she was responsible for all incoming and outgoing exhibits. A Ph.D. in Religious Studies from Oxford helped her rise to the top in her career.
Like every other person in the city, she carried on through it all, and frankly for the first time felt blessed to be single. No children to try and feed with limited resources, no husband so she did not worry about receiving a telegram from the War Office, and her parents had moved to York so she knew they'd be safe.
The evening bombings were becoming second nature to her and her neighbors. Once the air raid sirens blared, they grabbed their teapots and fags and chatted as they walked down the stairs to the Underground station. Typical topics such as the weather or ration coupons or how to make cakes without eggs. Normal conversations in an abnormal situation.
As the night wore on, as it often did, Margaret would doze off, leaning back against the cool subway tiles. Always the same odd dream. Dressed in khakis and sunglasses, carrying a backpack and a voice that crept into her soul, in a soothing repetitive rhythm: find the spear, find the spear, find the spear. She would trudge across miles and miles of sand and once she crested a high dune, there it was. An ancient barely recognizable hut, worn down by thousands of years of drifting sand. The voice pushing her forward. Find the spear, find the spear. As she was about to enter, she woke up. Every time.
Margaret was determined to get to the bottom of this nocturnal adventure. She wouldn't have to wait long, her role at the museum was about to give her the answer. Or so she thought.
Winston Churchill said it best, war is hell. Men and women had patriotic dreams, a love for their country, a desperate need to make a difference. To rid the world of tyranny. Soldiers saw things no human being should ever see: buddies with blown off limbs screaming to kill them, bloated dead bodies and water on the battlefield running red with blood. The constant hunger was so bad that decaying horses were being eaten and rats hunted down for food. The bone-chilling cold had troops praying for their toes to fall off. Once it all comes to an end, the ammunition is exhausted and the treaty is signed, the long desolate walk home begins. Days become weeks pushing through pain holding on to a dream of love and comfort of what was left behind.
November 22 dawned brisk and cloudy with a telltale gray auroa, as John Davis boarded the train to Idlewild Airport. Squeezing in among the other strap hangers, he prepped himself for the day ahead. Thanksgiving was quickly approaching so the terminal would be chock full of passengers disembarking for the holiday in New York City.
John thought of himself as a writer, so he had plenty of time to sketch characters, and journal in the dime store notebook always under his arm on the hour commute from Brooklyn to Queens.
Once he got to the airport, he quickly headed to the employee lounge and his locker. He hung up his thick winter coat and wiped his coke bottle glasses with his shirt. Sticking his paper bag lunch of baloney and cheese and an apple on top of his locker, he pulled on his thick work coat, hat and gloves. Punching his time card on the way out to the tarmac, he kept a tight grip on the notebook. No one said hello, ignoring him as he positioned himself next to the other baggage handler to unload the belly of the plane coming in from Athens.
Flight 1906 from Athens landed on time and taxied to the arrival gate, and both men ran to help unload the baggage. John needed to have the luggage neat and tidy so when the passengers stepped out of the plane, they could easily spot it. His associate simply pulled and stacked so John was constantly straightening, adjusting and aligning like a bee taking care of the queen. That only lasted while the plane was being unloaded and suddenly everything changed.
The world stopped as everyone was riveted to the television or radio listening to the horrific news: President Kennedy has been shot. There was so much chaos in the airport, that no one saw John reach for his notebook and flash a freakish, psychotic smile. He walked purposefully toward the train station, ready to execute his plan.
The police found his notebook fluttering around the subway tracks after John jumped. Bending down and grasping the binder, the detective opened up the middle. What he saw made the blood in his veins go cold. Two words repeated over and over, filling up every bit of space:
KILL JFK
The Green Trabant flew around the corner of Friedrichstrasse, taking the turn on two wheels as it bumped along the cobblestone street. The darkness and misty October East German rain helped outrun the Stasi that were close behind. The driver skidded down alleys and up and over deserted concrete sidewalks, desperate to get to the final destination and beat the secret police and the shrieking waa was of their sirens. Shifting hard and pushing the gas pedal to the floor, the car picked up speed as it approached the border. East German police carrying heavy Soviet rifles began to line up to prevent the crossing, to keep these citizens from defecting to the West. The West Berlin border in sight, the driver reached over and grabbed his wifes hand, hit the clutch hard and shifted up to squeeze one more ounce of power out of the engine as he plowed through the border to freedom.
Fear can grip your belly like a boa constrictor when you don't know what to expect. Jason Esposito felt that pain, and more as he headed down the carpeted hallway.
“I need to stop in the men's room.” Peeling away from his lawyer and elbowing the metallic door with the odd male symbol, he barely made it to the toilet before vomiting and dry heaving into the bowl. Sliding down next to the metallic partition he began sobbing and moaning, soaking his new suit in spit and tears. His chest heaving he couldn't get control of himself until he heard the squeak of the bathroom door.
“Jason, are you ok?” His lawyer asked gently.
“Can you give me a minute, I'll be right out.”
Grabbing onto the hook on the stall door, he slowly rose to a standing position. With a slow click, he opened the door to check himself in the smudged mirror. Bloodshot eyes, sweaty forehead, and beard wet from vomit, he turned on the faucet to clean up. Splashing cool water on his face, grabbing a comb from his pocket, he smoothed out his beard and combed his thick curly hair back into place. Using the hand dryer as a makeshift steamer, he slid under it and pulled on his suit coat to try and remove the stains and wrinkles. Checking himself one last time, he headed out into the hall where his lawyer waited.
Putting his arm around Jason, his attorney squeezed him gently saying, “Its gonna be OK.”
Approaching the end of the corridor, Jason glanced up at the lettering above the doors: US Federal Court and felt his stomach do flip flops. Steadying his nerves and saying a silent prayer, he placed a shaking hand on the padded doors and whispered, “Let's do this.”
“The night terrors and cold sweats happen every night Dr and every psychiatric med I've taken either makes me a walking zombie or gain forty pounds or I can't stop peeing. I can't live like this anymore.”
Lena reached across the leather sofa, grabbing her purse. Rooting around the pens, gum, old receipts and lipsticks, she found what she wanted. Pulling out a cigarette from the wrinkled pack, she started to light it.
“No smoking in here please.”
Reluctantly placing it back in the pack, she tossed her purse on the floor.
“Ok. Fine.Whatever.” She pulled a two rubber bands out of her pants pocket. Slipping one around her long black hair in a quick ponytail, the other around her wrist, snapping it twice.
“Helps with the cravings and the crazy. So listen doc I’ve been coming here for months and nothing is really helping. I’m at the end of my rope. These vivid dreams about decapitation, and death and a sense that I don’t belong. I need help. Now.”
“It might be time to try something a bit more radical. I think we still need to focus on talk therapy, but are you open to drinking a tea, here in a controlled environment? It’s perfectly safe.”
Lena leaned in and looked at her psychiatrist with a quizzical stare. “What kind of tea?”
“It’s an herbal teal mixed with the proper dose of psilocybin.” Pulling up her chart on his tablet, he continued. “I have all of your medical history here so I am able to add a tincture of micrograms of the solution. Many of my patients have been able to unlock their issues much sooner. I must be transparent with you, it may take more than one event to really do anything.”
“What are the side effects. Hallucinogens are dangerous. Lots of my friends at university had really bad trips and flashbacks.”
The doctor smiled. “I’m sure they were using the wrong dosage as a recreational drug. This will be medically induced and controlled.”
Lena leaned back into the plush leather couch. “I feel like I’ve tried everything else. Lets do it.”
“Fantastic. Relax here and i’ll be back in five minutes with your tea.”
As soon as the doctor left, Lena started having second thoughts, but as a writer and producer, she always had the ability to try new things. she was all about risks.
Her doctor returned as promised with a steaming cup of tea. Lena tentatively took the round ceramic mug and inhaled the fragrance. Blowing on it, she took a few sips. Blowing and sipping she finished the drink quickly.
“Now what.”
“Just relax. I’ll ask you a few questions. What year is it?”
“2021.”
“Who am I?”
“Dr Gelfsten.”
Lena tolerated similar inane questions for an hour before she ended it.
“Dr, this is going nowhere. Aside from a small green halo around your head, nothing is happening.”
“I understand your frustration. Let’s try this again next week, same time?”
Lena agreed and grabbed her purse and headed home. Retrieving her phone from an inside pocket of her purse, she noticed a text from her friend, Anna:
WELL, ANY LUCK WITH THE HEADLESS DREAMS?
Chuckling, she responded:
YOU THINK A CITY KNOWN FOR SHRINKS AND SWEETS LIKE VIENNA WOULD BE ABLE TO HELP!!
Pushing her phone into her pants pocket, she walked on to her apartment. Once inside she grabbed a bottle of wine, a glass and an ashtray and got ready for a night of nothing. Or so she thought.
Opening her eyes to the sound of birds chirping, the surroundings did not feel quite right. The bed was made of carved wood and was monstrous. Brocaded draperies filled the multiple windows in the room and scattered throughout the room were sumptuous dresses of aquamarine, red and canary. To her right was a bed stand with a gold pitcher and basin, and to her left, an open jewelry box filled with enough splendid rings to rival a hungry pirate. Smiling to herself, she thought. Well, this is one helluva trip.
“My Lady, my Lady. Please. We must get you dressed. The King is on his way here. Please!!” A stunning woman in a white silk dress with long flowing sleeves and one of the oddest hats she had ever seen, was shaking her.
“Lady Anne, please. We don’t want to anger the King.” Pointing to the array of dresses she asked. “Lady Anne, would you prefer the red one. The King does enjoy seeing you in red.”
Lena was so mesmerized by the situation that she could barely form the words.
“What year is this and who is this King you keep mentioning?”
“My Lady Anne, it’s the year of our Lord, 1530. And the King is his Majesty Henry VIII. Are you quite well madam. Madam, can you hear me? My Lady, my lady.”
Screaming loudly she attracted the attention of the other women in the chamber. Grabbing one of them by the arm to help.
“Fetch the doctor quickly. Tell him Lady Anne Boleyn is ill. Hurry!!”
Death comes quickly when you're ravaged by cold and hunger, forced to eat any vermin that wandered in to the village. Jamestown was suffering and it seems that their prayers were going unanswered.
The colonists left England for a better life, out of their bondage in England much like the Hebrews in Egypt.
The first years were challenging and exciting as they all worked as one. Plowing , farming, and fishing. There were times of plenty and famine, life and death but that was to be expected in the New World. What was not expected was the demonic force that enveloped them.
That's why they left their faith behind and turned to pagan ways. Evoking ancient Celtic power from the sea.
Reaching back into their past they would build bonfires on the beach like their ancestors, dance with abandon, and grieve their wives, husbands, and children. Within their singing, they promised the first fruits of their labor and animal sacrifices. Anything to save their families that were left.
On All Hallows Eve, the chanting and dancing reached a fever pitch and she was conjured. The Sea Witch.
Instead of their Savior, the entity cursed the remaining population to a horrifying plague that wiped out every living creature. Nothing remained except the shining bones of the dead.
The Welsh border is foreboding and breathtaking, filled with rolling green hills and ancient ruins. The ideal spot for Jed and Olivia Peale to live their dream life. Jed was at the top of his career working as a psychiatric nurse practitioner, just landing a job at the top hospital in Cardiff. Olivia has a Ph.D. in medieval history and escaping here is the perfect sabbatical for her to research the reign of Mary I.
Tooling across the English countryside in their rented Ford, Jed downshifted as he made his way up and down the roadway.
Glancing over at Olivia, Jeds brow furrowed. “I still can't get used to driving on this side. It still feels illegal. Like we’ll get pulled over by the cops.”
“They call them coppers or bobbies here, I think. Olivia grunted as she swept her auburn hair off of her face, pushing her glasses up to keep it in place.
“Hey, everything ok.”
“Yes, it's nothing. Just our little gymnast kicking my bladder. “ patting her large belly.
Jed reached over and placed his hand over hers. “Oh yeah. He's gonna be a stud muffin, just like his dad.”
Olivia smirked. Jed was a very handsome man and turned many heads when they met in college. She was captivated by his smile, which always lit up a room. He told her she was like a beautiful red-haired beacon in an ocean of sameness and her turquoise eyes melted him.
“How much further? I can't remember since it's been a while and I need to pee.”
“Well, we just crossed into Wales so maybe twenty minutes or so.”
The deeper they drove into the Welsh countryside, the more remote it became, until there it was. The Tudor-style manor home was set back from the road, a piece of living history just waiting to be explored.
“Thank God, because my bladder is about to burst,” Olivia shouted as they rolled up the narrow path to face a sixteenth-century home built during the reign of Queen Mary 1.
Olivia could barely contain herself as she ran up to the door covered with the creation story from Genesis, and pushed it open to head for the toilet.
“Do you remember where it is? Glad the housekeeper left the lights on.”
“Found it.” Jed laughed at the sound of the steady stream of urine.
“Hey Jed, come back here.”
Panicked, Jed practically sprinted to the back of the house, through the stone kitchen, where Olivia was standing and pointing to a small square door embedded next to the ovens.
“I don't remember this. We need to open it.” Olivia started to bend down, but her late pregnancy made it impossible. Standing up, hands on her back to regain her balance.
“Can you do it please?”
Squatting down, Jed pulled on the handle, straining back muscles visible through his shirt. Wiggling it back and forth to get some leverage, it popped open with a loud crack.
“I can't see anything, can I borrow your phone?”
Sitting down, legs splayed out, Olivia scooted close to Jed and handed him the phone. They both poked their heads into the musty space, dimly lit by a cellphone. As Jed shone the phone throughout the tiny opening, the light uncovered something completely unexpected.
A small gold crown, a book of prayers. And a withered skeletal hand.
Easing out of the hole, Olivia and Jed turned to each other and smiled.
