Fiction: Forbidden

It was the summer of 1932 when John Sparer came to work for the Bakker's. That summer was one of the hottest on record for Brookhill, although year's later they had a draught which nearly cost everyone in that town their farm. On the radio were advertisements for the race for President, a Franklin D. Roosevelt was running against President Hoover and looked like by next year President Hoover would be out of a job. Being out of a job was not that uncommon around Tennessee, and if it wasn't for the small income from farming most families wouldn't survive the next winter. Andrew Bakker knew that. He knew that if he couldn't get another field-hand to help with his farm that he, his wife, and daughter might have to sell and move to some other location.

Three times a week John Sparer came to the farm. He worked primarily for a Mr. William Haubrich who lived five miles away, with a bigger farm and could afford to lend-off a field-hand a few days a week. Each morning John woke up to the feeling that he had to work on the farm to survive. Being the wrong color in the wrong state made a difference to him. For the mornings in which he worked for Mr. Bakker he would have to walk the five miles to Mr. Bakker's farm and after a hard days work walk back the same route to the realization that tomorrow was yet another day to work. The money he received, rarely if he ever did, was never enough to pay for some necessities. A few summers before, when the soles of his shoes worn out and he couldn't work on the field anymore without a new pair a loan had to be given to him by Mr. Haubrich himself. John barely survived that winter with limited food since the money he made during the summer had to go back to pay Mr. Haubrich, plus interest, to pay for the shoes. His shoes were being worn out again, but he would rather go barefoot then try and survive another winter with no food. He gladly accepted the job at Mr. Bakker's farm as Mr. Bakker paid a little more then Mr. Haubrich and with that difference by the end of summer he might save up to buy a new pair of shoes that could be his birthday present for himself. He would be eighteen by year's-end.

On the mornings that John arrived to the farm, Andrew Bakker would meet him outside to tell him what needed to be done for the day. Most of the time John knew ahead of time the exact words and phrases Mr. Bakker would say each morning, but one could not interrupt a white man speaking. He just calmly let the time pass with the occasional "Yes, Sir" agreement. In the kitchen of the house Esther worked preparing the morning breakfast while their daughter, Elizabeth, casually stared out her bedroom window on the second-floor wondering who the new field-hand was. It took a month alone to find out his name was John, and only then was it by accident. Mr. Haubrich came over one night and were discussing a new agreement with Mr. Bakker of John's availability. Through her bedroom door she overheard the conversation, and the most important part of it was two words: "John Sparer".

The third Saturday in June was a scorching day for a southern summer. While working on her summer school studies in her room she looked through the window and saw the black field hand working through the scorching heat plowing the fields. Without truly knowing why; she went downstairs, filled a canteen full of water, and walked outside with it.

"Here!"

The plow stopped moving, and his eyes moved from the ground to the canteen, to her. There was a little terror in his eyes as he was wondering what to do. If Mr. Bakker saw even this innocent gesture on his daughter's part the consequences would be taken out on him.

"Here! Take it!"

He took his hands off the plow slowly and with the same hesitation took the canteen from her hands being careful not to touch them. "Thank you, Miss Bakker. Thank you very much". He gulped down the water as fast as possible and gave the canteen back her. In the same swift motion he put his hands back on the plow and started moving. If Mr. Bakker saw him taking an unauthorized break his daily wage would be taken away.

"Elizabeth"
He stopped. "I'm sorry, ma'am?"
"My name is Elizabeth."
"Yes, Miss Bakker." and with a half-hidden-smile and a nod continued on his way.

Every day that he was there for the next few weeks she would bring him a canteen of water. She made sure her father was on the other side of the house, or out of eyesight. Every time she would say "Elizabeth" as she handed him the canteen, and with the same politeness and routine he would nod and say "Thank you, Miss Bakker" and continue on with his work. She waited patiently until the heat seemed to rise up from hell itself when she brought the usual canteen to him. He half-needed the water in part to just survive the afternoon, and in part just to have an excuse to see her.

"Elizabeth". She did not extend her hand to him, and held the canteen close to herself.
"Yes, Miss Bakker"
"No. Elizabeth" she brought the canteen closer to herself, knowing he was watching the water with every bit of energy he possessed.
"Yes, Miss Bakker"
"You know what I want you to say."
"Yes, Miss Bakker"
"Then why won't you say it?"

He was silent.

Playing the game of formality she said: "Well, Mr. Sparer; it seems you won't be getting your water today, now won't it?" It was the first time in his life someone had called him mister. She turned to go, water in hand. A faint word became audible to her as she took the first step back to the house. Four syllables she wanted to hear for weeks now. Hiding her smile she turned around to see him looking at the ground. She extended her arm carrying the canteen. He looked up and took the water, this time making sure to touch her hand as he got a hold of it. He gulped the water down and giving back the canteen to her said "Thank you, Miss Bakker.." and the next word barely audible he added "… Elizabeth". She smiled and walked back to the house.

Within a week he gave Mr. Haubrich an excuse to go over to Mr. Bakker's farm everyday. The days in which he was contracted to work for Mr. Haubrich but instead worked at Mr. Bakker's he worked for free. His payment for the hard days work was receiving a canteen of water in mid-day. It was on those days he worked the most. By the end of the summer he made two trips daily to Mr. Bakker's farm. The first trip he made during the morning to reach the farm. After working a full day he had to walk back to Mr. Haubrich's farm for the night. Halfway through the night he would walk the five miles back to Elizabeth. A few hours with her was worth the ten mile round trip in the dark of the night, and worth more then being twice as exhausted when he woke up to walk back to Mr. Bakker's farm in the early morning.

By 11 o'clock at night he would sneak around the farm to the backside of the house. By working there the whole summer he had known every hiding spot there was within the barn and straw. By that time, Elizabeth would get out of bed and sneak out the back door. A few hours later she would return the same route. Only once did she get caught coming up the stairs, with the ready excuse that she couldn't sleep and went to get a glass of water.

The summer was coming to a close. Each morning he walked the five miles to Mr. Bakker's farm not for the work that was to be done, or the money he would earn doing it, but for a small canteen of water. Each night he walked the five miles back, not to Mr. Bakker's farm, but the farm that Elizabeth happened to live on. They ran out to the fields, across the straw being bundled, and into the woods. They had their own spot in the woods, a part that was neither too closed nor too open. A lone tree trunk lay across the opening and for some reason they never crossed the second half of the opening. The tree trunk was the imaginary boundary they could not cross, but they knew they were crossing it every night.

The Saturday of August 27th was his last day working for Mr. Bakker. That night he went, as usual, to see Elizabeth; this time knowing he won't be back in the morning.

"I made something for you"
"What is it?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of tin. Elizabeth knew that he bought the tin brand new and used the money he was saving to do it. The tin was small, but elegant. It was shaped like a heart, with the edges curled around to form a boundary. Etched into the tin were two groups of initials "J.S." and "E.B."

"I bought the metal from Mr. Bradford on 23rd Street. I went there on Sundays to see Tom, do you know Tom?"
"No"
"He's Mr. Bradford's assistant. He used to work with me at Mr. Haubrich's farm until an accident. He wasn't no good anymore and so Mr. Haubrich had to fire him. Mr. Bradford saw potential in him as a blacksmith and starting training him. Anyway, I went to see Tom and he said he could form the metal for me and make the edges just the way I wanted and even etch it for me. Of course I didn't say who 'EB' was. He agreed to do all of it himself, with no charge. I said 'No.'"
"No?"
"I wanted to do it myself."

She looked at the piece of tin he was still holding when he went on: "I went there last Sunday, when everyone was fast asleep, and Tom showed me how to do every step. He even had an old rusted tin I could use for practice. We had to work quietly and slowly as not to wake Mr. Bradford next door. Tom surely would have lost that job if Mr. Bradford knew he was doing side-jobs for free using his metal." He looked down at the tin, which now reflected a bit of moonlight. Still looking down he said: "I made it for you"

"I know."

Before the last syllable was heard a shout came from behind the other side of the tree trunk. The terror shrieked through her body as she turned around to see her father, shot-gun in hand, standing behind them. Both John and Elizabeth jumped to their feet in horror.

"Mr. Bakker!"
"Shut up!"
"But, Mr. Bakker!"
"Elizabeth, you better get back to the house now."
"Daddy! No! Please! He was just …" her words were cut-off by one syllable of a command: "Now!" Mr. Bakker stood, not looking at Elizabeth as he talked, but with eyes fixed at John. A brief second passed with no one moving before Mr. Bakker grabbed his own daughter's arm and forced her over the log. She stumbled and fell to the ground. Mr. Bakker was still standing staring at John. He said, a bit more quietly, but more seriously: "Now". She got up, tears rolling down her cheek, and took one more look at John. He gave the slightest nod that only she could detect, and his eyes changed to a sign of resignation. She turned around and ran back to the house.

The moment she reached the door of the house a shot rang in the air. She stood paralyzed, door half-opened, unable to move, to think, or to do anything other than feel.

It took three days for her to leave the house again, and another two more to go back to the site. As she approached she half expected to see his body lying over the trunk, left to rot like the trunk itself. There was no body. She fell down to her knees in bewilderment. Was he still alive? Through her outpour she saw a flicker of golden-red in between two blades of grass. She raced the ten feet to the spot on hands and knees knowing what it was. In her hands she held half of a piece of tin, half of the heart. Only the last initial of each name was on the tin. A little bit of blood contrasted the tin color and partially blocked out the 'B', only his last initial 'P' was untainted. It was then she realized that throughout his ordeal with her father, and possibility of death without punishment, he was thinking of her. With his own hands he had broke the piece he had worked so hard to make. The jagged section of the middle-of-the-heart was where it cut deepest into the skin. She thought about searching for the second half of the tin, but realized she would never find it. He had survived and took it with him.

Miss Elizabeth Bakker held the only thing she ever received from Mr. John Sparer and with the cry of all lost emotions wept herself to sleep, next to the tree trunk.

--

During the summer of 1987 a small obituary appeared in the Brookhill Press:

"Elizabeth Bakker, aged 72, of Brookhill, died Thursday August 27th, 1987, at Freedom Inn Nursing Home. A life-long resident of Brookhill, she was never married. She is survived by, and will be remembered by, the friends she left behind."

The day after the obituary appeared in the newspaper a man died on the fifth floor of the same Freedom Inn Nursing Home. No one could remember how long he had been there, or for what reason. The staff that worked there when he came in had already retired and the new staff either never heard the reason or forgot it. No one knew whether he owed money to the Nursing Home, and no one cared. He had been there so long, that he was a part of the building. The old black man was never able to leave his bed, and he was in the same room since the first day he arrived. The only time he was in any other floor was the day he came in the building, some 16 years earlier. No one even knew his name.

The nurse that confirmed his death noticed two things particular about his room. On the counter, in arms reach by the bed, was a newspaper. It was folded in such a way that in the middle was a small three-line obituary. The second thing she noticed was an old rusted piece of tin he held in his hand with two letters barely visible, a 'J' and 'E'. No connection was made, and they were promptly thrown away.

-Mike Sheppard

Fiction: He Went to Paris

[Inspired by ‘He Went to Paris" by Jimmy Buffet]

Little did I realize that getting lost and walking into a small one-window bar on the outskirts of town would change my life. My wife and I were on vacation in the Virgin Islands. She wanted to relax at the hotel while I explored the island. After refusing to ask for directions while being lost I stumbled into the bar.
Only one other person was at the bar. He was a very old fellow, had to be at least a hundred years old judging by the way he looked. He sat there, oblivious to the world drinking his green label. As I sat down and said “hello” to him I stumbled when he turned his head and I saw an eye-patch. One of his eyes was missing. It must have been a fishing accident, I thought, as I nodded to the bartender and ordered my beer.
I sat there looking at both of them. The bartender just standing there smiling, the old man sitting there staring off into space. The pause lasted about ten seconds before the bartender just shook his head and went to the back room to watch TV. He could see both of us through the door and watched in case we need more drinks.
I turned my body towards the old man and held out my hand:
“Name’s Jim, but my friends call me Jimmy”
He looked up, saw the extended hand and shook it with his frail hands.
“I’m here on vacation with my wife.”
A half-smile broke on his face as he looked into the bartenders mirror.
“She’s at the hotel. I just stumbled into here and figured just relax and have a drink before trying to find my way back.”
“Kim.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Kim. That was the name of my wife. Been gone close to forty years now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He sat there just staring, lost in recollections of times past, looking himself in the mirror across the bar. “How long have you been married?”
“Three years.”
“And a trip to the islands?”
“Vacation”
“To get away for awhile? To forget about the nine-to-five days?”
“In a way, yes.”
“A lot of people come here to get away. They stay for maybe a week or two and then go back to what they were trying to get away from.”
“Maybe they just needed a break and not really trying to escape permanently?”
“I suppose.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Close to forty years.”
It was then I realized it was roughly the same time his wife been gone. I sat there uncomfortable for a few seconds. He sensed it.
“You can ask”
“Escaping?”
“In a sense, I suppose. After a while it no longer seems like escaping. I live here now. My wife is gone, my son is gone and it’s just me now.”
“Your son?”
“Same name as you. Jim.”
“May I ask?”
He pulled out his wallet and took out an old black and white photo, creases filled some spaces with the edges worn out. The photo was a headshot of a young man in a military uniform.
“This when he joined the Royal Navy. He made the rank of lieutenant. Two weeks later he died. I’ve been carrying this picture with me ever since.”
“And your wife? Kim?”
“The War also.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“Sure. Green Label.”
“Bartender, two green labels.”
He took his drink and without any prompting began his life story.
“I just graduated from college and was working at the bank for a few years. After two years or so just got bored of it. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, tell me about it”
“ I sold everything I had. My family thought I was crazy! I was off to save the world, though!”
“But?”
“Ended up in Paris.”
“Not a bad place to end up, though?”
“No. Not at all. Not a bad place at all. But when you have all these questions to what’s life all about, meaning of life, those sorts of questions – Paris is not the best place to be.”
“I see what you mean.”
“I stayed there for four or five years. Time goes by fast there. You wine and dine all the time. Your ambitions to why you’re really there go away and you just enjoy the place.”
“So why did you leave?”
“Still had those questions of mine. After staying in Paris that long it got to really bother me that I still didn’t know any of the answers.”
“Where did you move to?”
“Good ol’ England. Lived in London for awhile. Got a job playing piano at Fire House. That was the name of the place, Fire House Bar and Grill. I worked every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. All night, playing that piano.”
“What did you play?”
“Anything they wanted! I knew about half the songs by heart, it would be the same ten songs each week. The rest I had look up in the book of mine.”
“How long did you do that for?”
“Almost a year.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“Got married and moved to the country.”
“Good reason.”
“I think so. I still remember the exact date I first saw her. Summer time. July 17th. It was a Saturday night. She just finished her performance at the theatre. An actress she was. Not one of those big Hollywood actors at the time. This was back in the day when people would rather go to the theatre then see those silent-movies. She wasn’t the main actress or anything, but she had an important part. Her show ran every Friday and Saturday evening. On that day she came in to Fire House, with the rest of her theatre friends.”
“Love at first sight?”
“Oh God no! I hated her! Her and her friends were always interrupting my playing. Suggesting songs I didn’t have the music too, on purpose. They kept on requesting this one song ‘The Entertainer’ by Chopin. I must have played that song a half-dozen times that first night!”
“What happened, then?”
“She came back the next Thursday. She wanted to apologize for the way her and her friends acted the week before and found out when I played next.”
“Any Chopin requests?”
“Not that night. She came up to me earlier in the night, during my first break, to apologize. She introduced herself as Kim. We talked during the ten minutes I had for break. She mentioned she knew how to play the piano a bit. So I invited her on stage and we did a duet. ‘A bit!’ I had to keep up with her!”
“Sounds like you had some competition.”
“Nah. She was good at piano, very good; but acting was her passion. She stayed there the whole night until I finished work.”
“Did you ever see one of her shows?”
“You bet I did. A week later. Nearly got fired because of it. I sent a message to my manager that I was sick and couldn’t play that night. They found a replacement while I went to the theatre.”
“How did you get caught?”
“A regular at the bar was there and recognized me. Would’ve been nothing, people meet other people all the time at social functions. A week later, at the bar, he asked how I liked the play. My manager was within earshot and before I could answer he asked what day it was.”
“What happened?”
“He took a day’s wages off. It was worth every shilling, though.”
“You said you moved to the country. Why did she want to give up the city life?”
“She didn’t. She did it for me. I still had all those questions, you know. We got married in the city, in her family’s church. Our Lady of the Lake. She wanted the same father who baptized her to perform the ceremony. Father Norman Tyler was his name. She invited all her theatre friends, while I had all my Fire House friends. After that we moved to the country.”
“How was the country life?”
“Relaxing. Jim was born the following year. Now with a family to worry about those concerns of mine had to wait. My journals and notes I put away in the attic.”
“For a rainy day?”
“For another time. You can’t try to figure out what life’s all about when you’re too busy living it. It takes all the fun away. Kim and Jim were my life now. She taught him how to walk, I taught him how to run. She taught him how to read, I taught him how to read between the lines.”
“Book smart and street smart.”
“Yep. We home-schooled him until his fourth year. By the time he graduated Senior Secondary he was second in his class. It was right after graduation when he joined the Navy. We tried to talk him out of it, being a war and all, but he was committed. Stubborn he was! Takes after his ol’ man. He made up his mind and that what he was going to do. We said our goodbyes and waved as he walked on the bus. That was the last time we ever saw him”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He wrote us letters. Told what he was seeing, what it was like. He included this picture in one of them. Kim put it right on mantel for all to see how proud she was of him. She made sure to respond to every letter as soon as she finished reading his. She didn’t want any delay.”
“How did you find out?”
“That he was killed?”
“Yeah.”
“Telegram. I wished to God I would have been the one who answered the door. Kim answered the door and a few seconds later all I heard was screaming. I ran to the door and found her on the floor; she was holding the telegram so tightly I almost had to rip it out of her hands in order to read it. But I already knew before I read it, before I saw her. I knew as soon as I heard her scream that Jim was dead. It was one of those moments where you pray to God you’re wrong, but you knew he was dead.”
“I can’t imagine”
“Do you have kids?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Then you truly can’t imagine. Some day you will though.”
“Yeah…”
“That night she packed.”
“Packed?”
“She needed to go back to London, to her church. She didn’t care about anything other then reaching that church. I tried telling her it wasn’t safe. London just got started being bombed, we heard on the radio. It was happening for past two weeks. ‘Lady of the Lake might not even be there,’ I told her to no avail. Nothing would stop her, she had to go.”
“Did you go with her?”
“Of course! Two days later we reached London. Half of the city was in ruins. We heard the bombs going off in the distance. Some of them were so close you could see the bombs falling in the sky before they hit. Homeless children all huddled together trying to find food. I never imaged London being in a war-zone, but there we were.”
“Was her church still standing?”
“For the most part. A week earlier a bomb hit the south side of it and blew a hole in the side, but the pews and sanctuary were still there. Father Tyler was still there as he was every day. At first sight of us he knew why we were there. We prayed together, and then…”
“…then?”
“I woke up in a makeshift hospital. The church was a direct hit. They said I was lucky to be alive, with only breaking two arms, my leg and losing an eye. I asked where Kim was. The nurse went away to get the doctor. It was the second time in my life I hoped I was wrong. The doctor came back and told me Kim didn’t make it. Neither did Father Tyler. I didn’t feel like I should be alive. I didn’t care about the broken legs or arms, or even losing an eye. I didn’t care about those at all. For the next week all I did was cry myself to sleep. Every time I woke up I realized I was alive and my wife and son were dead. There was no reason to live when your life is shattered like that.”
I sat there not saying a word. I did not want to interrupt him anymore.
“For two months I lived in that hospital. I saw people come into the hospital in body bags. I saw relatives on their first reactions to their loved ones. Some were dead, some were still alive. Others, you’d hope they die soon for their sake. They were in so much pain that nothing the doctors could do for them could relieve it. I sat there watching all this from my bed. My arms and leg healed, but my spirit was still broken. With one eye I saw the evil of the world and wondered more about those questions of mine.
“I went back home when I was all healed up. As I walked back into the house all the memories came flooding back. The first time I took Kim there; the day Jim arrived; playing with Jim on the floor; helping him with his homework; and finally Kim and I saying goodbye to him. I collapsed to my knees right in the doorway.
“There were too many memories there. I needed to leave. I saw the evil of the world, I lived through it. I needed to know the answers to life’s questions. I put the picture of Jim in my wallet, put pictures of Kim and some her belonging I wanted to keep in a suitcase and climbed to the attic for my journals. Only packed two pairs of clothes. In a sense I didn’t care what happened to me from then on.
“I hopped the next freighter out of England. I didn’t care where it was going. Two months later I found myself here. Been here ever since.”
He sat there, finished his drink, and got up to leave. I had to find something out.
“Did you ever answer your questions to life?”
He stood there, looking at me with a smile, “I’ve been on this Earth for eighty-six years and I’m still searching, son”
He turn his back to leave and was about to turn the doorknob when I asked, as an afterthought, “Was it worth it?”
I never saw him again, but his words forever remain with me. “Jimmy, some of it’s magic, some of it’s tragic. But I had a good life all the way.”

Fiction: The Chosen One

Two brothers sat at the table. They both knew what they had to decide, but neither wanted to make the decision let alone go along with the unsaid plan. Only one of them could go on to school. Only one. The other had to stay behind and help his brother pay. One would live everyday with textbooks, quizzes, and examinations; the other with hard-work, no lunch breaks, and only live meagerly off his salary while sending the rest to the other brother.
They both knew what each consequence entailed. When one brother finished his education, he would work to put the other through college. But who would be first, who would make the first sacrifice?

Roger spoke first: "We should just flip a coin. Neither of us can make this decision on his own." Scott nodded in agreement, and with a brief pause he got up and went to his room. A minute later he came back with the shiniest coin either of them had seen. Roger nodded in agreement to the symbolism of using a new coin. Scott showed a side to Roger and said, "Heads, you go to school and I'll pay. Tails, I go to school and you pay." And without waiting for confirmation or agreement he flipped the coin in the air and let it fall on the table. It spun wildly on its edge. The coin slowly started to wobble and within a few breathless seconds it fell flat. Both brothers looked at the coin. Heads. Scott look at Roger and with conviction announced: "Well, Doctor Larsen; it seems you have to start studying now." With that he pulled out of his pocket all the money he had, $1.32, and left the room. There was no anger in his voice or emotion, just pure conviction.

The next morning Roger picked up an application to the local community college while Scott submitted an application to the local factory. Even before Roger got accepted to attend Scott was giving him nearly his entire paycheck. "You do need books, you know?" he said with a smile.

The years had passed. The first four years Roger took biology courses and graduated top of his class; in the meantime Scott worked sixty-plus hours a week at the factory. Every two weeks Roger would receive in the mail Scott's entire paycheck, minus what Scott needed to live on. Throughout their ordeal Roger wrote letters to his brother explaining what college life was like, how much studying needed to be done and even a few biological terms and definition "so you'll be ahead of the class when you go". Throughout the four years of undergraduate study the two brothers only met once. It was after Roger's first year in school and he went to see Scott at the factory.

He saw Scott drenched in sweat, his clothes stained in grease, and his eyes blood-shot from lack of sleep. His tired look instantly, and sincerely, disappeared the moment he saw Roger and they shook hands, so as not to make dirty Roger's school uniform. Roger could not see his brother like that and never came back to see him again.

When Roger explained in a letter that he now graduated with honors and was accepted to medical school, only hesitantly did he say that it was more expensive and the money he was receiving wasn't enough to pay for the tuition. Within a month Scott wrote back, with nearly twice as much money included in the envelope, with the explanation "I found a better job that pays more." It took two years before Roger realized that the "better job" was as a coal miner, doing the most dangerous part of dealing with explosives. With the risk came additional pay, enough to send his brother to medical school.

For five years he worked the mines while his brother worked the books. For five years he fought death everyday so his brother could learn how to fight it properly. For five years he sacrificed so his brother wouldn't. It was near the completion of those five years that Roger wrote the words Scott had waited to hear. Roger mailed the note on Tuesday.

--
My Dearest Brother,

My examinations have been completed and next week Thursday is graduation. I would love for you to attend so we can celebrate together. You have worked too hard for too long and I promise it is now my turn to repay the debt.

Sincerely Yours,

Soon-to-be-Dr. Roger Larsen
--

On Wednesday morning Roger received a call:
"Mr. Larsen?"
"Yes."
"This is Mr. Alof, the foreman for the mines you brother Scott has been working with."
"Yes."
"There has been an accident, an explosion. Scott is alive, but I'm afraid he doesn't have much longer to live. He wanted me to call you to see if you can come down."
"Of course, I'll be there immediately."

For the next week Roger sat next to his brother at the hospital. The explosion had shattered his leg beyond repair and had to be amputated. His entire body was cut, bruised, and burned. Scott could not move, or even talk without agonizing pain. His eyes followed the people in his room and Roger could tell the smile in his eyes when he first arrived.
The following Thursday the pain was too much to bare and Scott passed away. Walking to the mines Roger realized that today was his graduation and that Scott did indeed live to see it. A smile of small satisfaction shown on his face.

Roger looked into his brother's room. The room was not much bigger then the bed it contained. Looking around the room he realized how much his brother had sacrificed. The only furniture that was in the room, other then the bed itself, was a small table. The table lay on the other side of the room by the foot of the bed. It was too small to eat on or even to use to write. The only purpose Roger could see that it had was to keep Scott's entire wardrobe - two pairs of clothes off the floor. Roger walked the few feet to the end of the bed, the entire length of the room, and just as he was to turn around to walk back he noticed a small box under the table. The box was old, dusty, and most likely was the shoebox for the only pair of shoes that Scott seemed to own. He reached down to pick up the box, and with it in his hands he sat at the edge of the bed.

He wiped the dust off the top of the box and opened it.

The only possessions Scott seemed to own were two pairs of clothes, a pair of shoes, a bed, a table too small to use, and the contents of a dusty shoebox. Inside Roger gazed at the letters he had written his brother throughout the years. Each one was there, every single letter. They were opened, had been read, and then put back in the envelope to be saved. He read the top most letter, the latest, dated some months ago, explaining how examinations were coming up and soon everything will be over with. Scott never received his most recent letter of graduation and the promise he made. Roger flipped through each envelope in turn, turning back the pages of time. Letters he wrote while working in Hospitals, while studying for Medical School, upon completion of Undergraduate studies, and even his first week as a freshman. Beneath the first letter, dated ten years earlier, he saw a sliver of light. He moved the letters onto the bed and held the shoebox with both hands. The only thing the box contained now was a silver coin.

Roger placed the box next to the letters on the bed and pick up the coin with every delicate motion he could master. Memories flashed through his mind, his brother saying ten years before: "Heads, you go to school and I'll pay. Tails, I go to school and you pay." He imagined the flip of the coin through the air in slow motion. The coin going so slowly that it seemed that it itself did not want to decide for them. The sudden thud the coin had when it hit the table and the perpetual spinning it had before it finally landed. Heads. He briefly smiled at the recollection it was him that had won, that would become a doctor first. He glanced down at the coin his brother had saved. He understood that had the coin made half a flip more it would have been Scott sitting here. It would have been Scott writing letters to him telling him about medical school and the studies he had done. It would have been Scott to send Roger an invitation to graduation. It would have been Scott who became the doctor, while Roger laid in the hospital. It would have been Scott.

He rubbed the coin with his thumb and index finger and flipped the coin the half-flip it needed to change everything. To reverse the rolls. He held onto the coin just long enough to realize everything before he dropped it to the ground. His life shattered before him at what he saw, not so much as what he saw but what it meant. There laid on the floor was the coin heads side up. It would always have landed heads side up. Both sides were heads. Hours seemed to pass like minutes. Every memory he had of the past ten years individually ran through his mind. He replayed every laugh he had made in past ten years, every drink he had with a friend, every paper he submitted, the acceptance letter he received to medical school. For hours he relived his life, and the life his brother never had, while staring at the coin that laid on the ground. Heads.

He did not know how long he was there, or how long he would have been there, if it wasn't for a knock on the door. Mr. Alof, the foreman for the mines, stood by the door. Roger turned to look.

"Mr. Larsen."
"Doctor…" He did not know why he said it. It was the first time he had corrected someone, and he knew with that correction it would be the first time someone would call him doctor. Within the brief second before Mr. Alof responded Roger gave a half-smile. There was nowhere else in the world he would rather be the first time he was called Doctor then in the small room of his brother.
"Oh. I'm sorry. Dr. Larsen. this letter came today for your brother. I thought you might like to have it." With that he held out his hand containing an envelope. It was the last letter Roger had written to his brother. The last one Scott never read.
"Thank you." He took the letter and went back to staring at the coin on the floor.
"Your bother was a good man. A hard worker. He was family to all of us." No response came from Roger. The foreman left and Roger just sat there.

The next day was Scott's funeral. The mine closed for the day and all the miners came to the funeral. Each miner had sacrificed a week's wage to pay for the funeral. The casket was the best wood they could find with the money they had. Out of respect, Scott laid in the better of the two pairs of clothes he owned. No suit or formal attire would ever touch his skin, as none ever had. He worked hard his whole life and hard work was all he knew. Roger came up to the casket. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter Scott never read. Standing in front of the casket he opened the envelope and read the letter to his brother. He then paused and read the last line again, with great solemnity: "You have worked too hard for too long and I promise it is now my turn to repay the debt." A lone tear rolled down his cheek as he folded the letter back up, put it in the envelope, and placed the envelope in the casket on his brother's side. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin. Taking great care he unfolded his brothers arms and placed the coin between the two hands. "It's tails, now". He turned away from the casket and walked to the guests sitting. Upon reaching Mr. Alof he gave him a piece of paper and continued on his way. It wasn't until after the service did Mr. Alof open the folded paper and read the promissory note from a Dr. Roger Larson to be the sole doctor at the mines, without pay, indefinitely.

-Mike Sheppard

Fiction: [Untitled]

"All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity"
Hamlet, Act i, Sc.2

I was twelve when I died.

My father owned a bakery and doughnut shop next to the local movie theatre on the south side of town. He woke up each morning, before the sun even had a chance too, and drove across the bridge to 245 East Riley Street where our bakery was. Occasionally, on the weekdays a small gathering of people would be clustered around the door waiting for my father to arrive and open. These were the dedicated customers whom he enjoyed, and knew each one by name. There was Henry Kessler, a businessman who could not begin his day without a tall coffee, extra cream, and a glazed vanilla-filled long-john; or John DeWind who came in wearing torn patched-up jeans ready for a day of construction. His usual was coffee, no sugar, two plain doughnuts and one loaf of French bread, to go, for his lunch.

The usual waiting each day for my father brought upon a unique friendship between those two unlikely pair. Henry would convince his company to hire the construction company John worked for, and in return John helped Henry add a four-season balcony onto his house that his wife always wanted. They chatted away as my father opened up the shop and got the usual bakery products out.

He didn't always own the bakery, and in fact, he could have pretty much any job he desired. Years ago, fresh out of college and in his first job working as an engineer he walked into the bakery on 245 East Riley Street, just like any other customer that morning. He ordered his coffee, pick a doughnut or two he wanted, and began to talk to the counter girl. Within five years that counter-girl was his wife. When the bakery was up for sale, he bought it so no one else could. Every morning, as he walked into his bakery and greets Henry and John, he himself would get the same cup a coffee and the two doughnuts he ordered so long ago. It reminded him of how he met his wife and he wanted to relive it every day he could.

My father had an older brother who lived a few towns over. After completing high school he moved away to California to study medicine. Upon completion of his undergraduate studies he got accepted full-ride to medical school in Chicago. As a medical student in his first year on rounds he noticed something peculiar on a patient's X-ray, which his advisors had missed. An abnormality. No diagnosis could be given, and before he had "M.D." after his name he had already had an illness named after him. No one knew the significance of that find until many years later. A connection would be made, not by my uncle, but by someone greater, between his illness and another disease. Another doctor, still greater than the both, would make a leaping conclusion while examining a patient between the previous connection and liver cancer. Within three generations of that last find cancer was eradicated worldwide. My uncle never saw any of this and the original X-ray was misplaced somewhere some long time ago.

He had a son that was a trouble-maker when growing up. During High-School my cousin got suspended once for writing graffiti on the sideline bleachers of the football field. If a school administrator found him it would have been just a detention to clean it up, but instead Officer Andrew Wiersma, a rookie, got his first arrest. No one answered the call to their home and my uncle had to get another doctor to finish his surgery while he picked his son out of jail. The next day my cousin was suspended.

As the years went past the rebellion grew out and he settled down. In the middle of his second year at The University of Ohio he switched majors. The change itself did not surprise us, what he changed it to did. He graduated with pre-law and went on to law school. The previous experiences of jails and getting caught inspired him to become a lawyer. His biggest case, when he finally settled down in Lincoln, IL and had his own practice was convicting a child molester and having him serve the maximum sentence.

I was twelve when I died.

My grandfather met my grandmother in a small Austrian town of Bregenz, near Bodensee; the lake that separates the boundaries between Germany, Switzerland, and Austria. Some people call it the Lake Constance, especially if you're not from Europe. In our family we still call it Bodensee. Food was limited after the war and half-starving my grandfather managed to cross the border to Austria from southern Germany in the middle of the night, before collapsing in the main street of Bregenz. Upon awaking he stumbled block after block trying to find something to eat. Desperate, he broke a window to a shop and, hand in the process of stealing a loaf of bread, a scream reached his ears and a blow to the head stopped his hand. He awoke to find his future-mother-in-law telling his future-father-in-law that they should call the police and have this half-skeleton arrested for stealing. He listened to their arguments, not understanding a word, but instead looking at the girl on the other end of the room who would be his future-wife.

That half-skeleton of a man worked every day he could, including Saturday the Sabbath, and saved enough money after three years for two fourth-class tickets on a boat away from Europe, away from Germany, away from everything and to start anew in the United States.

When my grandfather was young he was forced into a big room with kids and adults alike. Everyone was naked. The guards said they must be clean, but why were the laughing when the door shut and no water came out of the shower-heads? The gas started to fill up the room and everyone started to cough. People were banging on the door pleading the guards to let them out. They only laughed. Each scream was louder than the previous. Each plea was more begging. The gas started to take affect. Panic. The throats started to constrict. In their mind every sound they made was louder and more powerful then the sound before. In their mind someone would surely hear the deafening screams and save them. In reality the screams were getting softer to the point of almost being inaudible. As they individually collapsed to the floor they gathered every amount of energy they had left, every bit of strength, and yelled for mercy. The yell was so loud it resonated in their mind like an echo. The scream they heard and the scream they produced were not the same. Their deafening yell of help was just a wordless breathe of air that was their last. No one heard their most pleading and most powerful cry for help as no one could hear it. That cry, like the others before, went unanswered.

My grandfather was one of them. He was twelve.

As I said before, I was twelve when I died; so were my father, my mother, my uncle, and my cousin. We all died when we were twelve. We were given no names, as we were never born. We were given no memories, as we never lived. The only thing we were given was what they took away. We only died.

I was twelve when I died.

-Mike Sheppard