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Wednesday, December 20, 2017


I've been writing short fiction for seven years. To date, I've had 22 stories published - 21 by e-zines in the US, Canada and the UK; one in a hard copy book published in Canada. 

I regularly submit new work to competitions and the editors of on-line journals and e-zines that I find interesting and potentially accepting of my style of telling a story. While I've enjoyed modest success, I have accumulated a great many of those 'thanks, but not for us' emails from editors!

'Wolf's Eye Magic' was published in the August, 2017 edition of the Canadian online magazine Mystery Weekly. Due to a contractual agreement, I am unable to post this story here until August of 2018. 

A new story - 'My Father's Son' - will be published in the UK by Fiction-on-the-Web on February 5th, 2018. The editor is Charlie Fish. Charlie has published several of my other stories and if you are a writer of short fiction, I highly recommend his online magazine.

My published work is spread out across the internet. It takes a lot of work on your part to find it all.So I collected it all in one place. It's my equivalent of 'one stop shopping' for you!

Now you can browse to your heart's content, enjoying what you choose to read and making a note of a story or two to read at a later time. I hope you will tell your friends about my stories and invite them to drop by at this location.

I ask that you respect that I've retained legal rights to each of my stories and therefore they cannot be copied and posted elsewhere. But ask me if you want to do that with one of my stories. I'm open to considering what you're proposing to do with it. But ask please; don't 'borrow' it from my page!

I will be adding to this blog as each new accepted and published piece of my writing becomes available. Some editors have exclusive rights that extend well beyond the published date; others let me publish it on my own as soon as the story first appears in print. All of this to say that you will need to check back with my story blog from time to time to read new material. 

An easier way to ensure you are current is to become an official Follower of the blog. That way, you will receive a notice in your Inbox whenever something new is posted here. There's a convenient 'Follow' button on the top right of the page. It asks for your email address so you can receive update notices in your Inbox.

I welcome your comments and suggestions. I carefully consider each comment and often the ideas find their way into future stories. Use the 'comment' bar at the end of each story to register your comments with me.

Thank you for stopping by and reading some of my stories.

Don Herald


I promise my story is absolutely true. As fanciful and far-fetched as it may appear, you have my word that everything actually happened exactly two years ago today. That would be December 14, 2015. Between the chilly morning hours of 6 and 10 at my country property near the small village of Mattice in northwestern Ontario.

My dog Barclay and I were out just before dawn on our usual pre-breakfast walk in the stubbled corn fields surrounding our small cottage tucked in along the western bank of Thomas Creek. A light snow had fallen overnight and the temperature had dropped well below zero. The creek had shiny slivers of new ice forming around the rocks and deadfall branches along both banks. The air was still. Whispy-white smoke from our cabin’s woodstove rose lazily into a slowly brightening sky. Our breath was visible in misty clouds trailing behind as the crunching sound of our passing on the brittle snow announced our coming well in advance of our arrival. In short, it was a picture perfect setting for our stroll.

We were moving easily through the three small fields closest to the cottage, heading north toward about ten wooded acres we called The North Twenty. This was our woodlot. Before you ask, I must tell you that I have no idea why our furthest field was called North Twenty when it was really only ten. A former tenant of the cabin must have decided that the fields and bush lots looked like twenty acres give or take and just called it that only for convenience. Barclay and I have been out here each day for the last two weeks, felling selected hardwood trees that after Christmas I will start cutting into stove lengths with the splitter hung on the back of our old Deere tractor. Piled into bush cords, after three full seasons in the clearing, it will make ideal fuel for next year’s heating.

Barclay has never liked being on a lead. He prefers the zig-zag style of free-range exploring, suddenly heading off, nose to the ground, on unexpected expeditions, chasing down the scent of rabbits and weasels out foraging for winter food. Occasionally, Barclay will stop to lift a leg against a shrub, fence post or rock poking above the snow. It’s his daily ritual of marking his territory in the futile hope it will scare off the persistent silver fox with whom he unhappily shares our woodlot.

Barclay had just zigged off left headlong into a small cluster of white birch and cedar trees when I heard him wuff loudly. Three times in quick succession. Barclay’s wuff is not a full on bark, more like the canine equivalent of a human’s ‘what the hell is this?’ exclamation. Barclay rarely wuffs so I knew that something out of the ordinary had caught his attention. I followed his trail into the trees, calling his name.

I found Barclay standing rigidly alert on the far edge of the tree grove. His tail was straight out behind. His front right leg was off the ground as if I had caught him in mid-stalk. He was gazing intently out into the next field north at a small herd of deer that were quietly grazing on the corn bits and pieces that had fallen from the chute of the harvester just before Thanksgiving. The animals had to first scrape away the crusted snow with their front hooves, but all were hard at it. 

The largest of the animals stopped grazing. Its large head was up, sniffing into the wind, clearly deciding if Barclay and I were a threat. This animal had a large antler rack which told me it had successfully survived many hunting seasons and was skilled at keeping the herd safe. Satisfied we were no threat, the magnificent animal went back to scraping in the snow.

But there was something odd about these animals. I moved slowly toward the leader. Close in, this group of twelve animals didn’t look like any deer I had seen in the area. Barclay, in that slow motion, stiff-legged manner hunting dogs use when stalking, moved silently and cautiously alongside me, always keeping his attention fully on the lead animal. When we were about twenty feet away, I realized that these were not deer. Incredibly, they all looked like extremely healthy specimens of reindeer, normally found in Canada’s far north. I’d just started to process the puzzle of Arctic reindeer being in a snow-covered field so far south when a deep voice from behind startled both Barclay and me.

“I know what you’re thinking and you’d be right, lad.” There was a delightful lilt to the voice.

Barclay and I both twirled to find a small, smiling man leaning against the rotting stump of an old birch tree.

“Those are prime specimens of northern reindeer. At the moment they’re all enjoying an unexpected early morning snack of corn nibbles and dried grass.”

The man was about four feet tall, dressed from hooded head to booted toe in what I immediately recognized as a child-sized, bright orange deep winter parka. Black thermal mittens and tan leather Sorel insulated boots finished off the look. All very outdoorsy for sure, but who on earth is this fellow? It was then I noticed the small logo on the breast pocket of the parka. It was the words ‘Team Santa’ stitched in alternating red and white letters beneath the stylized face of a smiling Santa.

As if reading my thoughts, the little fellow moved slowly toward me, his gloved hand outstretched in greeting.

“Hello. My name is Seamus O’Brogan. I live in North Pole Village and I’m the Senior Engineer of Mr Claus’ Experimental Projects and Logistical Support laboratory. I’m afraid, it’s in this capacity that you find me here this early December 14th morning, unexpectedly stranded in what I understand you call ‘The North Twenty.”

I must have been in shock as I only barely understood what this wee Seamus fellow was telling me, but he had taken my hand and was heartily shaking it. At the same time, his left gloved hand quickly slid into his parka jacket, bringing out a red-green biscuit which he offered to the full-on tail wagging Barclay.

Once again, Seamus appeared to read my spinning mind. He continued.

“What am I doing here, you may be wondering? Ay, lad, now that’s a story worth telling but we’ll be more comfortable if you come with me over to my temporary little shelter where I have some heat.”

Barclay and I followed him through the nearby trees, deeper into the bush and into a small clearing. A bright orange fly tent had been set up between two tall pines. Only about five feet off the ground at its peak, it was far too low for me but ideal for him. Some spruce boughs had been spread out beneath the fly and in the centre was a green metal device, about the size of a small cereal box.

“Come sit, lad. My heater will give us a wee bit of comfort while we talk.”

The cereal box gizmo was giving off quite a bit of heat but I could see no flame, no other heat source. Snow had melted around it for about six inches in all directions. Seamus saw me studying the heater with interest.

“Ah lad, you be wondering about that.” He nodded toward the metal box. “That’s another of my inventions. I call it the GloBox 2400. It’s still in the prototype stage but it’ll be ready to go with Santa by the 24th. That’s for sure.”

I noticed it was softly pulsing with an orange-red glow. “I’ve got it cranked up to the max, given my situation here,” said Seamus. He waved his small, heavily parka’d arms in a circle around him. But he offered no other explanation.

“Well, Don, me lad, what I’m about to tell you is highly classified.” He must have noticed my eyebrows arch at the mention of my name. Of course, I hadn’t told him my name, so he paused as if thinking about something for a few seconds, then he plunged on.

“As you will see in a few moments, you and Barclay have found yourselves in what could best be described as a most peculiar situation.” Seamus chuckled, scratched his nose, then carefully examined his glove. Satisfied, he continued.

Truth be told, we’ve been expecting you both. From the very moment you left your cabin over there on Thomas Creek, we’ve been tracking you from up there.”

He pointed upward and off toward the right in the direction of the moon hovering low on the horizon.

“Sort of like satellite tracking but far more sophisticated, I’m pleased to say. We cannot be too careful with security these days given all of this.”

Again, he waved vaguely toward the reindeer and a nearby heavy cluster of trees and shrubs.

“I must ask you to swear to me that you will keep strictly confidential all that you will see and hear in the next hour or so. At some point this morning, we’ll need you to sign something official but for now, I’ll take you at your word. You promise?”

I still had absolutely no idea what was going on with Seamus and myself but nevertheless, I nodded toward him and put out my hand. We shook and both said ‘deal’ at exactly the same time.

Whereupon, Seamus got up, pulled his parka more tightly around him and beckoned me to follow him off in the direction of the reindeer. We entered into the centre of the herd, which promptly re-arranged themselves in a ragged semi-circle around us.

“You may have guessed already but just in case you haven’t, let me introduce you to Santa’s reindeer. Team, I would like you to meet Mr Herald and his dog Barclay.”

Pointing to each, in turn, Seamus proudly gave me the names we all have come to know. “Dasher. Dancer. Prancer. Vixen. Comet. Cupid. Donner. And Blitzen. And of course, you’ve already met Rudolph” he said, pointing to the large stag that had watched us earlier while he and the herd had been grazing. With the mention of their name, each reindeer would quickly lower its head almost like a bow, and extend their right hoof forward and tap the ground twice in greeting. Obviously, these were well-trained animals. There were three remaining animals that had not yet been introduced.

“We have three senior trainees with us today as well. Hudson. Bathurst. And Ellesmere. Santa named these guys after his favourite navigation points near the North Pole.” Seamus waited while each of the animals bowed and tapped the ground.

“Since all of this was to have been a straightforward long distance, night training flight, Santa wanted these boys to get in some practice just in case one of the regular nine came down with a cold on the 24th and couldn’t make the trip. But none of us ever expected all of this to happen. These boys will have quite the story to tell when they’re back home!”

Introductions now complete, Seamus pulled twelve carrots from his parka and went around the semi-circle, giving each animal his special treat and a friendly rub behind the ears. He turned toward Barclay and me and extended his arms as if in greeting.

“There’s something else you need to see over here before the Search and Rescue boys arrive.”

Back we went past his shelter, down a small winding foot and hoof-marked trail in the trees and then out onto a larger, much longer-than-wide clearing in the northernmost meadow I called Fox Den. At the end closest to us, sat a large, bright red sleigh.

It was a massive but sleek vehicle, about twenty feet long and maybe eight feet wide. Up front, there was a small cockpit with a number of gently flashing and scrolling LCD screens arrayed in a two-level console set before a large, moulded leather seat with massive armrests. At the end of each arm were what appeared to be a combination of four round push buttons and toggle switches. Immediately behind the cockpit was a small fibreglass covered area with numerous thin antenna poking up about six inches. Obviously, this was some sort of communication centre. In the remaining two-thirds of the sleigh was an empty cargo bay. Around the top edges was a line of small pulsing lights that changed colour. Beneath the entire superstructure was thin, rail-like runners curled up in front and extending flat about six feet out beyond the rear wall of the cargo bay.

On the side, beneath the cockpit, was the following inscription: SantaSled-01-X.

“It sure’s a beauty, eh?” offered Seamus, obvious pride in his voice.

“Me and my boys designed it ourselves with some help from NASA and a few private contractors. Absolute state of the art carbon fibre skin, super advanced avionics and communication gear, sophisticated heating elements, 3D cargo creation and delivery equipment linked by a high-frequency satellite to North Pole Control. We could have easily included an advanced propulsion system using quadra warp technology but Santa felt he had to stick with the nine reindeer for tradition’s sake, even though it cuts down our travel and delivery times considerably.” That’s when I noticed the leather harness lines studded with bells and now dark navigation lights, lying partially covered by the lightly falling snow.

Now as you can appreciate, I was having a hard time taking all of this in and trying to make sense of it. Intuitively, I knew I’d stumbled into one of the best kept, ultra-secret toy fulfilment and delivery systems in the world. But still, the question remained - what was all this super sophisticated equipment, the twelve reindeer and Seamus O’Brogan himself doing here at the top end of North Twenty?

“You’re wondering what’s going on here, eh?” Seamus asked with a chuckle in his voice. Looking more closely at him, I realized that he could be forty years old or easily two hundred and forty years old. It’s always hard to tell age with elves, I thought.

“I’m not an elf, lad. No, no, no. I’m an Irish leprechaun. Here’s the short version of me story. Fifteen years ago now, when the Irish economy started to tank, there wasn’t much call for us leprechauns to do our magic thing with villagers and kids. Lots of us were unemployed. It was hard times. Then Santa’s Human Resources Team came calling, looking for skilled labour and artisans to join his team at the North Pole. Me and fifteen others took Santa up on his generous offer and we began new lives there with his hundreds of Elves. It’s been a good life and Santa’s a fine fellow to work for but he can get cranky in the weeks leading up to Christmas.” Seamus gave a deep sigh followed by a discreet, soft chuckle.

“Well, as you know, the world population’s been growing wildly and as the global economy tanks, harder times have come to hundreds of thousands more folks all around the world. And human nature being what it is, regardless of your culture, people naturally turn to someone like Santa for at least one or two days a year. It’s a time when they can get some of their wishes answered and maybe feel safer and free from hunger for a bit.”

“On New Year’s day, 2015 Santa calls me into his office. ‘Seamus,’ he says, ‘I need some new technology in every way it’s possible to imagine so that I can get around in one night to everyone in the world who believes I will visit them. Work with our partners, contract with whomever you feel you need to but I need a super sled. It must still be pulled by Rudolph and the gang but it must meet all the demands of the travel, the logistics and our vastly expanded supply chain. Oh, Santa says, Seamus, I need it ready to go, absolutely foolproof by December 20th this year. Can you do it?”

By now Seamus and I were sitting in Santa’s sleigh and he was totally caught up in telling me the story. So Seamus recruited a top level team of specialists at the Pole and with a few encrypted phone calls, brought in some talent from NASA, Boeing, the EU, Israel and China. Then the sled project team set to work in the deepest of secrecy.

“Our team created many amazing innovations, installed and tested them on a completely re-designed Santa’s sleigh. Our team named the prototype sleigh ‘SantaSled 01’. We added an ‘X’ after the name to identify it as an experimental test vehicle. In fact,” - Seamus points this out with some pleasure - “it’s the very one we’re sitting in now.”

According to Seamus, as December 14th approached, only one final piece of navigation gear remained to be tested. Codenamed ‘SantaGuide 411’ or the ‘SG411’, this system is the most advanced satellite navigation and communication system ever developed by any nation in the world. Seamus and his team tested it successfully many times in their simulation lab at the North Pole. Several actual field tests of the 411 in the restricted North Pole airspace were successfully completed three weeks earlier with only a few minor glitches. Patches for the software were created and installed.

“This morning just after midnight our time, we launched from North Pole Control for our final long distance night trial south from the Pole to Galveston Texas and back. Yours truly was at the controls.”

“For the first hour of our flight, all went well for me and the twelve reindeer. We were being tracked by the International Space Station. Their encrypted tracking reports were transmitted to both North Pole Control and NORAD command buried deep within their famous mountain bunker in Colorado.” 

“On the return leg of our flight, as we entered the frigid airspace over Sault Ste Marie in northern Ontario, SG411 inexplicably failed. SantaSled 01-X started gliding silently but falling rapidly toward earth. To save the sleigh, myself and the reindeer, I had to take manual control of the glide while the onboard nav systems continued to collapse around me one by one.”

Incredibly, and a testament to the skill, coolness and quick thinking of Seamus, he saw the long snowy meadow in North Twenty right at the last moment and brought the sled and team in fast over the trees and set it down hard but safe on the frozen corn stubble. While the sleigh disappeared from conventional radar, the Space Station’s laser geo-guidance system, targeted Seamus’ position, reported it to NORAD who immediately dispatched Search and Rescue Squadron 401 out of Canadian Forces Base Thunder Bay to lend assistance to Seamus and the downed sled.

“And that lad, is the quick version of me story,” said Seamus. Pulling back the cuff of his mitt, he glanced at a small luminous dial on a red band around his wrist. Looking toward the horizon, he observed calmly “They should be here any time now with a backup SG411 unit. Pre-flight, we store several of these units at bases along the flight path just in case something goes wrong…like happened tonight.”

As if on cue, the ‘wup,wup, wup’ sound of a helicopter moving at full speed echoed across the fields. Suddenly, a white painted machine rose up over the trees and raced toward us sitting in the downed sled.

“Ah, that my lad is an Apache AH-64 chopper. It’s a fast-attack platform from the Americans that we’ve converted into a rapid deploy S&R unit” observed Seamus with a pleased smile. “Those are very serious dudes in that machine, my friend. It won’t be long now.”

The Apache flared to a heavily mufflered but still noisy hover about one hundred yards from us, shifted slightly to the left, then gently settled down onto its skids. The port side door slid open and three crew, each in winter white flight gear, jumped from the chopper, hauling a box the size of a beer case out behind them and then, running low to the ground, approached the sled.

Seamus had jumped out and run over to greet them. Handshakes all around, a brief shouted conversation over the clatter of the helo’s idling jet engines and then all four darted back to where I was sitting in the sled.

All business now, Seamus made no introductions.

“You’ll have to move away and back from the sled while we work. It’s all ultra-secret stuff happening here. Please get out now!”

I scrambled quickly out and away from the sled, joining a quiet Barclay who was sitting over at the edge of the trees that hid Seamus’ shelter.

It took maybe twenty minutes for the S&R technical team to swap out the broken SG411 for the new one. When the team had finished, the leader removed a brown envelope from a breast pocket of his flight suit, handed it to Seamus, then turned and ran with the others toward the waiting Apache. Within moments, the helo was airborne at full throttle and had disappeared behind the jagged line of the nearby hills to the west toward Thunder Bay.

“Well, lad, we’re ready to get back home. But first, you’ll have to sign this Secrecy Act agreement. Two copies. One for you. One for me.” He handed me the document. The sun was up now so I was able to read the two pages of legalese. In brief, it said that I could not tell this story to anyone for two years. That is until December 14th, 2017. There was stuff in there about the Official Secrets Act, the stiff judicial penalties and possible imprisonment options for any breach of the terms of the agreement. I signed the forms with a stubby old pencil that Seamus had found in what I supposed was the equivalent of a glove compartment in the sled’s cockpit.

Papers signed, off we went to round up the twelve reindeer. Seamus hooked them up to the sled in an oddly spaced pattern that only he and the reindeer seemed to understand. Sitting in the cockpit, Seamus flipped a couple of switches, pulled on a traditional looking Santa hat that cleverly disguised a jet pilot’s type helmet beneath. Navigation lights winked on along the harness lines and the side of sled’s fuselage. The white strobe pulses clearly marked the profile of the sled and the team of reindeer strung out in front. 

Seamus turned toward me. With a quick nod and a shout at Rudolph, the sled began to move rapidly down the field, lifting gracefully off over the trees and heading north into a quickly brightening sky.

I have not seen or heard from Seamus O’Brogan again.

So now I’ve told you my story. I swear it is true. I did not dream it. Nor did I make it up just for all the celebrity attention I know it will surely bring me when this tale becomes public.

One final question remains to be answered. Why did I have to wait two years before I could tell the story? I’ve decided that Santa, Seamus and their technology partners wanted to be certain that the SG411 operated perfectly that Christmas. Since there were no reports of Santa missing anyone on his worldwide rounds in 2015 nor again on Christmas eve 2016, I can only assume that all systems are still ‘go’ with SantaSled 01 and that the ‘X’ has been permanently removed.

Merry Christmas 2017 to everyone. I hope you enjoyed this quite incredible story. Oh, and please don’t forget to leave out some cookies and non-alcoholic eggnog for Santa this year!

First Published. In the December 5, 2017 online edition of Under The Rainbow, a US magazine.

The Backstory. I’ve always wanted to write a fanciful Christmas story. This story about an early winter morning encounter with Seamus and his secret Santa sled is it.

Legal Rights. ‘The Strange Tale Of Seamus O’Brogan And Sled 01-X’ is the intellectual property of the author, Don Herald. No part of this story may be reproduced in any format without the written permission of the author.

Monday, September 4, 2017


My wife peered over the rim of her morning coffee. “But you’ve never acted before. Ever.”

“How hard can it really be?” I replied. “I’m going to audition this coming Sunday for a part in that upcoming community theatre production. I think it’s called ‘Crystal Palace’ or whatever.”

She set down her mug, smiled a bit like the Mona Lisa and went out to the kitchen to feed the dog.

We never talked about it again.

On Sunday afternoon, I turned up at the audition with other aspiring actors – two teens and thirteen adults of all ages. There was an anticipatory buzz of energy flitting unseen about the room.

At a long, bare table set up in the middle of the room, sat four very serious looking characters. I quickly figured out they were the business end of the production. David the Director, Angie his assistant, Devo the stage manager and an unnamed fellow who appeared to have something to do with making the set. Him-Without-A-Name didn’t say a word through the entire audition but kept up a steady, terribly annoying ‘click, click’ of his ball point pen when he wasn’t doodling circles and squiggly lines on the back of a torn paper napkin from a nearby sub shop.

On David’s command, each of us stood up and read a few pages of what appeared to be a script. Angie took one of the parts, leaving the other character to us. I thought I did my lines pretty well. But some of the others seemed more experienced and comfortable with such things. The teenagers rarely glanced at their lines while adding in some appropriate gestures and emotions. I have to admit they were impressive.

After each of us did our lines, the folks at the table would quietly confer, jot down some notes then stare stonily at the next candidate. Him-Without-A-Name continued to click and doodle.

After about two hours, David declared a short break and offered us cold coffee, weak tea and not enough Oreos. He and the team withdrew to another room to decide our fates. We all waited nervously, making the silly chatter one always does in such socially uncomfortable situations.

Upon their return, David solemnly announced that some individuals could go home, adding in a decidedly theatrical voice, “Please accept our sincere thanks for coming.” He didn’t mean one word of it.

Six remained. Unbelievably, I was one of them.

Without explanation, Angie lined us up about ten feet in front of the table. Tallest to shortest, left to right.

David walked stiffly along in front of us. It felt as if he was royalty inspecting the assembled honour guard. He stopped in front of each of us, staring intently. Head to toe, then back up again. He’d silently nod, then move on.

Stepping back from his inspection, David announced in a too loud, theatrical voice, “Congratulations. You’re all in the cast. Angie will assign your role and give you a script. Our rehearsals begin back here next Sunday afternoon. Promptly at 2. Make sure you start learning your lines now. For the next three weeks, you can use the script. But after that, it’s ‘no book’.”

Driving home, my mind raced with the infinite possibilities surely lying before me. Stratford, maybe the Shaw or dare I even hope, Hollywood.

My wife seemed shocked when I told her the news. After a short, but too loud gasp, she recovered skillfully with a heartfelt hug and a whispered “That’s wonderful dear. You’ll be great. I just know it.”

I began reading the script every chance I got. I liked the idea that I had more lines than most of the other actors. Reading my lines aloud and alone in our downstairs laundry room was giving me some confidence. By the time Sunday’s rehearsal came, I was pretty familiar with the general intent of my lines.

From my perspective, the first rehearsal went quite well.

I read my lines flawlessly. My exchanges with the other actors seemed effortless. David smiled, laughed, cajoled and sometimes prompted all of us. Several times, he repeated ‘Remember everyone. In two weeks you’ll not be using the book. So make damn sure you know your lines.’

Weeks two and three passed easily for me. I was really enjoying the wordplay back and forth with my fellow actors. Reading lines seemed natural to me. I noticed all of the others hardly ever used their scripts now. It was only me still using the book. Of course, each rehearsal always ended with David’s ‘no book’ warning. It really didn’t make any impression on me.

Week four. It’s our first ‘no book’ rehearsal.

I had a mild twinge of panic as I stood behind the closed set door awaiting my first stage entrance midway through the first Act.

‘Not to worry’ I comforted myself. ‘As long as I know the general gist of my lines, I’ll be alright. Besides, if I can improve on the playwright’s words, why not do it?’

I heard my entry cue. A deep breath and out the door toward Jonas who played the far too handsome murder investigator.
What can I tell you? My mind went blank. There was no script in my right hand.

Jonas said his next line, ‘And where were you, Senator Enright, at the time of her murder?’ Suddenly, I remembered not the exact words from the script but other ones that seemed pretty darn close to the original. Relieved, I spit these out. Jonas looked taken aback. Desperately he glanced toward David sitting down front, then back to me. 

He repeated his line, ‘And where were you, Senator Enright, at the time of her murder?’

At that precise instant, I realized I was in big trouble.

After what seemed like minutes of dead air, David shouted angrily.

“What the hell’s going on here? Angie give him his damn line!”

She did. I repeated it but in my growing panic, got it wrong.

Frustrated, David very reluctantly came to my rescue, calmly telling me I could use the book but just for this one rehearsal. 

But never again.

That night, upon hearing the heavily edited report on my first ‘no book’ rehearsal, my wife somewhat gleefully mimicked those six words that still haunt me to this very day.

“How hard can it really be?”

She was enjoying this whole situation far too much for my liking.

Quite frankly, I think she put just a bit too much dramatic flair into both her tone and her facial expression - all at my expense, of course. But I decided to let it pass.

“Ok, old man. The fun’s finally over. It’s time you got serious about this acting thing” waving her hand in the air with a flourish. A bit too much flourish it seemed to me. She smiled.

“From this point on, every night after work and all weekend long you and I will rehearse until you’ve got the entire script down cold. Out of the blue, I’ll throw you a cue line and expect to hear your correct lines. If you’re in the shower, expect a line. In bed at night, expect some lines. Or maybe we’re waiting in the Tim’s drive-through, expect another bunch of cue lines. For damn sure, you’ll be ready by next Sunday. Or I’ll suffer a nervous meltdown trying!”

Next Sunday arrived. I wasn’t ready. David and Angie appeared on the verge of their own nervous breakdowns judging by the threats they yelled at me. The other actors now expected me to mess up. They wouldn’t hang out with me during the breaks. It seemed as if proximity to me might infect them with my no-word virus.

In desperation, David assigned Hamud, one of the set painters, to stand beside me and prompt me with the correct lines. Every line had to be said exactly as it was written in the script. None of the much better word riffs I offered up was appreciated.

I felt terrible. I began to imagine creative ways I could fall deathly sick and have to drop out of the play. Opening night was only four weeks away and we had an eight evening run.

It was impossible for me to get my lines right.

Over those weeks, my wife gave it everything she had and then some. It didn’t help my self-confidence that she’d quickly learned every character’s lines and could correctly give lines without using the script.

My stress was unbelievable. I rarely slept. At crosswalks, I started entering late on the yellow as if I was daring the rushing cars to end my misery. I secretly prayed that David would call, fire me and ask my wife to take on the part at the eleventh hour.

But then something unexpected began to happen in rehearsals. I started getting more and more lines right. The other actors started to visibly relax when I came on stage. I even glued my entry lines behind each of the three entry doors onto the set. I would stand there – unmoving - before going on, poring over each word, each stage movement instruction that I’d scribbled in with a dark Sharpie beside my lines.

Ten days before opening night. It was our first full dress rehearsal. Everyone was feeling the pressure. I was still making small, silly mistakes that threw off the other actors. David and Angie looked like they both could use permanent IV drips.

Dress rehearsal started. 

Magically, my words came out with no stumbles. No errors. I could do no wrong, say nothing wrong. I think psychologists call it a ‘peak performance’ moment. Whatever it’s called, I was joyously riding the flow.

At the end of the last Act, as I stood at front centre stage and delivered my final lines, the crew and cast all burst into applause and shouts of ‘bravo’.

A standing ovation for me! It could never feel better than this!

Our run sold out and received rave reviews.

But I never acted again.

Many years later, I am often asked by family and close friends if I’ll ever be returning to the stage. I must admit I sometimes still get a tingly feeling deep in my gut urging me to take another audition.

After all, I tell myself, how hard could it really be?

First Published. In the September, 2017 online edition of Fiction-on-the-Web, a UK online magazine.

The Backstory: A long time ago I had this unexplained urge to become a stage actor. The stars aligned, I did an audition and got a part. I had never acted before. This story is my recollection of that experience. I had no idea what I was getting into. I've taken some slight dramatic license with some of the details to help create the scene for you. But you'll get the picture. 

Legal Rights. ‘Front Centre Stage’ is the intellectual property of the author, Don Herald. No part of this story may be reproduced in any format without the written permission of the author.


Friday, August 25, 2017


Within a sudden gust of cold winter air, Brenda burst through the front door of the cafĂ©. She seemed uncharacteristically distressed. Looking around for Anne, she located the correct table in the back corner. She was focused on quickly getting to her friend. She pushed her way past David, causing him to spill the contents of a large mug all over the front of his apron. Some splashed onto a customer’s shirt. Brenda didn’t even stop to apologize.

What the hell’s going on, thought Anne. She rose quickly to pull out a chair for her distracted friend.

Anne waited patiently while Brenda shrugged off her ski jacket, mitts and toque, piling them in a jumbled heap on the chair next to her. She sat down and looked up. That was when Anne noticed the smeared, black eye-liner.

“Bren, what is it? Are you ok? Is it your Mom? Has she had a fall? Or wandered off again?”

Brenda’s eyes filled with tears. She reached out, grabbing Anne’s hands in a tight clasp. She began to shake and quietly sob. Her breath came in short, raspy puffs.

“Bren, what is it?”

Brenda tightened her grip, now gasping for breath.

“It’s Alix. She’s dead, Anne. She’s dead!”

“Alix’s dead? What the hell are you talking about? I talked with her yesterday at the Y. She looked great. I even invited her to join us today. Said she had another commitment. How can Alix be dead?”

Brenda’s words rushed out in a hushed whisper. Anne had to lean in to hear the words.

“Tom found her. I’m not sure of all the details yet. But he tried CPR. It was too late. The paramedics couldn’t revive her. Oh, Anne, it’s all so terrible.”

Brenda’s loud sobs shook her body. People at nearby tables glanced up in alarm. Anne looked around, disbelief etched onto her face. Without thinking, her words, rough-edged with fear and shock, poured into the space between them.

“How…? How did Alix die? Must have been her heart. Christ, Bren. She runs marathons for god’s sake. How can that be?”

Anne’s thoughts were jumbled. She just needed to say something - as if the sound of the words would bring order and predictability back into her life.

Brenda, still struggling with the emotion of the moment, continued.

“The cops found some empty pill bottles in the kitchen. They think that’s where she took them.”

“What? Wait just a god damn minute. You’re telling me that Alix killed herself?”

Anger flared in her voice.

“No fucking way. She wouldn’t do that to herself. She was ok. I’m her best friend. I’d know if something was wrong. For Christ’s sake, Bren. It’s our Alix. She’d never, ever kill herself.”

“But, Anne… she did it. She’s gone. Tom tried to call you when he found her. But you didn’t answer your cell.”

In that moment, Anne remembered she’d turned her phone off before going to bed and hadn’t turned it back on when she left for the coffee shop. And just to make matters worse, at this very moment her damn phone was sitting on the middle console in the car. One of the most important god damn calls in her life and she’d bloody well missed it.

“Shit.” Anne was at a loss for many words.

Bren’s eyes flooded again. Small drops of white snot clung to her nose, threatening to drop off onto the table between them.

Anne nodded slowly, despair settling into her eyes.

Suddenly she sat back hard in her chair. It felt as if someone had hit her with a huge hammer. Right in the middle of her chest.

Her closest friend - dead? They’d known each other since grade nine. Alix had been one of her bridesmaids. And she’d killed herself?

Anne jerked her hands from Brenda. She wrapped her arms tight around her body, trying not too successfully to keep herself together. Bren’s face began to blur. An image of a laughing Alix yesterday at the Y slipped quickly into her vision.

How could this be happening?

Anne began to cry. Then moan softly.

Never in her life had Anne felt so utterly alone.

_________________  ¯  _________________

Alix’s funeral had been a family-only affair.

But Tom had decided that even though Alix would have been embarrassed by it, he also had to have a community memorial service. A week later, hundreds of folks came to the golf club to celebrate Alix’s life.

Tom asked Anne to say a few words. Try as she might, Anne couldn’t write anything suitable down on paper. She finally gave up, deciding to just speak from the heart about her dear friend. Through frequent tears and some moments of laughter, Anne had managed to share memories that touched everyone very deeply. Afterwards, a tearful Tom had hugged her, whispering a choking ‘thank you so much’ in her ear.

Looking back at it now, Anne was finally able to put her finger on the only question that went unspoken during the memorial.

Why did Alix choose to die?

Her suicide had definitely rocked the community.

She was an accomplished woman with a high public profile. She had been a caseworker at the local child protection agency. Her colleagues respected her passionate work with kids and their families.

Alix was on the investigative side of the service. She was the most senior of the agency’s several first responders. They investigated public complaints about children being neglected, abused or maltreated. Some of the situations were quite horrific.

Alix was a compelling public speaker. She was a popular guest on talk shows and in the local media. Her message always promoted the important work of her agency and the need for a firm but compassionate response to all matters involving the maltreatment of kids.

But oddly, in spite of her quasi-celebrity status, not much was known about her personal life.

Alix was married to Tom Berensford, a lawyer who worked as an Assistant Crown Attorney in Toronto. Both were very career-oriented.

While in law school, Tom and Alix met because of their shared passion for soccer. Both were on varsity teams. They were among the university’s elite athletes. They married in Tom’s last year of law school while Alix completed her final year of graduate work.

Several days after the memorial service, Tom called Anne. After an awkward exchange of pleasantries, he asked if she could meet him for coffee at Pablo’s. ‘It’s important’ he said.

On this particular morning, Anne was immediately reminded of Tom’s passion for soccer. He came to Pablo’s wearing his ratty looking, old blue and white Varsity sweater under an equally grubby leather aviator’s jacket.  The one with the permanently stained sheep fleece collar. Anne knew that these two pieces were his favourite casual wear. She felt comforted that in this difficult time Tom had chosen clothes that Alix also loved to see him wearing.

Arriving at the table, Tom gave Anne a quick hug. Then he sat down heavily on the chair opposite. Anne had ordered him a double latte, his favourite, and the steaming mug was waiting.

Never one to beat around the bush, Tom got right to it.

“Thanks for coming, Anne. We really need to talk about Alix’s death.” He paused, his eyes holding steady on her face. “She loved you like a sister, you know.”

Again, Tom hesitated as if carefully weighing his next words.

“Did you have any clue about Alix’s plans? She ever mention anything that made you wonder if she was in some sort of trouble?” He took a deep breath. “Maybe dropping hints about killing herself? I know it sounds silly but I just have to ask if you knew anything.”

He was watching Anne very carefully, weighing her reaction.

“No. Alix never, ever mentioned she was having any difficulties. I swear it, Tom. As her best friend, you think I’d know.”

In spite of her best effort, Anne began to quietly cry.

To comfort both herself and Tom, she reached out, gently taking both his hands in hers. The fingers were cold, skin dry like tissue paper.

“I ask myself ‘why’ a thousand times a day. It’s driving me crazy, Tom. I can’t sleep. I find myself going over every detail of our relationship together. All the way back to high school, for god’s sake. Nothing jumps out at me. Nothing tips me off for what she did. Tom, I so badly need to have answers.”

Anne searched his face with no success.

Tom shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He looked down at the dark coffee lying cold in the bottom of the white porcelain mug.

With a deep breath, he began to speak - flat, hushed tones so low that Anne could barely hear him.

“Alix was depressed. She hid it well from everyone. Apparently even you. Her work as a child abuse investigator certainly didn’t help. Did it cause the depression? Honestly, I don’t know the answer. But the shit that she had to deal with every day was slowly poisoning her. I could see the change in the past year. I begged her to give up the job. But she wouldn’t. Said she was born to do it - to rescue abused kids. Her doctor gave her pills to manage the depression. The same pills she used to kill herself. She took them all in the middle of the night. Apparently standing at the kitchen sink. Somehow she made it back to our bed. Lay down beside me. She died.”

Tom rubbed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He reached out again for Anne’s hands, taking only her fingers.

“I… I found her in the morning. I couldn’t believe it. She didn’t answer when I asked about her day. I touched her arm. It was cold. I cradled her in my arms. Somehow I called 911. The paramedics said there was nothing they could do. She was gone. Then the young police officer found the empty pill bottles in the sink.”

Apparently exhausted from the rush of emotion in his words, Tom slumped deeper into his chair. He pulled back his hands, keeping them flat on the table as if for support.  He continued to stare distractedly down into the white mug.

Tears that had been threatening to spill, now slowly ran down his unshaven cheeks, falling damply on his shirt.

“Tom. Look at me.” Anne waited. No reaction.

“Damn it! Look at me!”

Anne immediately regretted the harshness of her words. Tom was in an unimaginably dark place and she needed to bring him back to her.

“Oh shit. Listen to me. I’m acting like a bitch. Tom, I didn’t mean to sound so hard.”

“No, it’s ok. Believe me. We’re both in the same boat when it comes to Alix. She left us something, Anne. You and me. I found them in my desk drawer after the cops and everybody were gone. Nobody but us know they exist.”

Tom’s eyes bore into her. “It’s just us, Anne. No one else. We agreed on it?”

That’s when Anne realized Tom was on a mission today.

“Yeah. I agree.” But she was thinking she might have to tell her husband. She’d have to play that one by ear.

Tom fumbled with the inside pocket of his jacket. Slowly he pulled out a pale, cream-coloured envelope.

“This one’s yours.”

He held it in both hands. It seemed as if it was a sacred thing he didn’t want to give up.

After a few moments, he passed it across the table.

The envelope had her name on it - in Alix’s writing. Even her trademark goofy smiley face was scribbled beside it. She always put smiley faces on her letters, notes, and emails to Anne.

Anne smiled at the memory. She felt the sting of tears forming.
Unexpectedly, Anne realized that she would never get another smiley face from Alix. This was the last one. The tears began to trickle down her cheeks, pooling briefly and then dropping steadily, making darkening splotches upon her blue denim shirt.

“Jesus, Tom, I ….” Words failed her.

Anne gently brought the envelope to her lips. She kissed it. Her tears wouldn’t stop.

Tom was crying too. He looked at Anne. His voice was flat, no emotion. He was on a mission.

“Alix left two envelopes. One for me. This one for you.  She asked me to give this to you. ‘When the time seems right’, she said. I hope it’s the right time now, Anne.”

She didn’t know what to say. Once again, words refused to come. 

Apparently satisfied his final mission for Alix was over, Tom pushed back his chair, stood and carefully adjusted his bomber jacket. He turned to leave but then stopped. He twisted awkwardly back toward her.

“It will likely be a tough read. Do it only when you feel you’re ready. Don’t be too quick to judge her. Alix was your best friend. Like your sister, even. What she did, it was so unlike her. She was ill. Remember that. Please, Anne.”

Tom turned, zig-zagging his way back through the full tables to the front door. Then out onto a cold and windy Hunter Street, not bothering to pull his fleece collar tight around his face and neck.

Anne held the smiley face envelope in her hands for a long time. Finally, she got up and slowly made her way out of Pablo’s.

_________________  ¯  _________________

Ten days later, Anne was pouring some freshly brewed coffee at her kitchen counter. Steve was reading the Sunday sports section.

“Alix left me a letter.”

She held up the cream-coloured envelope with the hand-drawn smiley face.

“Two letters really. Tom’s. And mine.” She waved it gently. “I’m supposed to read it. Haven’t yet.”

Anne knew she sounded odd. She was having trouble getting her words in order. That had been happening a lot since Alix’s death.

The suicide haunted Anne every day. Lately, she often had trouble putting more than two intelligent sentences together. Without warning, she’d often begin to cry for no apparent reason.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, Anne would wake and quietly slide out of bed, shuffling downstairs to the kitchen. In the soft green glow from the stove clock, she would make some tea. Holding the cup in one hand, with the other she would pull Alix’s unopened letter out of the top drawer. She kept it hidden between the folded dish towels. She didn’t know why. Nor did she care. It just was.

Moving to her favourite chair, she would sit for a very long time slowly sipping the hot tea, staring at the envelope. In particular, the hand-drawn smiley face. Most times she would softly cry.

Flashbacks sucked mercilessly at her spirit - some bad times when they’d been totally there for each other. Also many beautiful moments. It all came back unbidden to Anne in those lonely hours of the dark nights.

Almost always, everything ended with a horrific image of her beloved Alix - on the bed, beside her Tom. The beautiful face now just a death mask. In Anne’s vivid imagination, Alix was smiling. Almost like the Mona Lisa except there was a wet trickle of saliva moving slowly down her chin onto the blue flannel nightie. A smiley face had been crudely scrawled onto it in a childish hand with a black marker.

Anne blinked twice to erase the horrible image of her beloved Alix.

Seeing the offered envelope, Steve got up from his chair, moved behind the counter and took it from her. He held it as if it were a fragile baby bird fallen from the nest. He looked at it silently for a long time then back up at his wife. He could see tears forming in her eyes.

“You were her very best friend, Anne. I guess she just wants to have a last conversation with you. She wants you to understand. It may not seem like it right now but it will. You’ll come to see this letter as a gift.”

Putting the envelope down on the counter, he moved to fully embrace her. He felt her quick breaths and the dampness on his cheek. Anne was trembling. She leaned fully into him, seeking his comforting warmth. He held her until it passed.

Gathering herself, Anne stepped back, wiping a hand through her tangled hair and rubbing under her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

Steve noticed the logo on her shirt but didn’t mention it.

It was Anne’s favourite fleece. She wore it often. Even more so since Alix had died.

Three summers ago, Anne and Alix had taken their first ‘girls only’ road trip to Newfoundland. Two amazing weeks of exploring, camping and antiquing. It had been a wonderful holiday. Both women had come back with matching royal blue sweatshirts, large white letters printed across the front - ‘Our Past Is Alive’.

Steve wondered if Anne’s decision this morning to wear it might in some way be connected to the contents of the unopened letter.

He decided to say nothing. Anne looked at him. She seemed like a lost child.  He waited.

“He … Tom told me Alix was depressed. Taking prescription drugs for it. The same drugs that killed her. I keep asking myself why I didn’t pay more attention to her behaviour, to her words before she died. The warning signs must have been there. I just didn’t see them.”

She took a deep, calming breath.

In the many dark moments since Alix’s death, Anne blamed herself for not noticing the obvious symptoms. For not picking up on the clues to Alix’s frightening secret.

Almost every day she beat herself up with sharp, hurtful thoughts. If only… if only she’d been a better friend, Alix would still be alive. If only. If only.

“In his letter, Tom said Alix warned him to only give me mine when I was ready. Whatever the hell that means. So two Fridays ago, we had coffee at Pablo’s. He gave this to me.”

She pointed vaguely toward the envelope with the happy face.

“He didn’t say what was in in his letter. I didn’t ask. When is anyone ever ready for something like this, Steve?”

Anne didn’t expect an answer. She just needed to say the words out loud.

“Alix killed herself for god sake. How does anyone - Tom, her family, her co-workers, even me. How do any of us ever make any sense of this crazy nightmare and just move on?”

Anne stopped. Her breath was coming in noisy, scraping swishes of air.

Steve realized that over the past few days, somehow his wife had prepared herself for this very moment.

Anne picked up the envelope with the smiley face from the counter, walked over to her Sunday chair and settled in.

Carefully, she sliced the letter open with a fingernail. To Steve, it looked as if she was expecting something scary to jump out. To bite her, maybe even infect her with something terrible.

Inside were several pages of the cream-coloured stationery with the fuzzy side cut that Alix so loved to use. Each page had a lot of writing – all of it in her distinctive, scribble-like style.

Anne sat still, taking one slow, deep breath after another. Dabbing occasionally at her eyes with tissues, she began to silently read.

_________________  ¯  _________________

The warm June afternoon was a good time for Anne to be sitting in front of the simple, black marble headstone.

Six months ago the monument craftsman had etched Tom’s favourite photo of Alix into the smooth stone face of the marker.

If Tom had asked Anne to choose a photo to best commemorate his wife, it would have been this very one. With long strands of hair blowing wildly in the ocean breeze, her face tilted back slightly over a bare left shoulder, Alix was smiling toward the camera with impish delight.

The original photo had been taken during their trip to Newfoundland. It had been a beautiful, shared moment between the two women. Now it was preserved forever on Alix’s memorial.

Hiking the Oceanside Trail near Cow Point in Gros Morne, Anne and Alix had unexpectedly come upon a deserted cove with a small, sandy beach. In a moment of giddy pleasure, they quickly stripped off their sweaty hiking clothes. Then, with noisy, child-like abandon they rushed naked into the cold waters of the bay. The echo of their screams and delighted laughter repeated many times, echoing off the dark, nearby cliffs.

In a spontaneous moment, Alix had insisted that Anne snap her picture. Alix struck a naked, saucy pose waist deep in the small curling waves. From then on, Alix always self-mockingly referred to the photo as her ‘Woman Without Cape’ moment.

It was their private joke. For the last few years, Anne had been worried about the high stress of her friend’s job. Making light of it while at the same time, delivering a worried, cautionary message to Alix, Anne observed that in her work with abused kids, Alix was like Wonder Woman on a mission. Alix always turned the concern into her own joke. Turning toward Anne with a swish of an imaginary cape, Alix would make swooshing sounds like she was flying through the air.

“Wonder Woman. Have cape, will definitely travel. At your service, 24-7.”

To Anne, it seemed Alix truly believed she was coated in Teflon. Nothing toxic about her job could hurt her. It was silly for Anne to worry about her.

Running from the waves to the beach, Alix quickly built a fire to remove the water’s chill. Anne rummaged in their backpack, bringing out a small bottle of Pinot Blanc and some tangy chunks of old cheddar left over from lunch.

They stretched out side by side, choosing to let the warmth of the fire and the mid-afternoon sun dry their bodies. The bottle passed freely back and forth between them - the dry, soft bite of the wine mixing nicely with the tang of the crumbly old cheddar.

That idyllic afternoon on the hidden beach, the women talked about the love of the men in their lives. They shared dreams of changing jobs to something more creatively expressive and fulfilling. They speculated about how each could more permanently capture the spirit-refreshing experience of hiking and camping in the stunning beauty of Gros Morne. Alix spoke wistfully of her wish to have a baby. To be a stay-at-home mom for a few years. Anne revealed her secret fantasy of quitting her university job and becoming a full-time writer.

Alix and Ann chatted excitedly about maybe opening an antique shop together. They agreed it must have a small, sun-filled loft, lined with oddly tilting shelves crammed full of books. And comfy, cracked-leather chairs for anyone who just wanted to read. They’d serve steaming mugs of herbal tea. Or some of the specially blended free-trade coffee that was Alix’s favourite. Of course, all of this would come with the promise of good conversation.  

Since early April, Anne had eagerly watched the spring rains successfully tease out the lush greenery in the cemetery. Birds were nesting in nearby trees, often noisily fluttering down to feed on the tasty grubs and earthworms that could now be easily pried out of the soft earth. Muted sounds from the nearby city streets created a low, steady hum. Anne found the distant whisper of human activity strangely comforting.

Ever since she had first read Alix’s letter, Anne came here quite often - just to be with her.

On each visit, she would bring several fresh white daisies, each with a butter yellow centre. Alix had loved the innocence and pureness of this flower. She and Tom would have fresh daisies in their home whenever Alix could find them at the florist near where she worked.

For Alix’s thirtieth birthday, Anne and Steve had given her a large oil painting of daisies growing wild in a field. Tom and Alix had placed it on the mantle above their fireplace. Alix told Anne that often in the evenings, relaxing after a hard day at work, she and Tom would sit cuddled on the sofa admiring the subtle colours and play of light across the whites, oranges, yellows and greens of the canvas.

For the first several months of her visits, Anne angrily paced back and forth in front of the monument. The eyes in the etched portrait of ‘Woman Without Cape’ seemed to follow her movements. The sensation of it creeped Anne out. But never mind, it was still a connection with Alix. Often Anne would cry - deep, body-shaking sobs that sometimes frightened foraging squirrels back into the low hanging branches.

During those moments, Anne would plead with Alix to forgive her for not realizing her emotional fragility. “If only you had told me!” Anne sometimes screamed the words at the stone marker.

“I could have helped you. Supported you. Loved you more. God damn it, Alix. I could have. But you didn’t tell me. Not one god damned word.”

Most days, Anne would bring Alix’s letter and read it aloud. In mourning her friend, Anne believed that if only Alix could hear her own words - the explanations, the pain and anguish in them - she would realize the utter folly of her act. Anne knew it was silly to think this way. But reading Alix’s final words out loud again and again were comforting, reassuring. It was like they were having a conversation of sorts.

Other times, Anne’s grief was so totally overwhelming that she ranted and swore at the stone as if it was Alix in the flesh, not her etched stone likeness.

But every visit always ended the same way.

Before leaving, Anne would kneel in front of Alix’s marker. With her fingertips, she would gently touch the image, tracing the hair, the cheekbones and finally, the laughing but Hollywood-pouty lips. Silently, she promised to love Alix for all eternity.

Then, leaning forward, Anne would lightly kiss the image of her friend.

Wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, Anne would rise, and never glancing back, walk slowly to the car park up the nearby hill.

In the past few months, as the weather warmed and new life returned to the surrounding trees, gardens, and ponds, Anne’s behaviour and feelings softened. While she could never fully understand the reasons for Alix’s death, Anne began to experience a welcome calmness that had been eluding her for many months. It was an unfamiliar experience but she embraced it without ever questioning why it was happening to her.

Intuitively, Anne came to know that Alix was listening, silently offering up comfort and ideas about the career and life issues Anne brought to the marker.

By nature, Anne was not a spiritual person. But she always felt Alix’s warm and wise presence surround her entire body as soon as she drew near to the grave.

At the beginning of June, Anne began bringing some of Alix’s favourite books. Anne read each one aloud to her friend. Anne shared drafts of some of her own short stories. Through the telling to her friend, she would gain helpful insights that enriched characters, expanded plot lines.

And so it was that on this warm and sunny late July afternoon, Anne spread a tartan patterned wool blanket in front of the Woman Without Cape grave marker.

With deliberate care, she laid out two crystal wine glasses, a full bottle of their favourite Pinot Blanc and a crumbly, rough-edged round of aged cheddar.

Opening the wine, Anne poured each glass to half full. She placed one on the grass in front of the stone marker. Smiling, Anne raised her glass to Alix’s likeness as if she was present before her.

Today Anne was wearing her favourite royal blue sweatshirt in spite of the warm temperature.

“To us. Our past is truly alive.”

For some time, Anne sat curled up on the blanket, occasionally sipping from the glass, savouring the sharp bite of the cheddar and reading aloud selections from Alix’s favourite poetry.

Time passed.

Soon evening shadows crept into the cemetery.

Anne folded the blanket and placed her glass, the cheese, wine bottle, and poetry book into the backpack. As was her ritual, Anne knelt before the headstone, lovingly traced Alix’s image, kissed it lightly, then rose slowly to stand in front of her loved friend.

“Goodbye, my dear woman without cape.”

“I’ll return in a few days to talk with you again.”

“Be at peace, my lady.”

First Published. In the September, 2017 online edition of the US magazine, ‘Beneath The Rainbow’.  Available as of August 25, 2017.

The Backstory: A few years ago, a well-known and respected woman committed suicide. There was a great deal of speculation about why such an accomplished woman would choose to kill herself. 

This event seized my imagination and I strongly felt I wanted to explore in a story the themes of suicide, vicarious trauma, intimate friendship and the process of grief. I have experience working in the high pressure environment of child abuse investigations. It can be a very stressful, trauma-inducing job. 

It was from this real life situation that I chose to begin my story.

Legal Rights. ‘Woman Without Cape’ is the intellectual property of the author, Don Herald. No part of this story may be reproduced in any format without the written permission of the author.