WOMAN WITHOUT CAPE

Within a sudden gust of cold winter air, Brenda burst through the front door of the café. 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.

IN THE DARK OF A CITY NIGHT

My car and another in front stopped at the red light.

Just past the intersection, something was lying on the roadway.

The light changed. Both of us moved forward.

The car in front slowed beside the object on the road, then quickly swerved into a nearby driveway.

A young woman jumped from the passenger side, leaving her door open. Glancing neither left nor right for approaching cars, she ran into the roadway and knelt beside a light brown bundle on the pavement.

It was a cat. It was dead.

My headlights illuminated the woman as brightly as if she were on a stage.

Bending over, she paused, and then ever so gently lifted the cat in her arms. It was a large cat. Its head and hind quarters dangled loosely over each of her outstretched arms.

For just a brief moment, the cat’s eyes shone pale white in my headlights.

As if she was cradling a cherished thing, the woman slowly moved with purpose to the curb. In measured motion, she lay the cat gently down onto a small patch of winter-brown grass. She bowed low over the body. A hand stroked the fur tenderly as if the cat were still alive.

The white shine of the cat’s lifeless eyes and the gentleness of that woman’s reverential act moved me greatly. It was an upsetting moment for me.

Now it is almost twenty-four hours later.

I’m still haunted by those images - a simple act of kindness by an unknown woman bathed in the harsh glare of headlights in the dark of a city night.

Someone’s cherished pet, a loved companion, will not ever be returning home.

Dear woman from that car ahead – thank you. Your act of gentle, unexpected kindness toward the body of another unknown someone’s cat shall not easily be forgotten.

First Publication: ‘In The Dark Of A City Night’ appeared in The Basil O'Flaherty, July 11th, 2017 issue.

The Backstory: On a cold winter night in 2017, my wife and I were driving home from the theater along a dark city street. Something was lying in the roadway a short distance ahead. The car in front of me moved through the intersection and suddenly veered to the curb. And what happened next still haunts me.

Legal Rights. ‘In The Dark Of A City Night’ 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.

RATTLER

My daughter lives in a canyon settlement near Los Angeles. 

On this particular evening, she and friends were out on the deck overlooking a long backyard. Everyone was chatting with a newly arrived guest about the day’s events and how pleasant the evening was passing. Dusk came quickly. Lamps were turned on and the conversation continued.

Her dog Rose quietly slipped into the darkness among the low bushes and tall grasses of the backyard. Quick, excited sharp sounding barks alerted everyone that she had come across something interesting. Rose wanted us to come right away and have a look at what she had discovered.

Excusing herself from the conversation, my daughter went down the stairs into the dark toward the barking. She found Rose, rump in the air, tail wagging, face down low, front paws dancing. Whatever she had come upon was hidden in a tangle of long grass. It sure wasn’t going anywhere as long as the dog was worrying it with her barking and pawing. 

My daughter had not brought a flashlight, so she stepped closer and leaned down toward the dog’s nose to better see what Rose had come upon.

That’s when my daughter heard the dry rattling sound coming from the grass. She froze.

She lives in a canyon and so a variety of wildlife is very plentiful. This summer the backyard has a large family of rabbits. So this attracts larger, more worrisome kinds of predators. Last week, a neighbour said he’d recently seen a bobcat hunting the bunnies at the back of the property. He suggested Rose be kept away from the rear fence line. 

But this time, Rose had discovered something far more dangerous. It was a snake, most likely a Western California rattlesnake. And judging by the sound of the dry warning rattle, it was none too happy at being disturbed.

My daughter called out to the deck.

“Rose’s got a rattlesnake cornered”

“Bring the big Mag lite. Hurry.”

Rose continued barking. My daughter slowly reached out and grabbed her collar so she couldn’t edge closer. With gentle tugging, Rose stopped her excited pawing and barking. But she remained stiff, frozen in place, staring intently into the long grass. Once the dog stopped worrying it, the snake’s warning rattle fell silent. But my daughter still couldn’t see the agitated snake, so knew that she and Rose were still in grave danger. 

She could easily imagine the angry rattler tensing to strike out at the light, and possibly Rose and herself.

The flashlight’s bright beam lit up the clump of grass where most probably the snake lay waiting -  tail erect but not moving, black, beady eyes watching for any sudden, threatening movement.

My daughter found it lying almost out of sight under the grass blades and dead leaves.

“What the …?”

“There’s no darn rattler,” she shouted up toward the house. “It’s an electric toothbrush! What the heck’s going on?”

Laughing with relief, she picked it up.

It definitely wasn’t hers.

She carried the brush up to the deck and showed everyone the wannabe Western California Rattlesnake Rose had discovered out at the back of the property.

“I can’t say for sure, but that looks like my toothbrush,” the guest said. “Let me check.”

Off she went to her room. She returned quickly, confirming that her toothbrush was indeed missing from the low bedside table where she’d plugged it in several days before.

And so a story was pieced together the likely explained what happened.

Rose loves to take things wherever she finds them. A sweaty running shoe, a soiled gym sock, a discarded T-shirt and not too long ago, the set of keys to my daughter’s truck.

Rose must have discovered the charging toothbrush on the low table beside the bed in the guest room. Perhaps it was the slowly flashing soft green light that attracted her. Or maybe it was the prospect of a fresh toy to carry around.

Whatever the cause of it all, Rose must have gently lifted the toothbrush from its base and quietly carried it unnoticed out into the dark yard while everyone was chatting. Somehow in this process, as she was shifting the toothbrush around in her mouth, the brush turned on.

Surprised at the sudden sound and vibration in her mouth, Rose had dropped the electric toothbrush right where my daughter had eventually found it. And of course, when faced with an unknown object that makes weird sounds and vibrates, what’s a dog to do but bark at it!

And just by a coincidence in timing, as my daughter pulled Rose back from where it lay, the three-minute timer on the brush must have switched off the vibrating brush head!

And so dear reader, that is the true story of a recent dark night 

encounter with the feared Western California Rattler. 

Reader's Comments: 'What a fun story! Great description of the setting and the dog's antics. You created a good sense of tension and resolved it with a grin. I enjoyed reading this.'

'If only I could write an interesting story about how my dog chewed up our visitor's expensive sandals. Unfortunately, no one laughed at that true story.'

'What could have been a horrible situation, turned into a fun story.'

First Publication: ‘Rattler’ appeared in the Canadian on-line e-zine, CommuterLit, on June 5th, 2017. The link is www.commuterlit.com. 

The Backstory: My daughter lives in a canyon community just outside of Los Angeles. Recently she and one of her dogs had an unexpected encounter with Western California rattlesnake in their backyard. This story reports on that encounter and its surprising outcome.

Legal Rights. ‘Rattler’ 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.

LOVE FLOATS

NATHAN --

The cat woke me up.

How can that be? I don’t even own a cat. I always thought a dog would make a better pet; maybe a ferret if it comes down to a choice. One or the other. A ferret wouldn’t require that much care. It would fit my lifestyle better. Yes, a ferret would definitely be better than a dog. Way better. At least for me.

I lie still. Eyes deliberately scrunched shut.

Street sounds. Cars. Rock music from a distant radio. Rises, falls, fades. A deep motor growl. Diesel engine. Probably a city bus. Bird chirps. Robins. They’re flocking back to favourite trees. Making muddy nests of dried-out grass blades in protected places. Fighting the doves for prime real estate. Nature never changes. Urgent voices. School kids – teenagers judging by the swearing and loud tones – actually talking to each other. Not texting. Amazing in this day and age.

Breath sounds. Light, wispy, slight fluttering at the end. Steady, rhythmic. Soothing. Is it me or someone else? No, it’s someone else. But I don’t live with anyone. No room-mates. No ferret. At least not yet.

The delicate scent of citrus. Faint but delicious. My favourite fragrance these days. She always wears it. I sometimes try to stand as close to her as I can, almost bending in half over the low counter at The Ernie. I have to be careful not to lose my balance and fall into her lap. Way too embarrassing if that were to happen.

I inhale slowly, deeply. The scent of her. It makes me hungry for her. I can imagine her touch, her smile, her delightful giggle. I can taste…

Something’s poking my cheek. Once. Twice. A hard three, then a much harder four. Slight pin pricks. Perhaps it’s my imagination. Whatever, it’s determined. There’s a snuffling snore beside my right ear. No. More like a purr. Cat sounds.

But I don’t have a cat.

I open my eyes. A bit at a time. Being cautious. Not quite sure what I should expect from a possibly psycho creature poking claw tips at my face.

There’s other eyes. Close to mine. Flecked amber with dark slits that expand and contract in, then out and back again. Tiger eyes. A pink, twitching square nose. I’m being sized up, the cat deciding how many meals it can get from this strange live thing in its bed. This uninvited thing – me – probably taking up its usual special spot on the pillow.

I roll my head to the left, trying hard not to disturb the staring cat. Not wanting to provoke an attack or at the very least, have it jump on my face and smother me. Dead.

An old wooden milk carrier – a faded blue Silverwood’s Dairy stamp still visible. On its end, serving as a bedside table. A digital clock. White plastic case with faint, once moist finger smudges across the top buttons. Years of use apparently. Green, steady glowing numbers. Digital. 7:17. 

Beside it, a book. Hard cover. Barbara Kingsolver. High Tide In Tuscon. I read it recently. Just because she told me it was her favourite.  Not my usual type of read though. When I told her my favourites were Baldacci and Rankin, she laughed, telling me it was good I was dating a librarian.

I’ll have you reading Tolstoy and Chekhov, she promised, before you can even manage a grumbled ‘nyet’.

A tissue box. Patterned in various shades of muted blue. A scratch pad, pale green. Top page has an odd brown watermark. A coffee mug perhaps. Ernest McGregor Library printed in dark green along the bottom. A bright yellow pencil with a sharp point. That’s good. I can use it on the cat if I’m attacked.

At the thought, I’m amused for a bit longer than is healthy.

An open box of condoms. Trojan. Not my kind. Several ripped wrappers abandoned on and around Kingsolver. Ragged edges. As if someone used his teeth - maybe her teeth - to open them in a hurry. Not the cat, surely. But if not the cat, then who?

I shift my head back. The amber tiger eyes are gone. Orange fur ball wrapped tight, close to my face, not quite touching but crowding in. Taking back as much of its pillow as possible. A ferret wouldn’t do that.

More purring. This time with a rough edge. Snoring, really. With a distinctive flutter at the end.

It’s not psycho cat.

I gradually lift my head just enough to see over the sleeping animal. Russet hair. Fine strands all tangled randomly together. Usually it’s all a long, carefully pleated braid down her back. Now spreading web-like across a pale yellow pillowcase, maverick strands spill recklessly onto the sheets pulled tight under her chin.

I remember now.

She asked me to unbraid it. Don’t rush, she said. Enjoy the moment. I remember the feel of each strand falling loose over my fingers. I kissed her hair, burying my face deep into the gently curling ruby waves. The lush scent of her.

Citrus. Lightly scented grapefruit. I bought a tube after she told me it was her favourite shampoo.  Never use it myself of course. But I put small drops of it on a tiny piece of crinkled tinfoil left open on my bedroom bureau. To remind me of her. Of my growing love for her.

The fair skin, a faint spray of freckles. Angel kisses, she once told me. Wispy, delicate lashes. Attractive borders for incredibly beautiful amethyst eyes. Innocent. Her eyes always dance with excitement. Or perhaps it’s mischief. Biologically, that’s not even possible. But, no mind as to the correctness of it all, her eyes surely captured me from the instant I first saw her.

Two months ago. No, more like three months ago. Has it been that long? That’s nothing really, when you think that it might easily turn into a lifetime.

My hand moves slowly to the bare curve of her waist. Resting lightly, feeling the gentle rhythm of her breaths in my fingertips. Not wishing to wake her. Giving in to a wakening desire, I trace up over the ribs, seeking out and briefly cupping her naked breast. Back down, then up the beckoning curve of the hip, sliding my fingers over to re-discover a mound of russet coloured fuzz.

I shall not wake her.

I feel him stirring. When she discovered him in our first urgent fumbling last night, she burst out, oh Buster, my you are a very naughty boy. We laughed, no awkward apologies needed.

Fair’s fair, I said, reaching with eager fingers down her belly into the light fuzz. It’s Betty, I said. Don’t know why really. It just seemed to be a perfect name for it.

Betty meet Buster, I said by way of introduction.

She laughed and sighed. I don’t usually give it a name. But it’s much more fun to give them names. Don’t you think? Then she pulled me tight to her.

Betty just loves to meet Buster, she whispered in my ear.

Now, lying in her bed, I could see where my thoughts were taking me. Chill, Buster. I will the thought to him. Time to get out of bed. Let her sleep some more.

I slide out, doubly careful to not disturb either her or the curled cat. As soon as my head leaves the pillow, psycho cat unfurls his body and effortlessly shifts over into the nicely warmed space left by my head and shoulders. Re-curling, the cat looks a bit too it’s-about-bloody-time. At least for my liking anyway.

After a bit of searching in the semi-darkness, I give up finding my undies, socks and denim shirt. Silent hops, first one leg, then the other. I pull on the crumpled Lee’s. I’ll leave finding the other stuff until later.

Being in Tilley’s apartment is new to me. I’m curious about her private life away from the library.

But mostly I’m just hungry.

I slip from the bedroom, close the door then move through the small living room into the kitchenette. As my mother was fond of saying, it’s so small you can’t grab a cat by the tail and swing it around without hitting something. I chuckle at that image, especially in light of what I just stared down in Tilley’s bedroom.

A small window over the sink looks out onto a spacious rear yard. Grass, still mostly brown, has green patches forcing their way back. Pale yellow, butterfly lace curtains tied back. New looking sink, faucets and counter-top. A beat-up toaster, a newish coffee maker, counter-size microwave and a shiny metal composting tub. A Disney themed dish towel neatly folded over the oven handle. The fridge is older. Its seen better days.

I look round the small apartment. The entire place has seen better days. Perhaps a Deputy Chief Librarian doesn’t earn as much as I thought. But if we combine her salary with my teacher’s pay, we’ll be able to afford a better place in a less dodgy part of town. Something else to put on our yet-to-be-discussed list.

A few photos of psycho cat are pinned with multi-coloured magnets to the white-yellow fridge door. Two with Tilley; several more in various solo poses on the living room furniture. One lying on the bedroom pillow, looking like it’s daring anyone, human or otherwise, to push it off. A dog or a ferret even, would never look like that.

An under-sized table topped with splotchy dark green Formica. Chipped black in a couple of places. Salt and pepper shakers in the middle, Micky and Minnie by the looks of it, both sitting on a plain white placemat. Two chrome tube chairs with vinyl green seats and black plastic floor sliders.

More books. Some of them are now featured on our national radio’s Canada Reads contest. An old, well-thumbed Bible, leather bound with the SMH gold embossed in one corner. Sharon Matilda Honsberger. Now known by everyone except her parents and aged grandmother as Tilley.

A surprise find pokes out from the pages of one of the Canada Reads books. A green and white, deluxe three day pass to the Toronto International Comicon Show next month. Comics? Tilley is so interested in comics she’s spending three days at the show? Comicon is the holy grail for comic fans from around the world. I didn’t know this quirky fact about her. Wrongly, I guess, I just assumed a professionally trained librarian would not be interested in the lowly comic book. I’m intrigued but file this discovery away for future discussion.

I find three cereal boxes in the upper left cupboard. I choose a brand I haven’t eaten since I was a kid because I’m immediately drawn to its cover photo. A bunch of whole grain, multi-coloured O’s floating in a large, heart-shaped red bowl - all on an eye-catching bright orange-yellow box.

Somehow it seems appropriate I choose it after a night just spent with Tilley. A woman I’m coming to love. A woman I could probably spend the rest of my life with.

In another cupboard are short, orderly stacks of assorted plates, big and small, four cereal bowls and several rows of glasses and mugs, each of varying size.

Opening the fridge, I find a half-full box of 5% light cream. A quick sniff test confirms it’s still good to go. Unfortunately I can’t find any sugar, - brown or white. No coffee either - instant, ground, tub or otherwise.  There’s a cheap plastic mesh tray with lots of tea varieties. Some extra strength Tylenol, nasal spray and several bottles of generic vitamins.

I dump some O’s into the bowl, add cream, stir everything and sit down to eat. I read the story on the back of the cereal box.

Fascinating stuff. 

Apparently it’s a proven fact that if you drop a single O into a bowl of milk, it will form a small dent on the surface and float there feeling lonely and unloved. Add a second O nearby and something magic happens. Mysteriously one lonely, unloved O drifts over and cuddles up to the other O as if attracted by an unseen force. The O’s are now almost inseparable. Unless a greater force, a cereal spoon probably, breaks them up. But even then, the two O’s will try to get back together no matter what.

At least that’s how I understand the blurb on the box. The scientists even have a name for it. It’s called the Cheerios Effect.

Excited, I get a second bowl from the cupboard, pour in some 5%, drop in a light brown O slightly apart from a light pink O. Sure enough, each shifts sideways towards the other. A hook-up takes place right before my eyes.

It’s our story. Tilley and me. Coming together in the bowl of life. Admittedly, it’s a dorkey way to express it. But right now, we’re living a version of it. Our very own Cheerios Effect. How cool is that?

I can’t wait to tell her my discovery. Not quite an epiphany. But right up there nonetheless.

Yeah, I know I sound a bit crazy. But honest to god, I’m in love with her.

And love can work in very mysterious ways, don’t you think?       

________________  _~  ________________

TILLEY --

I’m drifting quite happily in that white woolly twilight zone between sleep and awake when Brian jumps onto my pillow. He settles in front of my nose. I think he listens to my breath sounds. Likes the feel of the warm in and out on his whiskers.

Brian’s my orange tabby. Stepped in through the open kitchen window about two years ago, seemed to take a liking to my place, so he’s never left. It’s fair to say that Brian and I now share the space equally. I don’t get too freaked out about where he chooses to sit, scratch, cough fur balls, roll or sleep. I pay the rent, keep our house warm and clean, leave yummy food in his bowl and lots of fresh water. That’s just the way it is when you live with a cat.  

Right now, Brian’s licking my nose. His rough, sandpaper tongue moves in short, gentle arcs. Nostril to nostril, tip to bridge. He’s always done it since the first morning he was here. It’s become our thing most mornings. I can’t say that I mind this too much. But it’s not something I talk about with my workmates at The Ernie.

Usually, when Brian finishes up his morning greeting, he hops over my head and lands on the pillow behind me. He settles in for some serious purring and a few hours of undisturbed sleep.

That’s why in a few seconds, Brian’s not going to be too happy. There’s an unexpected head on his pillow. I didn’t tell Nathan about Brian when we came back last night. Not that there was much time to talk about it. Oh god, that was something else.

I hope my boyfriend likes cats. When that cat gets it into his head to stare you down, it can be a pretty intimidating experience.

It’s best I just lie here with my back to Nathan. Pretending I’m still asleep. Let the boys fight it out over who has first dibs on the pillow. My cat doesn’t believe in finders-keepers, losers weepers - so it should be interesting.

My money’s on Brian. I give Nathan maybe ten minutes at best going face to face with my cat. Then Nathan will be off the pillow, out of my bed and finding his way into the kitchen to make fresh coffee.

Not that finding the kitchen will be too much of a challenge. I have a really little place here – this bedroom, a two-piece john with a rusting out shower stall, a crowded but comfy sitting area and a ridiculously micro-size kitchen. You’ll never see this place featured on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, that’s for sure.

Did I just use the term boyfriend? Now that’s interesting. Lately, I’ve been wondering about this thing between Nathan and me. 

No denying we have this amazing connection. Share a lot of the same interests. He’s got a great sense of humour, a job he loves and a hot body that I love. The sex last night was…well, given that it was our first time doing it, it was pretty darn incredible.

Oh! His hand is on my waist. What magic fingers that man has. It feels like he’s reading braille. Oh, he’s cupping my breast. Now he’s heading south. Lie still. Really still. Don’t encourage him or we’ll be here all day. Oh, those fingers again. Uhmm…

Yep, there he’s off the pillow. That took maybe five minutes. Cat 1 – Nathan 0.

I can just imagine Brian behind my head, settling into the fresh, warm space on the pillow, giving Nathan that don’t-mess-with-me look. My cat sure gives attitude.

What the heck’s that thumping? Sounds like bunny hopping at the bottom of the bed. I don’t dare look. Must keep my eyes closed. I need some quiet time to think about us, about last night. Where all this might be going. Two months and three days since we first talked at the library. Is this relationship moving too fast?

Oh, now I get it. Nathan’s hopping foot to foot trying to pull on his jeans as quietly as he can so he won’t wake me. What a sweet man. Wonder if he’s found the rest of his clothes?

Come to think of it, where’s my bra? My panties? My god, where did we throw those things? Probably out on the floor in the front room, along with his shirt and shoes. Likely his underpants, too.

When I get up, I’ll have a look around here for my things. If no luck, I’ll pull on my silk nightie and at least be somewhat decent for Nathan. I don’t think I’ll look too sexy for ol’ Buster. Oh my god. Did we actually give names to our intimate parts?

Ok, the bedroom door just snicked shut. I can follow his movements by the squeaks in the floor. He’s in the kitchen now. Cupboards opening. There’s the fridge door. Now the closing thunk. I’m sure he’ll find something to tide him over until I join him.

Join him. Why am I being so silly about this? Join him. It sounds so… permanent. So committed. Am I frightened?

What was it that Thomas told me when we split in our final year at college? True intimacy, Tilley. It’s just not you.

Ah, Thomas. You were my first serious love. My college lover. That small heart tattoo inside my right wrist? An impulsive act, for sure. Summer of second year. We were both tree planting in northern Ontario. Came in to Thunder Bay for a dirty weekend and both got tats. Mine on the wrist, yours just above the left nipple. I wonder if you still have it. Probably you’ve had it removed.

Commitment phobic, you said during one of those heart-to-heart moments I so hated but you so loved to have. It’s what psychology majors did, you said.

Of course, I denied it. You kept pushing me on it. I told you to leave. Take your stuff and don't come back. I shouted it so loud I thought the neighbours would call the police. You refused to go. I had to just about throw you out the door, knapsack, books, clothes and all.

But I kept your toothbrush. Did you know that?  And your favourite work-out tee. When it was pretty clear you weren’t ever coming back, for a long time, I put the tee under my pillow at night. So I could smell you. I felt safe when I had your tee close.

Hmm. Feeling safe. Commitment. Intimacy. Is that what’s at the heart of this with me and Nathan? He’s a great guy. Genuine. Sincere. Intelligent. Passionate. What you see is what you get with him. I like that about him. A lot.

He claims he can read me like a book most times. We always laugh when he says that. Me being a librarian and all.

But there’s pages I will never let him read. Perhaps only give him short footnotes at the bottom of some pages. Give him something of me, but not everything. Yeah, footnotes, not full pages. I like that image. It seems right to me. Pages with some footnotes all about true intimacy, commitment, feeling safe.

Sharon Matilda Honsberger. Age 31. Redhead. Some have called it russet. Born and raised in Elliot Lake, in northern Ontario. Parents - Patricia and William, a home care worker and a high school teacher, respectively.

I’m not quite fluently bi-lingual. An independent young woman. Some would say super confident and definitely opinionated. Deputy Chief Librarian at The Ernest McGregor Library, fondly known to everyone in town as The Ernie.

Presently in a relationship with Nathan Davey, an elementary school teacher.

Some would say that my life is far from an open book. Very few are welcome to read the footnotes. You take your chances with me.

Oh, and Brian, of course. You’ll definitely have to take your chances with him. Good luck with that, my friend.

Thing is, I know Nathan would happily take all of those chances with me. He’ll have me just as I am with all the hidden strings still attached. I’m really mixing my metaphors here. It’s not normal for a lover of literature like me to do that.

Maybe that’s what this true commitment and intimacy crap is all about. Wanting to let each other read our hidden pages, trying to explain the cryptic footnotes.

I really never, ever had that kind of a relationship with Thomas. It was all physical with him. Well, mostly physical. Certainly, it was gloriously physical with Greg. Then last year, I came scary close emotionally with Ethan. That might have gone somewhere if he hadn’t left to take his Master’s at McGill.

Tilley, he pleaded. Come with me. You’d love Montreal. There’s always jobs for librarians. Your French is good. You’d love the lifestyle there. You ever been to Vieux-Montreal? Tilley?

I told him no. Made up some lame excuses. But he could read the footnotes.

Commitment phobic. There’s no known cure, you know.

Nathan. You dear, lovely man. I know you’re wanting more with us. Some days I want more of us too. Much more. But there’s other days when it all feels just too much.

Tilley, I tell myself, let’s just keep us simple. No hooks, no promises we can’t keep. Simple. Oh, we’ll keep the sex, of course. I’ll always want some of that in my life.

With Nathan, we could have a life together. It’s not like we’re oil and water and will never really stay together, no matter what happens.

It comes down to this simple question.

Can I really share all of me with you?

Right at this moment, I think so.

But… what if….?

Readers Comment: 'Really nuanced and lovely - a delicate exploration of hidden worlds and contradictory needs. The device of Brian worked very well. Many thanks.'

'Thoroughly enjoyed this story, the doubts and hopes of a budding relationship. First class!'

'I enjoyed the way the biographies of Nathan and Tilley gradually emerge.'

'You captured the capricious nature of a cat delightfully. I also enjoyed the way your two characters saw things from different perspectives yet had much in common. Your unresolved ending is tantalizing and leaves the reader wondering how the story ends.'

First Publication: ‘Love Floats’ appeared in the UK on-line fiction magazine Fiction On The Web on April 10, 2017.

The Backstory: It's always interesting to me where my story ideas come from. One morning over breakfast, I read the back of a brightly coloured cereal box. The blurb described the 'Cheerios Effect' - a real phenomenon that happens when you put two round Cheerios into a bowl of milk. Almost like magic, they move toward each other slowly until they touch. And they remain that way until some greater force - like a cereal spoon - breaks them up.

I had been thinking about the early days of a budding relationship, but was unsure how to write about it. The Cheerios in my cereal bowl sparked an idea, and a story was born!

Legal Rights. ‘Love Floats’ 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.