Sometimes I Write Things

Alexander with a Shovel

He rode through the ravaged streets of the war torn city, coasting along on his bicycle towards the prison in which he had once been held. The bombs had stopped. There were no air-raid sirens now, but the world was not the same as it had been. The only solace for him was that in the midst of this destruction there was peace, but even that was broken by the presence of the foreign soldiers.

Resentful women lined the road, shouting "Traitor!" as he passed, but he couldn't be bothered by them. There was not time for that.

He hopped down from his bicycle when his eyes met with the formidable walls of the prison yard, and he slowed his pace as he approached the entrance, what was left of it. He peered in through the damaged gates. The place was barren and empty. There had been so many of them there before — guards, soldiers, men... even the occasional visitor would come — but now there was nothing and no one. The guards had all gone when they set the last of the prisoners free, only a short time before the final flood of foreign troops had overwhelmed everything.

"Alexander!" a voice called from behind him.

He jumped, his heart pounding, and he turned his face to heaven, his eyes pleading with God for his life again. He drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled, telling himself to be calm. He was not the most popular person, but he had become keenly aware of the goodwill which followed him.

"It's me — Richie Mullens! Do you remember? We shared a cell there towards the end."

Alexander turned to face the man. It was the friendliest greeting he had gotten since he left his house. "Richie... you look awful."

Richie touched his scarred face and laughed with scorn. "Yeah... a shot through the cheek doesn't look too pretty, does it? But it beats a shot through the head. Messy, dreadfully messy business getting executed. I'll tell you—" he stopped. "God! You're looking for your family, aren't you?"

"I am." Alexander tightened his jaw to steel himself for what was coming. There was something in Richie's voice that told him.

"Yeah, figured." Richie's eyes dropped. "I can tell you what happened. The guards lined us all up, took their shots — mine missed, theirs didn't — and, like I said, a shot in the cheek is better than one in the back of the head." He paused, unable to look his companion in the eyes. "Alexander, I'm sorry."

"Can't be helped," Alexander muttered. His fists clenched around the handlebars until his knuckles were white and his fingers were as numb as the rest of him. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't remember how to. "Well, I should get home. I need to tell my wife that her father's dead." He jumped up onto his trusted bicycle again. "Thanks, Rich."

By the time that he had reached his house, his mind wasn't any clearer. Grief was taking its toll on him, and inside a pool of dark emotions swirled. He threw his bicycle in the lawn and staggered up to the door, which his mother-in-law opened wide as she welcomed him back. Alexander thanked her with pain pulling on his heartstrings.

His wife entered from another room to greet him, but he must have been wearing his emotions on his face. "Alexander, you look as though you've seen a ghost! What's happened?"

He shook his head. His mouth was like cotton. "Evony, I—"

The door flung open, interrupting the exchange. It was her uncle, Fredrick, who had come to try and help the torn-up family.

"My science! Alexander, you look horrid! I was hoping you'd be better. I was just visiting my parents — they're a predictable mess! No word on Francis or Martin. Can you imagine? It's been weeks!" He paused, his eyes wandering from person to person. "What did you find out about Rodger and Richmond?"

Alexander hesitated.

"It isn't good, is it?" Evony's bright blue eyes stared up at him with a deep sadness as though she already knew.

He wrapped his arm around her and drew her in close to his chest. "No, I'm afraid it isn't. They've both been executed."

A dark shadow crossed the women's faces as sorrow struck them, and tears began to fall from their eyes like tiny silver droplets. Evony buried her face in Alexander's suit jacket, sniffling, and her grief weighed heavy on his heart.

He kissed the top of her beautiful head. "I am so sorry," he whispered.

"They have some nerve not telling us! What was the point of that?" Fredrick seethed. "The war was lost anyway!" His face turned red as his eyes flashed with anger. "And what about Francis? Where is Francis? Why isn't he back yet?"

Alexander shook his head. "I wish I knew."

"He's my baby brother, Alexander! You have to tell me if you've heard something — anything!"

"No, I haven't heard anything. Don't you think I'd tell you if I had? Fredrick, he's my best friend!" His voice cracked, and he stopped himself from saying anything more. The rest was all unnecessarily morbid. He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. "A shovel. I need a shovel."

His wife composed herself and put her head up. "For the papers?"

"Yes."

"I'll fetch one for you."

Fredrick raised an eyebrow. "Papers?"

"Francis sent me some letters, notes for a book he was writing. He asked me to keep them for him. I... buried them in the yard."

"Smart. Book notes..." he shook his head, and his mouth kept opening without a sound. "My brother was a religious idiot, but that doesn't mean that I wanted him dea—" his voice gave out, and he placed his hand over his face as he wept. "Hang them all and their bloody determination! You're a pastor, Alexander. Is this how God rewards people for goodness these days?"

Alexander swallowed. His eyes stung and his heart felt as though it had been shredded. He wanted to cry more than anything, but he had to keep it all together for them. "Your brother would say that the whole world is dying and the only real life is on the other side of death here, anyway. Besides, we're saved through suffering. I don't begrudge God for his martyrs."

Fredrick scoffed. "We have to talk about your definitions, Alex."

Alexander shrugged. "Maybe, but I'm telling you — my mind's made up." Evony returned with the shovel, and Alexander received it from her with thanks. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some papers to dig up."

Fredrick lifted his gaze to the man with the shovel thrown over his shoulder, his eyes stained with tears. "And do what with?"

Alexander bit his lip and turned his sights to heaven. "Who knows? Maybe I'll have them published."

Fredrick rolled his eyes. "Yeah. That'll go over well."

Alexander shrugged. "It's a good story. Someday, someone might want to write a book about it." He looked Fredrick full in the face. "I might want to write a book about it."

Fredrick smiled. "You want to tell everyone about how my brother-in-law got his whole family killed trying to save the world from a bloodthirsty tyrant?"

"Sure. Why not? Murder, espionage, assassins, conspiracy... who doesn't love a good spy story?"

"Me, after this."

Alexander chuckled. "Yeah. Me, too." He sighed. "I think we're all overdue for a regular slice-of-life."