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“Today’s main story – A bear has been sneaking into a bakery in Roccaraso, Italy, and eating the famous chocolate chip cookies. With more, here’s Maria.”

“Thanks, Steph. Yes I’m here in Roccaraso where the locals have been left with no cookies to eat with their espressos. The bear, dubbed “Il Cioccolato”, has been feasting on chocolate chip cookies at the local bakery. Hopes are high that he can be caught safely, and encouraged  to look elsewhere for his sweet treats. Back to you in the studio.”

“Thanks Maria! And now the weather with Brad.”

“Yes, Steph  – another hot and sunny day forecast today, the perfect weather for the Test match today at Lords.”

I flicked the TV off, draining the dregs of a bitter, gritty cup of coffee. Flecks of limescale stuck to my tongue.

I put my coat on, the thick wool still damp from the day before. My waxed hat was looking worse for wear, dubbin showing cracks around the seams. I tapped the dust filters on my mask on the inside of the bin, shaking loose some of the scum trapped in it during yesterday’s futile jaunt. Strapping it over my mouth and nose, I stepped out into the damp smog outside. Thick grey clouds smeared the horizon like greasy hand prints. The flicker of artillery bombardment sparked against the darkness.

My car was moist from the thin drizzle, rusting quietly on the road. Probably drier outside than in, at this point. And no petrol to fill it anyway.

I thumbed an earbud into my ear, and my favourite podcast sparked back up.

“Welcome to The Doppio for today, March Twenty Third.  We have some insight and analysis for the main story for the day, the latter-day Yogi Bear, 'Il Cioccolato'.”

She chases me around the garden, and I laugh. It reminds me of a better time. A simpler time. Playing kiss chase as adults seemed so frivolous, so joyful. It caught us up with things we felt we had missed. The twin desires, to be caught, to elude, replacing the confusion of our youth: why would you want a boy to catch you, anyway?

Chase is probably too strong a word for it.

It implies speed, which is something she no longer possesses, my love.

Garden, also, might lead you to imagine something which isn't exactly the same as the space in which this scene occurs, unfolding daily like a flower's petals.

Each morning I peer through the peephole. She doesn't rise before dawn, that much hasn't changed, even with everything else. I slip through the door quietly, but never quietly enough. She lurches awake, swaying unsteadily on her feet. She told me that as a cadet the instructors always said that a human being couldn't sleep standing up. She does, now. I back away, keeping close to the wall. Her arms aren't long enough to reach me over the rail fence I've put up around the oval space.

I jog around the edge of the space, careful to keep out of her grasp. I worry about her, but not like everyone else does. I worry that she is becoming clumsier, less mobile, even with our daily exercise. Each day she lumbers a little more.

Then her foot turns awkwardly in the dirt and she falls. Her outstretched arms break her fall, though not through any volition on her part. The left folds under her with a horrifying crunch, and she tumbles.

She tumbles, and she rolls. 

She rolls under the rail.

And suddenly, the chase isn't a game.

Some parents measure their children's lives in years, some in months, some even in weeks or days.

We measure his in increments of quarters of an hour. There are ninety six in a day. Six hundred and seventy two in a week.

A good quarter has no tears, not from him, not from me. It has no wails, so sobs, no croaks or groans. Our neighbours are silent, in the good quarters, but I cannot blame them when they are not. No squalling of alarms comes from the wall, no cables come unplugged. 

I hold his hand, or stroke his hair, or watch him through glistening eyes.

When he wakes, I feed him, measuring each drop of milk he can take as I measure each second I spend holding him. 

I sing him a song, though my throat is hoarse and my voice is like a corvid shriek. The songs I sang him in the womb. The songs I planned to sing him when he came home. The hymns he will never hear echo around a church or stadium reverberate from whitewashed walls.

At night, I rest my arm in his crib, his tiny hand in mine. His fist clenches around mine, and I stroke his russet palm. When I do sleep my arm becomes numb, and I jerk awake fearing he has gone.

The light blue curtain is drawn back, and the nurse comes in to make her observations. The flicker of light in time with his pulse, the red glow of the monitor on his finger, the steady drip of fluids overhead, the gentle hiss of the blood pressure cuff.

Sometimes I do not wake when they come. 

An iron claw of guilt grips my heart when I realise I have missed a precious fifteen minutes of his life.

The Crows and the Fox

A bird landed in a corn field. The nearby murder cackled and muttered. The loudest of the crows hopped over. She puffed out her chest and spread her wings.

"This field is for crows only," she shouted.

The new bird jumped back, startled. "But I am a crow."

"You're not a crow. I can tell just by looking at you. This field is for crows only. Now fly away."

The new bird tried again. "But I am a crow."

"You don't look like a crow, you don't sound like a crow, and you don't act like any crow I know" complained her accuser in her fiercest croak. The rest of the murder surrounded the new crow and mobbed her, leaving her corpse in the sun as a warning to other birds.

The next day the corpse was gone, and the crows were happy. Later, a new bird landed in the field. The murder sputtered and shrieked. The loudest of them flapped over, puffed out her chest and spread her wings.

"This field is for crows only," she screamed.

The new bird replied "but I am a crow."

"You're not a crow. Are you saying I don't know a crow when I see one? Now fly away."

The new bird was shocked. "But I am a crow."

"I can always tell whether a bird is a crow or not, and you are no crow!" Hearing this the murder surrounded the bird, pecking her to death and leaving her corpse in the sun as a warning to other birds.

The next day the corpse was gone, and the crows were happy. As the sun set, a fox strutted into the field. The murder cackled and hissed. The loudest crow approached the fox.

"This field is for crows only," she croaked.

Quick as a flash the fox snapped her up in his jaws, crushing her bones between his teeth. 

The Cobbler and the Tanner

Once, there was a cobbler who hated his neighbour, the tanner. He hated the smell from the tannery, he hated the noise of the comings and goings at all hours, and he hated the tanner's rude manner and ruder wife.

One day, an election was called for the town's alderman. A candidate came by the cobbler's shop.

"What can I do to win your vote?" he asked.

"If you promise to rid me of the tanner, I will vote for you" the cobbler replied.

The candidate happily agreed, and on the day of the election the cobbler cast his vote accordingly. 

When he awoke the following day, he could hear the city watch assembling outside and his heart filled with glee. He went outside to watch, and cheered happily at the tanner and his family were evicted.

Then the watchmen turned to him. "Now we must seize your shop" they said.

The cobbler turned to the alderman in fury.

"I voted for you because you promised to rid me of the tanner!" he protested.

"Yes" replied the alderman. "And he voted for me because I promised to rid him of you."