Out of the darkness
And into light
We face a blank canvas
And call it a life
Our hand tracing lines
Adding colour here and there
Some of us choose to be bold
While some of us never dare

So how much am I bid
For this crazy life I've lived?
Do you find it too frivolous or too bleak?
Does it move you to tears?
Or does it look like wasted years?
This painting has cost me more than I dare speak

Lost in a city
Lost in a crowd
I don't speak till I get drunk
And then I get too loud
Your beautiful face
I have captured it by hand
But you denied me your heart
And cut me down where I stand

I have painted sorrow
And sometimes joy
But cocktails in a gallery
Won't bring back my boy
So I'll paint him from memory
From the time he called me dad
Some of us paint our mistakes
While some of us just go mad

(c) Frank Howson 2018

Painting by Frank Howson. 



The living are always under attack from the dead. As night follows day so do those of darkness target those of light and stalk them with words of hero worship when,  the truth is, the mere existence of those with a spark irritates them and they consciously or, in some cases, subconsciously,  work toward the extinguishment of that flame. Wilhelm Reich writes about this condition in detail in his book The Murder of Christ.

The people of darkness use many tools to bring down the envied. Negative rumours, stories that are unfounded in fact, and a whole range of politically acceptable words to discredit their target i.e., Narcissist (this applies to anyone who is successful in showbiz who uses social media to promote their latest ventures) because the fact that someone may actually be getting off their fat ass and doing something reminds the person of darkness how meaningless and unfocused their own life is; Nazi (it is acceptable in today’s politically correct world to call anyone with an opposing opinion this and get away with it. This is disgustingly outrageous and unfair to their target whose only crime may be to have an original thought, as well as, obviously, making light of what the real Nazis did). But let me not bring logic into this lest I be called names. Anti-Semitic is a good one too in some cases. I have even witnessed Jewish people being called anti-Semitic because they dared to have an opinion that didn’t sit comfortably with the party line. Such is the out of control world we live in where the militant wheel gets oiled first and the logical debate is not only not considered it is condemned. Here we have a perfect storm for the people of darkness to not only hide within, but thrive.

Bob Dylan has predicted for some time now that we have entered the end game. Anyone who has studied theology and the predictions of the old prophets would have to concur. In my opinion we are currently engaged in the final war between good and evil, darkness and light, and the shadow people are only going to get more and more hysterical as things don’t go their way. They are currently very confused as to why things aren’t going the way of the Polls. Could it be divine intervention?

It is difficult to untangle yourself from a person of darkness because they are cling ons – spiritual vampires sucking your energy. And the more you give them the more resentful they will become towards you. For even your kindness is an irritation. A reminder of what they are not. They will insult you by praising strangers and even abusing and opportunistic ex-partners above your efforts to help, give and support. This is to make you crazy and so confused you will cease to be able to function and end up zombie like staring out a window into the light that was once your source. Do not under any circumstances feed them. Let well enough alone. Danger and madness this way comes.

(C) Frank Howson 2017


The street was the same as I remembered it. And the birds swooped as if to herald my return. So it was true, I hadn’t dreamed it. For a moment I stood and took in the beautiful cacophony of noise that I’d never fully appreciated before in all its ugly glory. The sun came out to shine on cue and its warmth informed me that I had now entered a safety zone for lost boys.

How can you know a place so well and yet feel that you are seeing it for the first time? If this is a dream and I awaken now I will be angry all day. Maybe all days.

I continue moving on further into it until I reach the gate no one ever closes, and the narrow cement path  leading to the apartment block steps I once knew so well I could climb them in the dark, and under the influence of too much life. This time there seems to be a lesson learnt in each step and greater effort needed to conceal the weariness of the outsider.

Halfway up I enter the glow from the first storey window that conspires to shine God-like behind the statue of Buddha as if even the universe is welcoming my return.

More steps and more weary remembrances of lessons learned and I am at the front door, knocking in a drum pattern of whimsy and familiarity.

After an eternity of seconds the door is opened and I see your smiling face as I remembered it from a long ago carefree time. Bright, loving and kind. I can now die in my footsteps and not be lost to wander and wonder.

I enter and am surrounded by the comfort of the greatest books and music ever written. Each word and note a friend of mine. And I sit at the empty table. Alone no more. Everything and nothing has changed as I take my place amongst it.

You ask me how I am. But there are no words to convey the miracle of ordained destiny.

For in that sheltered moment, I am home.


(C) Frank Howson 2017


There’s a great scene in “Breaking Bad” where Walt White and Hank, his DEA brother-in-law, discuss the thin line between what’s legal and what’s not. And that even good people can topple over sometimes onto the wrong side of the line for the simplest of things.

Much has been made of Robin Williams’ on and off drug problems and struggle with alcohol, but I would suggest when he decided to end it all he was straight.

On October 28, 1919 – a date that will live in infamy if not the annals of stupidity – the U.S. Congress passed the Volstead Act over President Wilson’s veto and prohibited the sale of alcohol to the public. And what was the effect of that? It made gangsters like Al Capone very wealthy men. By 1925, in New York alone, there were, estimated, between 30,000 and 100,000 speakeasy clubs. The moral of the story? If people want something bad enough they’ll get it. Making it illegal just insures that you have to pay inflated prices for it and deal with criminals and underworld characters that brings with it its own dangers.

When Hollywood previewed the Brian DePalma remake of “The Untouchables” they found they had a major problem with it. The audience were rooting for Al Capone over the do-good law enforcement Prohibition Agent Eliot Ness. And why not? The latter was hell-bent on denying the public booze. So the studio had to shoot an extra scene early in the movie that showed Capone’s men placing a bomb in a store that wouldn’t pay protection money and a little kid was killed, thus turning the audience’s sympathy from Capone to Eliot Ness.

So, in those dim dark ages, if you knocked three times on a speakeasy door and gave the right password, you were let in to have a scotch or a gin or whatever alcoholic beverage you were seeking. Oh, and you were considered a criminal.

Alcohol was banned to stop people over-indulging. That’s like banning food because some people over-eat. I think it’s always a very dark and sinister act when the government attempts to control what should be, in a free society, one’s personal choice and responsibility.

I would argue that cigarettes have killed more people than alcohol. Why don’t we ban those? And how ineffective would that be? Again, we’d just give a lot of criminals a new business opportunity and make them a fortune. And we’d end up paying $100 for a pack of cigarettes.

In 1922, during the alcohol prohibition years, cocaine was also banned and thus another substance, that had been legal and freely available, was given over to the underworld to boost their pockets.

The celebrated Austrian psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud, himself a cocaine user, prescribed the substance to his patients believing it was a cure for depression and sexual impotence. In 1884 he published an article “Uber Coca” which promoted the “benefits” of cocaine, calling it a “magical” substance.

In 1886 it got a further boost when John Pemberton included coca leaves as an ingredient in his new soft drink, Coca-Cola. This new drink was also considered to be, ironically, a cure for a hangover caused by an over-indulgence in alcohol.

During the early 1900s, cocaine and opium-laced elixirs (magical or medicinal potions), tonics and wines were broadly used by people of all social standings. Notable figures who promoted the “miraculous” effects of cocaine included inventor Thomas Edison and actress Sarah Bernhardt.

By 1905 it became popular to snort it. By 1912 The United States government reported 5000 related deaths in one year due to an over-use of cocaine. By 1922 it was officially banned, which, when news reached Sherlock Holmes it probably resulted in his suicide by throwing himself off the Reichenbach Falls.

So, like alcohol, it was not the substance itself that was lethal but rather some people’s over-use of it.

Did you know if you drink too much water you can die from it? All we need is 5000 of us to do that in any one year and perhaps they’ll ban that too.

What I’m getting at is where does one’s own personal responsibility come into it? And where’s the line where the government intervenes into our lives and criminalizes something because some people are over-indulging?

I used to listen to a talkback radio guy in L.A who was a Libertarian. Their political philosophy upholds liberty as the principal objective. Libertarians seek to maximize autonomy and freedom of choice, emphasizing political freedom, voluntary association and the primacy of human judgment.

A woman’s debate about the right to abortion is that “it is my body and the government does not own it and anything I wish to do with it should be my choice and not theirs.”

Well then, it you want to take that debate further, and not that much further, isn’t it also correct that if I own my own body then I should be allowed to do whatever I want with it? Is it not my own personal choice if I want to drink a gallon of scotch, or shoot up heroin, or snort cocaine, smoke a carton of cigarettes, or my smelly socks for that matter? And if I’ve had enough of this life isn’t it also my right to end it? Surely it only becomes a matter for law enforcement if we are intoxicated, or high or suicidal and get behind the wheel of a car? Because by doing that we are putting other people’s lives at stake. People who have chosen to want to live. Then, of course, it becomes a concern for society at large.

John Lennon once had a hit with a song that said, “Whatever gets you through the night is alright…”

I try to get through this life attempting to be as non-judgmental of others as possible. Unless of course they steal from me or attempt to harm me. If someone is struggling and needs prescription drugs to get through, or need to self-medicate themselves with something that makes them feel better, what business is it of ours? My sympathy is with those that need it, and also my prayers. But to judge Robin Williams or Jim Morrison or Heath Ledger or Elvis or any of the millions of people out there is an act of arrogance and shows a severe lack of empathy for the pain they may be carrying. Perhaps those people who sit in judgment in their ivory towers need to come down and fuck themselves.

How do you end the drug wars and get rid of the criminal element in one swift and effective move? You legalize it. At least then there would be some monitor on exactly what people are taking and what amount. And perhaps if it is noticed that some are in such pain they are over-indulging then maybe some counseling could be recommended. But again, it would be one’s personal choice as to whether they accepted that or not.

In California now and in some other U.S. states “pot” is legal with a medical prescription. Have people gone mad with it? Of course not. They buy what they need to get them through the week and go home. Like buying a 6 pack of beer.

Cannabis oil has also proven to be a great help in prolonging and enhancing the lives of cancer patients.

Believe it or not Richard Nixon was the first President that believed drug addicts should not be treated as criminals but instead needed counseling. It would certainly free up law enforcement officers to focus on more important crimes, like people murdering each other. Or the next terrorist attack.

And besides, I would’ve thought the Government would prefer us all to be medicated anyway, so that our anger would be numbed to what idiots they are.

Anyway, just thinkin’ out loud.

(c) Frank Howson 2014



 “The Cave” opened in 1912 and was located in the basement of the Gruenwald Hotel (later the Roosevelt) in New Orleans. It is now believed to be the first “nightclub” in the United States.

From the early 1900s working class Americans would frequent honky tonks or juke joints to meet people of the opposite sex and dance to music played on the piano or a jukebox. During the US Prohibition years when alcohol was made illegal the night clubs went underground and were controlled by the gangster element. These clubs were known as “speakeasys”, the name deriving from the fact that the clientele had to know a secret word in order for the doorman to allow you entrance into the place.

The banning of alcohol during these years should’ve been a lesson to governments that the banning of any substance is futile as those who want it bad enough will always be able to obtain it. All it does is give the product to the control of criminals and make them wealthy in the process.

 When the Prohibition law was repelled in February 1933 the night clubs really took off in a big way. Such iconic venues as New York’s Copacabana, the 21 Club, El Morocco and the Stork Club went all out to set a high standard and capture their share of the market. Many former gangsters became legitimate businessmen and went after the night-owl market. Maybe they liked the feeling of power that owning a top night spot gave you. In those days the entertainment music was supplied by big bands featuring New York’s top jazz players.

In Harlem, Connie’s Inn and the famous Cotton Club were hugely popular venues for white audiences.

The success of this formula soon swept across America and then the rest of the world.

 In Occupied France, jazz and bebop music, along with the jitterbug dance craze, were banned by the Nazis who saw it as a decadent American influence. I guess they thought killing men, women and children was acceptable but having a dance and a drink on a Saturday night was going too far. The French, not known for taking no for an answer, took to meeting in hidden, secret basements. These places became known as “discotheques” and the music was supplied by playing hit records on a single turntable. Even in Germany the Nazis were fighting an unwinnable battle trying to keep music, alcohol and “decadent” social gatherings away from their citizens. Underground discotheques popped up in Berlin basements and were patronized by anti-Nazi youth called the swing kids.

 After the war, in Paris, a club named the Whiskey a Gogo set into practice what would become  the standard elements of the modern night club by laying down a dance floor, suspending coloured lights and using two turntables so that there would be no breaks between the music.

By the 1970s the disco night clubs came into their own and record companies began producing long versions of songs that were ideal for keeping the patrons on the dance floor. Some of the most prestigious clubs were outfitted with elaborate lighting systems that throbbed to the thumping beat of the music.

There also began a thriving drug subculture that chose Cocaine to enhance the experience of music and lights. Amyl nitrite (also known as poppers) also became popular as did Quaaludes which affected motor coordination and turned your arms and legs to jelly. Again, these illicit substances attracted the gangster underworld and they were more than happy to supply to demand and make fortunes from the trend.

The environment and drugs also fuelled rampant promiscuity and the new age of night clubs, heralded by New York’s infamous Studio 54, became cocaine-filled hangouts for celebrities.

 For the wealthy, they slept all day and partied all night. The scene became their lives. And, in some cases, their deaths.  In the words of the Danny O’Keefe song of the time, “Good Time Charlie’s Got The Blues,, “…you play around you lose your wife, you play too long you lose your life.”

(c) Frank Howson 2013



Jake Everson woke up one day in New Orleans and picked up the newspaper to discover he’d died the previous morning in Spain.

He froze. Suddenly the beautiful sunlight and noise of the street melted away. He studied the photograph they’d used of him – one when he was young and starting out – his eyes burning with ambition. Yes, it was him alright. He even remembered the photo-shoot and the female photographer he’d gone on to marry and disappoint. He’d adored women but had never found the right one, and now accepted the fact that he’d probably always be alone.

His hands started trembling uncontrollably and the paper fell from them.   He ran to the mirror and took a good long look at himself. He had lately avoided his reflection as he was having difficulty accepting himself as an older man. But there he was. Anxiety sweat forming on his brow and his lined face contorted and tense with the shock of his reported demise. A million thoughts stampeded through his head but all of them were rushing by too fast to grab a hold of. He looked down at the empty scotch glass from the night before and picked it up. He could see his distorted reflection in the bottom of it and his hand tightened with a mixture of panic and confusion, causing it to crack and smash filling his palm with the fragments of splintered glass. He opened his hand and saw he was bleeding. He studied this with the detached observation of someone numb with fear. He looked up at himself in the mirror again and wondered who had played this sick joke on him. Whoever it was he or she would pay. He was still a man with power. He could get things done. His name still meant something and in some circles so did he. No, he was not dead. He laughed at the absurdity of it all. Sure, his career had died many times in the past but he’d somehow been able to keep coming back.  A book here, a magazine article there. But, this was different, it was there in the newspaper. This said he was really dead. Finito. Gone.

Didn’t Will Rogers once say that the only thing he believed was what he read in the newspapers? Now, poor old Will seemed so out of touch with the current state of journalism. This was the era where they can say anything they want about you and mostly get away with it. Jake had for years sadly lamented the demise of objective reporting. Will Rogers lived in a different world. A world where they reported the facts and left the reader to draw their own conclusions. These days Jake could tell a reporter’s political leanings one paragraph into a news story. He also remembered the famous William Boyd case where a newspaper reported that Boyd had been charged with murder and printed a photograph of the actor William Boyd, our beloved Hopalong Cassidy. Trouble was, it was the wrong William Boyd and killed Hoppy’s career for many years.

Well Jake wasn’t going to take it. He was going to go down swinging. He’d have his lawyers all over them tomorrow, extracting a huge settlement and an apology. Yeah. It turned him on to be so forceful.   He rushed back to the bed, knocking over something in his trail without stopping to see what, and sat to re-read the article. Yep, he was dead alright. Well, as far as the press were concerned. This had to be worth millions. With a morbid fascination he read quotes from his friends and enemies alike.  Now, for once, they all seemed to agree that he was a great guy and an important writer. Jake smiled. One of those smiles you give when you are engulfed by anger and feel you can just smile it away. It was a joke, surely. That’s it. A sick joke. He checked the date at the top of the page to see if it was April First. But, no, it was still March.   He got an idea. He phoned the hotel operator.

“Yes Mr. Everson?”

“Ex-excuse me, but can you h-h-hear me?” stammered Jake.

“Yes of course, sir.”

“How do I sound?”

“Are you unwell, Mr. Everson? I can send a doctor to your room?”

“No…no…I’m okay. That’s right, I’m okay. I feel good in fact.”

“Do you wish to be put through to room service, Mr. Everson?”

Why not, thought Jake. I mean, if I’m dead I can’t be responsible for my debts right? He laughed. His humor had always gotten him through dire situations in the past. He was witty. His glib lines were famous amongst his associates. He’d joked his way through 3 divorces and countless lovers.   Jake spoke to room service and ordered 2 lobsters and a bottle of French champagne. Oh, and some caviar. Lots of caviar.   “It’s fun being dead,” he wise-cracked to himself, enjoying the joke. He’d treat himself to a feast worthy of a king, and while savouring it he’d plot the demise of the asshole who’d planted this bullshit in the press.

“Oh yes!” he muttered out loud, “That hack will wish he was dead when my lawyer gets through with him!”

Jake was good at revenge. Sometimes he’d held grudges for years. Sometimes those grudges got him through his life – hanging on, driven by the urge to have the last laugh.   Then a new dread set in.  His son Oliver would read this and think he’d be all alone in the world now. Jake speed dialed his son but it rang out and went to the message bank. This was all he got these days. First the public had lost interest in him. Then the publishers. Now his son.

“Oliver, this is your dad. Just wanted to say don’t read the newspaper it’s full of crap. Your father’s not dead. In fact, I’ve never felt better. Whoever is responsible for this will pay, so help me God. By the time Brent, Cowan, Zachman, and Garber get through with him I’ll own the newspaper!… Anyway, hope you’re well son…and having a good time. I love you. Bye…Oh, call me sometime.”

Jake hung up and kicked the bedside table. He was seething with rage. This is not the way things were in all the stories he’d written. He’d always tied things up. Clarified. Resolved loose ends. A final paragraph filled with hope, new beginnings. Now he realized why he’d become a writer in the first place. He had control over life in his stories. He was God. Well, actually a kinder, more caring God than the real guy. Everything made sense. Everything added up to something. Maybe that’s why they call it fiction.   He frantically dialed his agent’s number.

“Hello Marie?…Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Mr. Everson. Would you like to be put through to Mr. Craig?”   Jake sighed, relieved,

“Yes put me through to Jeff please.”

He waited for what seemed an eternity. His agent was probably schmoozing some new hip writer.

“Hello, Jake?” answered Jeff in an upbeat, friendly voice.

“Jeff, am I dead?”

“No, Jake, the reviews have been mostly positive.”

“I mean, really dead? I just read about my death in the morning paper. They even quoted you saying what a tragedy this was for the literary world. Listen, Jeff, if this is some practical joke or a sick publicity stunt to boost sales, I am going to fucking kill someone, got it? I’m Jake Everson! It’s not over till I say it is, alright?…Alright?!!”

Jake realized he was screaming.   There was a silence.   Then, in a tone he’d come to know so well, “Jake, are you okay?…Have you been drinking again?”

“No, not a drop since January. But it’s things like this that remind me why I drank. You need to get onto this newspaper publisher and read them the riot act. I want a retraction. I want an apology. I want compensation! Hear me?!

“But…” attempted Jeff.

“But fucking nothing! For the first time in your life will you actually do what I tell you?!!,” hissed Jake.

There was a deathly silence now.    Jake took a deep breath and tried to find a more reasonable pitch, “Listen, Jeffrey, I read the morning paper here and there’s a whole article in it about my…death.”

Jeff laughed, “It must be another Jake Everson.”

The air that rushed through Jake’s mouth and into the receiver convinced Jeff to change tact.

“Okay, okay, Jake…fine. But I need you to calm down. Let me call them and get to the bottom of it. It’s probably another person with the same name and they’ve done a William Boyd with it. Did I ever tell you the William Boyd story?”

“About two hundred times,” sighed Jake, suddenly feeling weary from the energy he’d dissipated, “They printed my photo, they mentioned my books, my friends, my marriages, the whole shebang.”

“What?! I haven’t spoken to any reporters about you. This is bullshit!”

Now Jeff was pissed, “Jake, you are not dead. You are speaking to me on the phone, alright? There’s obviously been some mistake and I’ll get right onto it. Trust me, I’m going to rip ’em a new asshole!””

“It says I died in Spain.”

Jeff then took on the tone of someone speaking to a child, “Jake, where are you?”

“New Orleans.”

“Alright then. New Orleans is not Spain. And it’s a fucking long way from Heaven, trust me.”

Jake closed his eyes as tears of relief welled up. He felt stupid about getting so worked up over this. What a fool he must sound like.

“Jake, have the front desk fax me a copy of the article and I’ll get right onto it.”

“Thanks, Jeff…sorry…I feel like an idiot but…”

“Don’t worry about it, my friend. As soon as I have the article I’ll phone the editor and he’ll be the one wishing he was dead!”


Jake loved it when Jeff talked tough. He’d had so few people in his life stand up for him.   Jake hung up.   He ripped the article out of the paper, stuffed some money into a pocket, and rushed down the stairs, not even waiting for the elevator. He told the guy at the front desk to fax it immediately and gave him Jeff’s number as well as a twenty dollar bill for his trouble.

“Yes, Mr. Everson, I’ll fax it straight away.”

Then Jake turned towards the open doors. There was some kind of parade going on outside. Ah, that’s right. It was Mardi Gras time in the Big Easy. The sound and movement of life. He found himself gravitating towards it. Next thing he was out on the pavement as clowns, men on stilts, beauty queens, brass bands and drunken freaks wearing masks passed him by. He pushed his way through the crowd but no one noticed him, there was too much else going on. He felt strange. As though he was looking at Life for the first time. He stared at people and noticed things that normally his busy schedule would have blurred. Most passers-by thought he was just another drunk. One alcoholic even wanted to fight him for some reason that only seems logical after a bottle of cheap scotch. Jake laughed uncontrollably. What did it matter if someone struck him? It felt good to still be here.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, a man in the way, amidst the sea of moving bodies. It was as though time had stood still. Maybe five minutes passed, maybe an hour. He didn’t care, he had plenty of time to kill. This explained why he wasn’t at the hotel when Jeff phoned to ask why he’d faxed an article about trout fishing.

Jake saw a boy with a kite looking skyward and laughing. The kid then let go and watched his kite fly towards the heavens, swooping and soaring like an eagle.   A homeless man asked for some change and Jake, uncharacteristically, took the time to actually look into the poor unfortunate’s eyes and acknowledge his existence. He even asked the man his name before emptying his pockets to him.   He passed a gypsy lady reading tarot cards and she screamed something at him but it sounded like a trombone and merged with the deafening passing cacophony.   Jake realized he was still in his pajamas but it was okay. No one noticed. No one cared. He looked down at his bare feet, now dirty from the street, and thought about his mother for the first time in years. Oh, how he suddenly missed her. A tear came to his eye and he wanted her to find him and hold him to her breast and whisper in his ear, “Now, now, Jakey, it’s alright…it’s alright.” Her little boy was lost. That’s all. But his mother was lost too. Taken by an unfeeling God who played with us like we were pawns in some bizarre game only He could make sense of. Did it give the Almighty pleasure to take a young mother from her little boy? If so, Jake hated Him. Come to think of it, he hated so many. Most of all he hated what didn’t make sense.

He made it through the moving throng and found himself in the middle of the road in some side street.  He saw a beautiful woman on the corner. She looked like an angel, young, brunette, exquisite features. The kind of girl he always lost his heart to in the days when he was young and had dreams.

“Hello!” he yelled.

She turned and fixed him with those dark, mysterious eyes. She yelled something back but her voice was drowned out by the brass bands and party atmosphere of the celebrations.   He couldn’t hear her. Nor the siren of the approaching fire-truck.   She was the last thing he saw before the blinding light.

He drifted, as he had done most of his life, towards this light. Yes, he guessed he was really dead now. Holy fuck. This is more like he imagined it would be.  It made more sense. He looked back down and saw what remained of a body. Momentarily he didn’t even recognize it was him. How could it be? This man seemed older than his years, and weary. How embarrassing, his bald spot was totally exposed and people were gathering. His once youthful handsome face had, in recent years, been replaced by a bitter, defeated look. That look you get from too many “no thank yous.” It pained him to see himself with such clarity. He turned away and looked up as his eyes adjusted to the light and his body felt a warmth that can only be explained as having a warm bath internally.

When he was finally totally engulfed by what appeared to be a white room he stopped floating, and a dark figure made his way to him. A man in a black bowler hat and a dark suit, or so it seemed. He shook Jake’s hand in the manner of a bank manager greeting a new customer.

“It’s alright, Mr. Everson, we’ve been expecting you. Sorry for the theatrics but we needed to get you out of your damn room so you could make our appointment. What you saw was a copy of tomorrow’s paper. You were very well loved y’know? – and will be sorely missed. But I guess you already know that now, huh?”

“But the newspaper said I died in Spain?”

“No, that was a typo. The editor was still hung-over from the festivities. There’ll be a correction in the later editions.”

“What about my son?”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. He grows up to be a very successful writer. Even more so than you.”

“Where is God? I have a few things I want to tell him!” hissed Jake.

The man in the bowler hat smiled, “Most people do. He’s heard it all before y’know but, if it helps you, by all means get it off your chest.”

Jake continued walking with this stranger towards the light and with each step seemed to feel more relaxed and accepting of his fate. All the anger and regret of his life fell away step by step. He was almost there when suddenly he thought about the lobster, champagne and caviar waiting in his room. He laughed uncontrollably again. The kind of convulsive laughter you don’t think will ever stop. He thought to himself that it was so typical of his life, and wished he could write about it. He then found his laughter had turned to sobbing. A bittersweet sobbing. He felt so alone. Why did he always end up alone?

Just then he heard his mother’s voice, “Now, now, Jakey…it’s alright…it’s alright…I’ve been waiting for you. You never have to be alone again.” And with that, she took his hand and together they walked. Just like old times.


(c) Frank Howson 2013