How many of you thought I'd be talking about aids? No? Me either..

No no, I was referring to my favourite lyrics of all time.Lyrics originating from the band coined "The Gorillaz"; found in their song 'Clint Eastwood'.

They are as follows:

..."The essence, the basics

Without, did you make it?

Allow me to make this

Child-like in nature.

Rhythm;

You have it or you don't, that's a fallacy.

I'm in them;

Every sprouting tree,

Every child of peace,

Every cloud and sea,

You see with your eyes.

I see destruction and demise;

Corruption in disguise,

From this fuckin' enterprise,

Now I'm sucked into your lies;

Through Russel, not his muscles but percussion he provides.

For me as a guide.

Y'all can't see me now 'cause you don't see with your eyes,

You perceive with your mind.

That's the inner.

So,I'ma stick around with Russ' and be a mentor.

Bust a few rhymes so motherfuckers remember what the thought is.

I brought all this,

So you can survive when law is lawless.(right here)

Feelings; sensations that you thought was dead.

No squealing, remember that it's all in your head."...

I just simply love them! The song in its entirty is a masterpiece, and rapping along with it for the whole song is guaranteed to pump you up and bring you to a thoughtful place in your mind, though it is easy to run out of breath(lol).

Any who.. the future is coming on so I must go myself. For you who have not heard this song, you will find it on the 'Feel Good Inc.' Album and they have it free streaming on YouTube.

He whispered in her ear.

"I love you my dear."

Then soon brought out a sheet...

Just when he almost started to speak....

She simply said with a loud tone,

"I do not like poetry!'

"You do not like poetry?"

This made him freeze in his tracks.

What was he going to do now?

He had to find a way to change her mind.

Her words pierced his heart,

Like a double-edged sword.

So, he began reciting to her anyway.

"Maybe it's not that you don't like poetry,

It could be that to you it is a mystery.

But if you give it a try,

You will be surprised exactly,

How much you end up loving it."

With that he gave her a kiss,

And made a simple wish,

That soon she would miss,

and long to hear poetry bliss.

All day, everyday at anytime.

Soon she would recite poetry while standing in line.

You don't like poetry. OK, that's fine. Whether or not you like Poetry, I'm fairly confident the Earth will keep spinning on its axis. You're a grownup now, and Mrs. Scott isn't making you do close readings of John Donne. That red pen has been out of ink for twenty years now, and you're a successful self-employed HVAC professional.

I'm using initial-cap "Poetry" because I'm imagining that, in your ears, Poetry takes on a single monolithic form, whether sonnet, haiku, or limerick. Am I hearing you correctly? And I wonder if you feel about poetry the way I feel about Spectator Sports. You see, I don't like sports, whether we're talking baseball, football, or pickleball. Truth.

Probably I feel even more animosity toward American football than you do toward poetry. Your dislikes are at least fashionable to Americans at large. I resent myself for not "getting" football, as it locks me out of so many socially-lubricating moments. Your taste is crowable from mountaintops and incurs no particular social penalties. Your pronouncement is followed by hoots of affirmation; my admission that I hate football, on the other hand, meets with soft grunts of confusion at best and evangelical outrage at worst.

Please, dear god, please don't try to explain football to me. I promise you it won't work. Better people have tried and it's always ended in tears. Afterward, I just ended up hating the game even more -- and with thirty fewer minutes left to live.

And don't worry: I won't explain poetry for you. It would just be rude, and you'd never get that half-hour back again. Nothing good would ever come from operating on someting which cannot (and, if I may, should not) survive the surgery, and poetry has never been something I enjoyed more for having picked it apart.

But I'm not dead yet, so it ain't over. I'm open to discovering new edges of my ignorance. Perhaps one day I'll venture back to the thrum of the bleachers. Perhaps from my seat in the stands, I'll hear the spiky loudspeaker, the garbled electronic of sound pecking like a pigeon at my eardrums, and I'll feel a not-unpleasant sizzle behind my eyes. Perhaps the smell of sweating hot dogs and the sight of pressed sunshine upon a slinting field of duotone color blocks will, through some sensory alchemy, combine with the scritch and shuffle of my seatmate's windbreaker to swoon me into a delicious moment of liminality, like a child at the apex of a swingset flight. And at that moment, though I could never tell you how, I might just say, Hey! I do like football!

And perhaps one day, from the time bubble of waiting-room boredom, you will spot a dogeared literary magazine and begin to flip its pages. Perhaps, to your shock, your eyes will alight on a phrase that evokes that early-morning scent of balsam fir, a scent that rips you through a wormhole and plants you in North Carolina, crunching gravel underfoot at your childhood summer camp. Disembodied happy shrieks dip like wrens, cut through by your best buddy's voice calling you from across the flag green.

If you are willing to let that moment be, if you will lift your nose and sniff and let the pine-oil memory rock you like a hammock, you will know something new. The moment will disperse like vapor, but you'll know. And you might even be willing, at that moment, to admit it.

No one saw you, and you don't even have to tell.

But you'll know then (if only then) that, in fact, you spoke too soon. For you'll see, though I'd never tell you so, that you really do like poetry.

If someone didn't like poetry, when talking with them, I would do so less verbosely.

I'd avoid descriptive words mostly, and adjust to bare bones phrasing, concise and tight with little personal tracing of my truer points.

I'd cry a tear for all that they miss, through their stiff opinionated limitations on what they are willing to take in and I'd not expect them to like me much.The way I see it this form of art is expression, which is not just a writing thing. Poetry is a way of life, but far be it for me to try to make someone else see beauty that's already right in their face, it's not my place.

I woke up to the smell of sea salt and the sound of my own pulse against the rolled up sweater I was using as a pillow. I peered blearily up from my hammock, unsure of what country or year I was residing in. An untouched sky stretched above me, the neverending stars so close feeling that I might’ve reached out and dipped my hand in them. My alarm began to screech again. As I shifted to turn it off, a lightning bolt of pain shot up my ankle and I remembered everything. Today would be my last day in Central America. Three days before this moment, my dad had called to tell me that he was going to check my grandma into hospice. Months before, she had been happily chowing her Milky Way chocolate bars, but now dementia had taken food away from her too. Two days before this moment, I had twisted my ankle in the forest. My screeches of pain attracted two Howler monkeys who looked down at me with what I interpreted as derision, but, upon reflection, was probably something more akin to concern. Late that night I woke up needing to pee, but I couldn’t drag my lump of an ankle fast enough and peed myself before I had even made it out of the campsite. A day before this moment I had tried not to cry in a coffee shop because the wifi kept cutting out before I could get through the process of buying a ticket home. The waiter approached me, asked what was wrong, and for only the second time in my life, I quite literally burst into tears. The velocity of the bursting was so great that my body was thrown back against the chair and a gob of snot may or may not have flew out of my nose and across the table, landing somewhere on the border between Canada and Alaska.

But this is Costa Rica, year 2016, I reminded myself, easing my protesting ankle onto the sand below. Five months of trekking had taken me from Antigua, Guatemala, to a free beachside campsite in Montezuma, a small town overflowing with pure life, or, as the local ticos call it, “Pura vida.” A town with an inconsistent population of backpackers, surfers, Costa Rican Artisans, and fire dancers fusing ballet and martial arts into their dances. The place was a haven of rivers, waterfalls, rainforest, and, yes, only one semi paved road. I dragged my bum ankle down the beach to say one last goodbye to the starlit ocean.

Feet damp and full of sand, I stuffed my hammock into my bigger backpack, wincing at the ever so slight smell of pee emanating from the plastic bagged shorts in it. I hadn’t been able to properly wash them since the shower I could do it in was a long way away for my ankle, which was at this time slowly deflating from cantaloupe status to grapefruit sized. My other backpack, which at one time had held ingredients for cooking in hostels, smelled of the forgotten clove of garlic that had fallen to the bottom and rotted, crushed to a pulp before I could discover it and fish it out. I slung one smelly backpack onto my back and let the smaller one hang in front of my torso. I picked up my walking stick, and limped towards the dirt road. I was going to meet my taxi driver in the town square at three am. He would take me to a bus leaving at four am which would take me to a ferry leaving at five. Two buses would follow before I even set foot in the airport. I tread lightly as I passed Yerson and Funky’s tents, my Costa Rican artisan friends. When I had arrived a week before, they greeted me with coconut rum, mangoes, and rapid fire spanish. Funky’s given name was Juan, but Funky fit him best. I wore one of Yerson’s bracelets and had a boa constrictor bone he had gifted to me tucked into a special pocket of my backpack. The night before, I had felt fluent speaking spanish with him on the moonlit beach about the stars, the ocean, my grandma, and, of course, the relentless mosquitos, or “zancudos.” Only I had accidently said “san culo,” meaning “Saint Ass.” He pointed out my mistake and we laughed until we cried.

When I made it to the road, I took one last look at the campsite, thinking of how it would look when the sun rose at five am without me there.

Montezuma is a very small town, only a few blocks worth of grocery stores, hostels, and restaurants. I was five minutes late to meet my taxi, but that was no biggie, because he wasn’t there yet. I sat down on the street corner and waited. My phone was running out of battery since there was nowhere to charge it on the beach. Checking the time at three fifteen, the screen blipped and it died. My uninjured leg started to jiggle, but I tried to remain calm. Customer service isn’t so high strung in Costa Rica. I had nothing to worry about, he was just late, pura vida am I right?After another five minutes I started limping between hostels to see if anyone had a security guard with a cell phone. But who needs a security guard when every single person in the town is asleep? And I mean every single person. The street was silent, empty as Yerson’s bottle of coconut rum. Yerson! But it would be a twenty minute limp back to camp, and even then, when it would already be too late, he might not have anyone to call. If I missed that ferry, I would arrive at the airport hours after my flight left. I spotted a few people sleeping on the floor of restaurant and saw this as my only opportunity. I chose one, a young tico who was using his guitar case as a pillow, and shook him gently.

He jerked awake and rubbed sleep out of his eyes as I explained my situation and asked if I could use his phone. His name was Pedro and he had one, but he didn’t know who to call. I didn’t either. The taxi driver had seemed so confident the night before. Or maybe it had been I that was too confident.

Watching my face fall, Pedro waited for me to speak, but I had no more ideas. He shrugged.

“Soooo….party?”

At the time, this felt like a slap in the face, but it was actually a pretty amiable reaction to a wide eyed garlic and pee smelling gringa waking him up at three thirty in the morning.

I shook my head, my stomach dropping. I paced a few steps and caught sight of something parked on the street.

I turned to him. “Is that your motorcycle?”

The passenger section of his motorcycle was missing a footpeg, so I would have to keep my right butt cheek clenched to keep my bum ankle hovering above the ground. I gave him twenty dollars of the sixty agreed upon to speed to the ferry. It was now past 4am. I asked him if I could hold on to him. He nodded and as I wrapped my arms around his skinny torso, something occurred to me. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.” He said and turned the key. The engine sputtered to life, the single headlight giving off sparks as it followed suit. We roared out onto the dirt road. I held on and tried not to move, even though my back was already pinching from holding my right leg above the ground speeding by below. I tugged my eyes away from the sparks flying from the headlight and tried to watch the stars. What would grandma think of this? She would probably laugh even as she scolded me. Though my dad had said she couldn’t communicate much these days. The dementia had taken her far faster than anyone had been ready for. Before I left for Guatemala, she had gifted her copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare to me.

“Don’t you need this? You love Shakespeare.” I said. She just shook her head and told me to enjoy it. Growing up, I had rarely seen my grandmother without a book in her hands. The idea of something taking that away from her was unthinkable.

“Whoa!” Pedro swerved with an unexpected sharp curve, laughing.

I clutched his skinny body and clenched my butthole until we were on safe, straight dirt road again. The near empty countryside zoomed by, but not fast enough. I felt the fist that had been clutched around my heart all morning squeeze tighter. The deep indigo sky began to lighten. I tried and failed to ignore it, then began to focus on it as if by mere willpower I could prevent the world from turning to face the sun. My ferry was to leave at five am, the same time the sun had been rising every day. As a streak of pink peaked over the horizon, I closed my eyes and prayed. Not to any god, but to my grandmother. I reached across the miles and imagined how it would feel to hold her warm hands in my own. Help me, I said silently. Please, let the dock be just around the corner. Let the flight be delayed. Help me, I thought, with eyes shut tight, help me get to you.

I opened my eyes to a sky alight with sunrise and a long road ahead.

The fist clutching my heart released. Speeding through those rolling hills, I lost everything. Pedro kept driving as I waited for tears that wouldn’t come. I let go of her right then, my book loving grandma, Miss Milky Way chocolate, the woman who baptized me in her own bathroom and called me her darling girl.

As I watched the sky light up through the canopy, I thought of the candles in my grandma’s empty apartment. Ocean Breeze, Tropical Oasis, and Balsam Wood. I fell into the sea and tree smelling air and the roar of the motorcycle.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into Paquera, rolling our way down to the water. The trees cleared for a moment and I saw one of the most beautiful things I have seen in my short life; the boat that would take me home.

Turns out my friends had been wrong. Due to a recent schedule change, the ferry was now leaving at five thirty daily. Pedro whooped as he parked next to the ticket booth. I threw my arms around him, saying “Thank you” so many times that the syllables began to run into each other. “Thankyou, thankyou!.” I said as I gave him the rest of the money. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” I said as I bought my ticket and limped on to the deck. He waved once, then began to roll his motorcycle around, back to Montezuma. I walked to the front of the boat and let my smelly backpacks fall to the floor. I leaned against the rail and watched the still rising sun trace the distant mountaintops. “Thank you.” I said aloud, closing my eyes to her warm light.

CHAPTER 1

Pasadena, California

November 5th

Chaos is fundamental, but the universe strives for order in rebellious fits. Like how every day, at the halfway mark of the Colorado Street Bridge, my heart begins to pound.

First law of motion: Every object persists in its state of rest or uniform motion in a straight line unless it is compelled to change…

I stop and close my eyes.

Second law: Force is equal to the change in momentum per change in time. For a constant mass, force equals mass times acceleration.

My chest constricts.

Third law: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

If only it were a Newtonian universe and not a quantum one.

I peer over the railing, and my heart beats faster as a familiar anticipation races down my spine. I know that for this one moment, everything is perfect.

No one understands why, but the urge to jump is natural—even if one has never had a suicidal thought. Some scientists think it scrambles the visual and vestibular systems. Others think the brain mistakes the fear for excitement, a rush of dumb adrenaline, but whatever the cause, it’s the one time a day I feel normal.

My phone vibrates, rattling against the metal guardrail, and I almost miss the call because I can’t remember the last time my phone rang. I fumble for it, frowning at the blocked number.

“Hello?”

“Ethan!”

“Christian?” I ask.

Checking my watch, I frown. It must be nearly midnight in Johannesburg. A stab of guilt twists in my gut. I waited to return his last two calls until I knew he’d be out on rotation because I just didn’t feel like faking, and now I’ll have to come up with some good excuse. And then there was his last email…

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” he asks.

“No.”

“Great. How’s it going? Found the cure for cancer yet?”

It’s impossible not to smile. Christian has that effect on people, no matter the distance. He always knows what to say to lighten the mood.

“I’m an engineer, not a doctor, remember?”

He laughs. “Of course. Still engineering lattes?”

I am, and I smell like a rancid baby to prove it. “Yes.”

The other end of the phone falls silent. I look out over the bridge, southeast toward Cal Tech where I studied for years before we met. A single sweetgum sticks out like a flame from an assortment of willow and pepper trees, a deciduous beacon of change in a sea of evergreen. My mother loved them, and I used to make fractals from the fallen leaves in our yard.

“Still haven’t gone back to school then I take it?” he asks.

I bite my lip, trying to force out the lie I can never muster, but it’s pointless. “No.”

My PhD advisors have given up trying to persuade me to return. I’ve been meaning to withdraw for over a year now, but somehow it never happens. I figure they’ll do it for me eventually.

He sighs, the sound like static. “You should come to Johannesburg.”

I stifle a bitter laugh. I swore I’d never go back to Africa.

“Been there, done that. We both know how it turned out.”

Christian curses under his breath in German. “It was a black goose.”

Goose…goose…

“You mean a black swan?”

“Goose, swan, emu, whatever. And you liked Africa aside from the war,” he continues doggedly. “Besides Johannesburg isn’t Congo, and we’ve an opening for an engineer.”

The offer is tempting. No one here understands why I decided to stop my research. Of course, they didn’t understand why I went to Africa in the first place when there were patents to secure and millions to make. But I remember looking down at a gun after things went south and wondering if Gatling ever regretted his invention.

I sigh. “There are plenty of engineers in South Africa.”

“Yes, and I’m sure you could tell me exactly how many.” He pauses. “But I want you.”

A muscle in my jaw ticks. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Who he’s asking for.

He remembers the old, driven, stubborn, single-minded Ethan, who walked on to his humanitarian team with the naïve swagger of someone of didn’t even to know where to start looking for a clue but was damn good at fixing things.

“For what?” I ask.

“You know,” he falters, “engineering stuff.”

He’s being intentionally vague, and it’s not like him at all.

“Now’s not really a good time.”

“Ethan. Please.”

Something in his voice triggers it, a quaver concealed behind a smile, and cold sweat beads on my forehead.

Sound always disappears first. Then the darkness seeps from my peripheral vision like an overturned inkpot.

All I can see is the first child who tried to kill me. The girl’s drugged out of her mind as her weapon levels on my chest. I hold up my hands to show I’m unarmed. I beg in a frantic mix of pidgin French and Swahili, but she doesn’t hear. Her voice is shrill with panicked bravery, its pattern echoing the percussion of the AK-47s.

“S’il vous plait,” I whisper, but the sound sticks in my fear-swollen throat.

She staggers, and her weapon sags. Blood blossoms from her chest, dousing the faded rainbow printed across her T-shirt in a final monochromatic red.

At night, I lie awake wondering what I looked like to her in those last seconds before Christian blew a hole through her heart. Was I a man, a boy, or some sort of cocaine and gunpowder chimera?

I went to Africa to build solar generators and water purifiers in North Kivu, Democratic Republic of Congo in memory of my mother because she had loved exotic flowers and the movie The African Queen. I went to Africa because I wanted to deny death and because I was a stupid American kid who needed to believe one person could make a difference.

One person can make a difference, but more often than not, he’s the final grain of sand that sends all the shit tumbling down. The war broke out, and I left a killer. Irony’s finger to best-laid plans.

“Hey, man!”

A dull roar floods my ears, and someone’s fingers dig into my arm, hauling me away from the railing.

“You ok?”

“Ethan?” Christian asks.

The jogger’s face is pale despite his exertion. I nod and wave him off, but he hesitates.

“Are you there?” Christian demands.

I smile apologetically and point to the receiver. Bad news, sorry. Thanks, I mouth.

They’re the right words. He sags and gives me a sympathetic smile. “Sorry,” he murmurs, clapping me on the shoulder before jogging on.

“Yeah, I’m here,” I say. It’s hard to breathe, but I refuse to gulp air like a lunatic. “Listen, Christian, I appreciate the thought I really do, but—”

“Please,” he repeats. “For me. And for you. You need a change of scenery.”

He’s right. Whatever this limbo existence is, it isn’t working. Plus, I owe Christian my life, and he may be the only person left who remembers the Ethan I was.

Still the words stick in my throat, and the silence draws out until he takes it for agreement. “I’m sending you the details now,” he says softly. “We’ll talk more when you get here.”

I swallow. We should talk now, but I can’t manage the words.

“I’ll see you in a couple days.”

Title: Cogito

Words: 95,000

Genre: Upmarket science fiction thriller

Market: Would appeal to readers of Blake Crouch, Elan Mastai, and Emily St. John Mandel 

Life's been yelling for you to come out but you got so use to it's scream that you couldn't even hear it's sound; your job, the Ax-Man 

Throw that lever and you'll feel it, right beneath your skin something ancient and primal awaits resurrection 

You tell yourself not to choke, and keep repeating it, to see you go through with this; you've got a living to earn so earn it

Hear the clock ticking down to 1 and then 0, next, a 'job well done' and you'll be going home a savage 

Nurtured a blind executioner that was probably born a killer, anyways, but now we'll never know  

What if none of this should have been but now you're an Ax-Man working and it only costs your employers my death so you can make a living

“16th October 2016

San Quentin Prison, California

Dear Stephanie,

I am not sure when, or even if, you will read this, and no doubt you will have heard about your Grandfather who was murdered on Death Row. Hopefully you will have heard the truth from your Dad, but he may have been unable, or unwilling, to have told you the whole tale, so I’ve asked my lawyer to pass this onto you after his death.

Firstly, I am sorry for your loss, when I knew your Father, my Son, he was an amazing man, strong, protective, intelligent, and loved you and your Mother without reserve.

Secondly, the lawyer who has given you this letter is now under your control, he has a handsome trust fund for you, and any of your descendants, hence the reason even (hopefully) so long after my murder you are receiving this letter.

Thirdly, you deserve to know what happened to put me into this awkward position, with my death only hours away, which I will go to with a clear conscience and my head held high.

John Callahan was killed, though not at my hand, by a single gunshot wound to his upper chest. If I’d have killed him then I would have made him suffer, not die quickly and virtually painlessly! It was your Father who killed him, using a gun that I provided him with from my collection, one that I’d test fired earlier that day, hence the gun shot residue on my hands.

Your Dad wore gloves and took my car with the sat-nav that I’d programmed. He knew when Callahan would be alone as I’d spent a lot of money on Private Investigators to learn everything I could about the roach. This information was also presented at my sentencing, and pushed it from life imprisonment to death row. I pleaded guilty to the murder, there was no need for a trial, and I’d been told the state wouldn’t press for the death penalty. I didn’t get that in writing, and my lawyer wasn’t present, so I was Shanghaied!

Anyway, back to Callahan, he was pure evil, he had no redeeming qualities. He was a violent thug, he ran protection rackets, he was a serious name within both prostitution and drugs, he was responsible for multiple murders, though never charged (I’ve always assumed he had half the police in L.A. on his payroll) let alone imprisoned.

But why did we care? Well, you may or may not know, you had an older Sister, April, she was 10 years older than you are. So at the time I am writing, she’d have been 14, 13 when she disappeared. Callahan took her and two of her friends from the shopping mall, he had people going around promising to help make girls models, but any that showed an interest were added to his prostitution rings in various different states.

April and her friends were taken, and as far as I am aware neither of her friends were ever found, though hopefully that won’t remain the case after my death. April was found 5 days after she was taken. She was naked in a ditch outside of Las Vegas, while her body had been partially eaten by animals, they were able to determine that she had been beaten and raped multiple times before being strangled.

I was a multi-millionaire, and I used this money to tear apart Callahan’s organization, piece by piece. The men who could be identified as raping your sister were put in prison (where they will have suffered significantly, again my funds ensured this), and many of the cogs were destroyed, but Callahan, he had to be dealt with by me and your Dad.

As said, my investigators found him, and your Dad pulled the trigger, looking him straight in the eye, and letting him know why he was dying. I told your Dad that he had you and your Mum to care for, and that I would take the blame. With my money, a life in prison would have been a very easy life. Sadly, that part didn’t go to plan, hence my counting down the minutes to my demise.

Even with my money, I couldn’t buy my way out of the death sentence, and I refused to let my beautiful son die in my stead. I ordered him not to tell anyone what had happened, particularly after my death, as he could be charged with the killing of Callahan (I will never say murder, he was put down like the rabid animal that he was) and also put to death.

I wanted you to know who I was, that I am an honourable man, that the killing that I took the blame for was just and the best for the world as a whole. Your Father, my son, was doing the right thing when he shot that beast dead, love him still.

Finally, I hope that you have had a good and long life so far, and have many more years to come. While I’ve not had the opportunity to share your life, I will, if possible, watch over you, always.

All my love.

From

Your Grandfather,

Gary Richardson”

The guard banged on the cell door, “Times up Richardson.”

Gary sealed the envelope and passed it on to his young lawyer, barely 25 years old, and seemingly in good health. Gary’s eyes showed fear of death, but he stood, greying at the temples, but still physically powerful, his voice still strong, “James, make sure that my granddaughter receives this when my son dies, and not before. It is not to be opened by you, or anyone at your firm. I have ensured a retainer for you personally to keep that envelope safe, and to allow you to keep track of my family. This is in addition to your firm’s payments, and the various trust funds. Protect my family.”

“Yes, Mr. Richardson. I promise.”

The men walked from the cell, James tucking the envelope into his jacket pocket, where it would remain for nearly 40 years.

Gary remained stoic as he was strapped down into the chair, and the lethal injections were administered, his eyes closing calmly as his breathing slowed, and finally his heartbeat monitor flat lined.

Thirty-nine years later

The car slowed to a halt in the rain drenched church carpark, the gullwing door lifting automatically, as steps emerged and an old man stepped out. His walking cane helped the man to balance as he walked calmly across the grass to the mourners gathered in front of the open grave.

James spotted Stephanie, dressed all in black, she was still a stunningly beautiful woman, in her mid-forties. She was stood with her husband and three children watching her Father’s coffin lowering into the trench. The remaining mourners started to leave the graveside, heading back to their transporters.

James walked steadily towards the five surviving members of the Richardson dynasty, the rain drenching his suit, the same one he’d worn at the last ever execution in the United States.

“Stephanie, I am sorry for your loss. I am undertaking one of my first ever instructions as a lawyer, and now my last before retirement. This is from your Grandfather.” James said, passing the old and yellowed envelope to the surprised lady, before turning and walking away.

Stephanie, opened the envelope, reading the contents, before smiling through her tears, cuddling in close to her husband, and pulling her three children to her.