I create and destroy life in a single decision. People exist because of my need and want for them, but the second they are no longer needed or wanted; I end them. Universes come and go at will. One can contain brothers lost through time, while another harbours a serial killer that cannot be found by the law.

The eternal struggle of good and evil, light and dark, to be and not to be; I decide it all. Death is inevitable when your profession is being a writer. However the ability to control anything is the addictive part, right? Right.

     My slumber in a bed of ash ended when the ground shook beneath me. Groaning and testing my joints, I tried to inhale, but my lungs were assaulted by smoke and black soot. Coughs barreled out of me in fits as my chest constricted, but I had to figure out what was going on. The last thing I remembered was an unbearable heat scorching my skin. With a shake of my head, I got to my feet as quickly as possible, then began to take in my surroundings. 

     I was in the corpse of a once tall building, now consumed like a feeble pyre. All that remained were charred supports and parts of unidentifiable furniture. My thoughts came to a halt when the ground shook again, and this time it was accompanied by the sound of terrifying thunder and screams all around.  

     A low buzzing drew my attention to the sky, and my heart leaped from my chest. Dozens of birds made of metal flew above my head, but they were too large for ordinary animals. They looked rigid and dead and moved in such a pattern that only seemed militaristic. Then their bellies erupted in flames that came crashing down to earth and dropped what looked like iron barrels plummeting to the ground followed swiftly by what could only be described as deafening. 

      I soon realized the booms and claps of sound were coming from those barrels, along with blazing columns. People ran in terror, while others sprinted towards the infernos in an attempt to battle them. I began to walk out into the street, my mouth gaping wide as I looked all around me at the unimaginable scenery. From the columns of fire emerged a silhouette of a person, screams of agony and death escaping their lips, and that confirmed which direction I would be heading at that moment.

     I stumbled in the same direction others moved, but all around me, there were things I had never seen before. Chariots of steel and glass littered the street, but no horses were harnessed up to them. Looking closer at the buildings I noticed strange lights in them, glass spheres with no flicker of flame yet still bright like the sun. How is that possible? 

     Another whistling sound followed by a flash of light and an obnoxious boom hastened my pace, the ground littered with rubble and smoldering wood. Ahead of me was a tunnel leading into the ground, and a serious looking man ushering people into it. We locked eyes and he watched me as I approached quickly. 

     I cleared my throat with a small cough before ranting off my questions. "What's going on, sir?" My voice came out hoarse and rough, it felt like I hadn't used it in ages.

     "The German's are bombing us kid, so get your arse in the bunker before you lose your bloody life!" His shouts were barely audible among all the sounds, but the rise seemed appropriate given the circumstances.

     My head was flooded with even more questions, but only a few were important in the obviously limited time I had with this man. "Where am I?" This time I shouted back at him to show I understood the danger we were in.

     "We're in Bristol," a look of concern crossed his face and he gripped my shoulder tightly. "Young man, do you remember who you are?"

     "Of course," the question seemed out of place at that very moment, but in all honesty, I was the thing out of place. "I'm Adam Bellamy."

    A script I wrote in high school about depression. 

The events depicted in this script are serious and may be too much for some readers.

Please read with caution, and know that there are people that can help with tough times.

SCENE 1:

(Lights are out, Students are standing in middle of stage,

Sibling, Mom, Dad, Crush and Friend are all yelling

over-top one other, repeating the words below. One student steps out from behind the other. Students are dressed exactly the same. )

Sibling: You should have stopped me. (Repeat until alarm)

          Mom & Dad: You’re the reason he’s dead. (Repeat until alarm)

                    Crush: You didn’t care about me. (Repeat until alarm)

                              Friend: I’m gone because of you. (Repeat until alarm)

(Alarm clock, everyone goes silent, lights up on Student)

Students: Torture is the worst thing in life, and it’s my mind doing

          it. You can’t fight it, and it consumes you. Day in and day

          out, all of it - full of pain.

Hope: It isn’t all bad, you had family, love, friendship.

          What about all that?

Students: All of that? You mean the loss, the heartbreak and

          the guilt that followed it? Each day I’m reminded of

          my failure and what I should have done differently.

Torment: You’re the reason it happened. You were there

          for it all, and you messed up. You made the wrong

          choices, and now you have to live with them. Forever.

Students: But why are you here? Why me?! Please, just leave

          me alone.

Torment: I’m here so you never forget it. You deserve to

          be in pain for everything you did. Even as a child you

          couldn’t do anything right. You just sat there and let

          him leave.

Students: I was only twelve, I didn’t know any better!

Torment: What happened to him was your fault.

SCENE 2:

(Set change to Living Room, Sibling Enters)

Torment: That night was like every other night for you,

          wasn’t it?

Student 2: There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

Student 1: How was I supposed to know?

Shame: Maybe when he walked in, and the first thing

          that came out of his mouth was -

Sibling: You know I love you right?

Shame: And you just brushed it off with a -

Students: I’m not an idiot you know.

Sibling: I know that kiddo, that’s because I keep you in check.

          You wouldn’t be able to find your head if I wasn’t here

          to help out.

Students: (Sarcastically) Oh yeah, my super popular big brother

          is totally my saviour and I couldn’t function without him.

          (Seriously) What do you want?

Torment: He wanted to be stupid -

Sibling: I’m heading out with the car to a party. A bunch of

          friends need someone to be the boring parent of the

          group and I drew the short straw.

Students: And where do I come in?

Sibling: I told mom and dad that I was heading over to a

          friend’s place to study. I need you to cover for me and

          play along.

Students: What’s in it for me?

Sibling: I’ll take you to the next baseball game I go to. Maybe

even buy you a hat.

Students: Deal!

Shame: You should have said no.

Sibling: Twelve year old siblings always fall for that. And that -

          (Students and Sibling hug) Is why I love you.

(Sibling Exits)

Students: Love you too, numskull!

Torment: The last thing you called him was a numskull.

          How ironic.

Students: How could I have known?! He was sober. He knew

          what he was doing. It was the other one, the drunk driver

          that hit him off the bridge.

Hope: Exactly. You couldn’t have known. You loved him and he

          knew that. He wouldn’t blame you and no one else does.

          It was out of your control.

Shame: He left because you didn’t stop him. He died

          because all you thought of were damned sports tickets.

          If you’d kept him home he would still be around. But no,

          You just let him go.

Torment: Instead, you let your brother die.

Student 1: I couldn’t stop him!

Student 2: It wasn’t my fault.

Shame: How about what came next?

SCENE 3:

(Mom and Dad Enter)

Mom: Darling, we need to talk.

Dad: We’ve been talking a lot about it, and we think it’s time

          you knew.

Students: Knew what? What’s wrong?

Mom: Your father and I are getting a divorce.

Student 2: What do you mean?

Student 1: Does this mean we’re moving?

Dad: Oh no, no. You’ll be staying with me. No need for a new

          school, you won’t be leaving your friends. Your mom will

          see you whenever she wants, she just won’t live here.

Students: Why is she leaving? Aren’t we a family? Why does

          she have to go?

Torment: Are you kidding? You stopped being a family after you

          killed your brother. After you broke your parents’ hearts.

Hope: It’ll be okay. We can get through this.

Shame: Why are you so pathetic?!

Dad: It’s been a tough year for us since your brother passed

          away. We’ve tried to make it work, but it hasn’t helped.

          Your mom and I fight -

Student 1: You don’t think I can hear you guys? You two are

          always screaming, always mad.

Student 2: People fight, so what? What can I do to make things

          right again?

Mom: This isn’t something you can fix honey. Your dad and I,

         we just aren’t right for each other anymore.

Hope: That doesn’t mean you aren’t right for them. You’re still

          their child and they love you.

Torment: (turns on Student 1) They don’t love you! If they really

          did love you, they wouldn’t be doing this.

Student 1: I’ll clean more, I’ll do my homework.

Dad: You don’t need to -

Student 1: I don’t need an allowance, or a new stereo or anything.

Dad: Please -

Student 1: I’ll be more like him if I have to -

Mom: Enough! You have no right to bring him up like that.

Student 1: No right? He was my brother! I talked to him before

          he left, and I let him go. I could have stopped him. He’s

          dead because of me!

Torment: You drove them apart. You’re the reason they separated.

Hope: No! That isn’t true!

Shame: Are you serious? Can’t you see? You’re nothing but

          a screw up. You’ll never be as good as your brother was.

Student 1: Don’t you think I get that? They fought because he

          was gone. They left each other because I didn’t stop

          him. Are you happy with yourself? Are you finished

          with tormenting me?

Torment: Not even close. You’ve only felt the loss in your

          life. It’s time for the first and only love you ever had.

Students: Please, no-

SCENE 4:

(Set change to Hallway)

Shame: (In a mocking tone) It was like any other typical

          love story. You were 14, minding your own business, all

          deep in thought when you got bumped in the hallway.

(Crush bumps into Student)

          You get onto a knee to help clean their things up and

          you both reach for the same book. Your hands touch,

          you meet each other’s eyes, and all they say is -

Crushes: Hey.

Shame: And all you can muster up is a -

Students: Hey.

Crushes: I - I’m sorry I bumped into you.

Students: No it’s fine, really. Honestly, I should have been

          paying more attention.

Crushes: More attention to what?

Students: Well, more attention to you.

Crushes: (Flustered) I - I should get to class.

Students: Will I see you around?

Crushes: (Pauses) If you pay enough attention.

(Crushes smile and Exit)

Student 1: They stole my heart right then and there.

Student 2: I met them in the hallway all the time after that.

Students: Sometimes we’d talk about the day. But sometimes

            we just -

(Crush Enters)

            Payed attention.

Shame: They consumed your life, that’s what they did.

Student 1: (defensive) It wasn’t like that.

Student 2: We fell for each other.

Hope: You mean like your first dance, that slow song

           and the moment was just perfect?

Student 2: (happily remembering) Or our first date

          when I gave her flowers. She loved them.

Hope: (smiling) And we won’t forget that night under the tree,

          little fireflies moving through the branches.

Crushes: I wish it could be like this forever. Just you and me,

          here.

Students: I’d like that.

Crushes: Thank you.

Students: For what?

Crushes: For paying attention. 

(Student and Crush kiss)

Shame: But that’s just it, you didn’t. You didn’t pay

          attention to how they felt or what they needed. Your

          constant complaining about your brother and how -

Students: He died....

Student 1: And it was my fault.

Shame: Or your parents and how -

Students: They split up...

Student 1: because of me.

Shame: You needed people to pity you. But who wants

           someone that is constantly whimpering like a wounded

           dog? You drove them away.

Hope: Don’t forget how happy you two were. Even through the

          pain, joy came too. The time you had with them was

          special.

Shame: You don’t deserve to be happy after everything you’ve done.

(Crush Exits)

Students: I thought they understood me. I trusted them and tried

          to be open.

Torment: You threw your pain onto them. All your faults and

          flaws. You’re so messed up, no one could love you.

Hope: No more of this, please.

Shame: You let them down. And they aren’t the only one.

Students: Anything but this -

Shame: You also let down the one friend that ever

          stuck around.

SCENE 5:

(Set change to Dirty Living Room)

Friend: I’m here for you, you know.

Students: What am I going to do now that they’re gone?

Friend: You could spend more time with me. I mean, if you

          want to.

Students: All I want right now is them back.

Friend: Oh. Well, yeah -

Students: Like what can I do? I lost the only one that cared

           about me. They were the only person I cared about.

Friend: What about me?

Students: You don’t count, you’re just a friend.

Friend: I have feelings too you know.

Students: But what I’m feeling is worse. I’m alone and in pain.

Friend: And how do you know that’s not what I’m feeling too?

Torment: Can you believe this? He’s too worried about himself

          to think about your pain, your feelings.

Students: You always have to make everything about you, don’t

          you? If you love attention so much, jump off a bridge.

           That’d help.

Friend: That’s been on my mind lately.

Students: Then what are you waiting for? A going away party?

Friend: A friend to talk me out of it...

Students: Well there aren’t any around here.

Friend: I get that now.

Hope: Stop! You're hurting and lashing out.

Student 2: Hey wait! I’m sorry, I’m just having trouble right now.

          What’s going on?

Friend: I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. I…. I’ve just been

          struggling a lot with things at home..

(Students group back up, Friend Exits)

Shame: You pushed your only friend away. Pushed them

          over the edge. Literally.

Hope: They didn’t know!

Shame: What didn’t they know?

Hope: That they were serious…

Torture: So what?! You don’t tell someone to kill themselves.

          It isn’t right. They may even go through with it because

          of you.

Student 1: I wish I could take it back -

Shame: But you can’t, can you?! You told your friend to

          die, and they did it.

Student 1: I’m sorry!

Torture: It isn’t us you should be asking for forgiveness.

SCENE 6:

(Clear set)

Students: I didn’t mean to ignore you, I - I was just so caught

           up in everything that was happening. I’m so sorry…

Sibling: (Sibling Enters, tattered clothing and bloody) Hey there,

           Kiddo. Miss me?

Students: Please let it end, I’ll do anything.

Sibling: Something you could have done, was save me. But

          you failed at that. All you wanted were sport tickets, and

          a stupid hat. Well here - (Throws baseball hat) At least I

          keep my word.

Students: I don’t want a hat. I just want to be a family again.

Mom: (Mom and Dad Enters) You mean the family that you

          drove apart? The people that were there for you and you

          just messed everything up for us?

Students: I didn’t mean to drive you two apart, I should have been

          a better child.

Crush: You should have been better at a lot of things. Under-

          standing other people, not trying to make them pity you -

Friend: Actually caring about your friends. At least the ones

          you don’t make commit suicide. But we’re just friends, we

          don’t count. Isn’t that right?

Students: I didn’t mean it like that!

Shame: It doesn’t matter how you meant it. What you did

          caused these things to happen. Your choices in life, what

          you say and what you do, can save or ruin lives. You just

          chose to ruin them all.

Students: I’m sorry!

(Everyone begins to get louder,

Characters move closer to the student)

Sibling: You should have stopped me. (Repeat until alarm)

          Mom & Dad: You’re the reason he’s dead. (Repeat until alarm)

                    Crush: You didn’t care about me. (Repeat until alarm)

                              Friend: I’m gone because of you. (Repeat until alarm)

(Alarm clock, everyone goes silent, 

lights out except on Student)

Students: Torture is the worst thing in life - and it’s my mind doing it.

(Lights out)

END

To be deaf in a world without sound,

Is it deaf, or merely profound?

The birds chirp and the wind blows,

Though nobody hears it, no one knows.

A wave on the shore can crash,

Swords can swing and slash.

Sprinters can leap and dash,

Lightning can strike in a flash.

What does it mean in a world without sound,

To be deaf whilst walking around?

In the end, my inexperience probably shows,

For silence is never heard when reading the words of Prose.

          The port was trickling with few people as the merchant ship lowered its sails. Life flowed off the deck beside me, goods being dropped off at the port. It was an important place in my stops of adventure, a settlement positioned on the crest of Cape Cod Bay. I say this because of what happened there, and how it changed my life forever.

          The bag on my shoulder contained my only belongings; a few pieces of clothing, a pouch full of shillings and other forms of currency from docks The Britannia had stopped at, and Eric’s letter to me. My coat flapped in the afternoon winds as I took a step onto the docks of Provincetown. I had retired from the Royal Navy, my 25th year on this earth sparking a need to see the world for what it really was. I was now a mere commoner, my service over.

          I asked one of the shop owners about a place to drink and look for rest, and was given directions to the town's tavern, so I made my trek there. Cobble streets marked my path, carriages and carts moving alongside me. The sun fell lower in the sky, most shops closing up as the vendors went home to eat with their families.

         The town was very different compared to Hittisleigh in England. Provincetown was cleaner, for starters. Even the few stray dogs I had seen around were healthier than Scotch during his life. Flickering flames illuminated the streets and buildings in an orange glow, the wick and embers kept safe in their glass lamps high upon black poles of metal. The evening sun dipped lower as time passed, Provincetown shifting from a pearl-white spectacle into dark alleys and shifty characters roaming around.

          I noticed the tavern from a few buildings away, its familiar music dancing through the air and drunken sailors flowing in and out the door. Outside, clearly reached his limit of drinks, sat an elderly man mumbling about his past glory. He rambled about cannon fire and sword fights, strange tales of vanishing ships and undead crew. I laughed and left him to his stories, and entered the tavern doors.

          The ballads of music intensified, engulfing me as I entered. Sailors and young men filled the building, looking to relax and have a good time. A corner of the crowd caught my attention: men throwing daggers at a board and betting on their accuracy. Naturally, I was drawn to that corner. Gambling was my one and only vice, and it beckoned me like a moth to flame. It wasn’t long until the crowd of people within the tavern watched in awe at my talents and skill. One after another, men would step up and challenge me. Not long after, they’d leave the tavern with empty pockets and a sour expression on their faces.

          One poor soul couldn’t even hold the dagger properly, his feeble hands shaking in anticipation. His voice was hoarse and high, a shrill pierce through the tavern’s joyful ruckus. “Good evening sir,” his shaken voice matched the twitching of his hands. As they shook more, his speech broke with it. “I go by Mr. Williams, but my friends call me Palgrave.” He outstretched his hand in an attempt to greet me. “What do they call you?”

          I smirked, took his hand and shook it. Then my hand snatched the dagger from his clumsy grasp and whipped it towards the target, the tempered steel making a soft whistle as it flew through the air and penetrated the wooden board. “Samuel Bellamy.” My voice came out strong and hearty, easily heard throughout the tavern. There were glances of admiration and also fear. The tales of my service in the English Navy must have fluttered to America based on the way these sailors looked at me.

          “Well Mr. Bellamy, I have a proposition for you,” Palgrave began to ramble on about looking for a crew without a purpose to aid him in finding adventure. I continued to throw daggers while giving him only a portion of my attention. “You see, I’ve reached the age where want to actually live my life. I want to find a treasure lost to most and become renowned for-.”

          I scoffed, my attention now fully on him as the final dagger left my hand and pierced the board right next to the others. “You speak of piracy. Are you sure that’s the life you want?” I looked into his eyes, curious to see what I could find out about his determination. “It’s bloody, and reckless, and probably damn well get you killed.” He took a gulp of air, then sent his head into a feverish nod. Suddenly, through the crowds of sailors and wenches, a door had swung open to reveal the kitchen and a young woman working within. She was washing the dishes, her bronze hair tied back with the occasional curl falling around her face. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, and her eyes were a deep blue like the ocean waves at night. The door closed and all other sounds around me were cut out.

          I began walking towards that door, an urge I had never felt before pushing me to see that girl again. A hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back to reality and where I was. The burly hand belonged to the large man that had sat close to the door of the tavern. Scrawling ink traveled along his biceps like waves crashing against a shore. His eyes pierced my thoughts in a way I had not seen in a long time. “Commoners aren’t allowed behind the bar, ’les you want to start something?” His voice reminded me of thunder before a harsh storm.

          “I’m looking for the name of that stunning beauty in the kitchen,” I returned, my voice easily weaker in comparison to his. “Do you know her?”

          His laugh boomed over the crowd, at which point they had dulled their noise and music to watch this event unfold in front of them. “Know her?” His eyes bore into me, and the grin on his face was replaced by a gnarl of teeth. “She’s my daughter.” His size grew as it dawned in my mind how much of a fool I had made of myself. What kind of man would want his daughter to know a sailor that throws daggers and gambles? “Now I think it’s best you leave my tavern, and keep a safe distance away from her. Understand, boy?” His large arms unfolded from in front of his chest and an index finger was firmly shoved at my chest, pushing me hard enough to make me take a step backwards.

          “Yes sir, I understand,” I returned to the table where I had placed my coat and hat, adorned them, and then walked back to the gentleman at the door. “Good evening, and goodnight.” I bowed my head as I passed, not sure what else I could do in the situation. If I fought the man, I certainly wouldn’t get to meet the beautiful girl I saw. So I merely walked away, not resorting to violence. The door swung shut behind me and the music went back to its booming ways, my presence not missed. 

           Outside, the elderly man was fast asleep on the ground. His stories had been replaced with snoring and a soft whistling from his nose. I tilted my head up, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. After letting it all out, I opened my eyes and looked up at the night sky. After ten years of sailing, I knew each constellation off by heart. Turning slightly to the right, I saw the dragon rearing its head up in the sky. I could spot Orion and the two bears within the stars, each there for a purpose. They mesmerized me every night, especially tonight. I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts, I didn’t hear her walk up to me.

     Everyone has that one pleasant memory, something that promises escape and freedom. In the life I lived, my only positive memory was a blade piercing into my heart. That cold, slim steel pushed passed my skin and severed my heart in two. Its beating continued for a few more seconds, then ebbed to a stop. I was dead, and I had finally escaped my worst nightmare.

     I grew up in a run down town, with decrepit buildings everywhere. Going day to day, not knowing where the next scrap of food wound come from. It was hell, and the only thing I ever knew. Until death brought me peace. I got away from hunger, from sadness and pain and hatred. All that was left, was me. 

     In the end, my Utopia was made with my last breath.

The Official Record of the Fall of Egypt’s Last Queen

She was not much changed since we had last met. She was still a slight woman, though a little thicker around the middle. Her hair was mostly as black as could be, but now there were strands of grey interwoven. I assume she wore wigs to cover this during public viewing hours.

I surveyed the room.

The bed was unmade. The sheets were rumpled, as though recently occupied. Beside the bed stood a heavy night-table, carved from mahogany and edged in gold. Upon it sat an uneaten breakfast displayed on a solid gold serving tray. The shades were drawn, blocking most of the light and barring the salty-sweet ocean breeze from freshening the room.

There was something else.

A well-lit desk in as disorderly a condition as the bed: Papers, scrolls, pens, a half-eaten hunk of bread next to a pomegranate fruit, and several empty ink-wells. And, naturally, her seals.

My eyes snapped back to her face.

She wore no emotion, betrayed nothing of her thoughts. But I knew she had noticed that I had noticed. To whom was she writing?

She was dressed in a sleeping shift and a short-sleeved silk bed-robe with subtle gold embroidery in a simple looping pattern around the end of the sleeve. There were pearls in her ears and jewel-inlaid sandals upon her feet, but otherwise she was unadorned. Her hair was matted and uncombed; she wore no cosmetic or perfume.

So…she had strength enough to compose letters and to see over the numbers in the exchequer…But, not enough to receive another official in state! I had provided her with her wardrobe, her cosmetics, wigs, and her jewels; with her diadems and certain of her insignia (not her seals- how had she found those?); with her women, even her eunuch! All to see to her utmost comfort, to help her feel less a prisoner in what was so recently her palace.

Instead she made mischief, seeking to extradite herself somehow. A wasted effort on a useless venture.

“Cease menacing yourself.”

Her chin came up. Queens are generally unaccustomed to being commanded.

“See to it that you eat, bathe, and quit harming yourself.” I gestured to the open welts and bruises across her chest and arms.

“See my grief manifest!” She beat a fist across her chest. “And these,” she drew her sleeve back, though it was short enough to see the dark, black-purple across her wrists, “are where your men roughly handled me, Queen of Egypt!” She snorted. “Though not any longer in your estimation, I fear. I am widowed, dethroned and told nothing of my children, their well-being- all in the same day.”

The Greek slave-girl went to her queen. “The noble, and gracious, Imperator,” she looked up and into my eyes, “speaks true. You must eat!”

The Nubian was at her queen’s opposite shoulder, nodding her agreement with downcast eyes.

Yes, yes, it was decided. She must eat. Meanwhile I had pressing matters to attend to.

“As you know, it can be a treacherous voyage to Rome. You will need your full strength.”

“Lest I expire before the time of your well-earned triumph! Lest you be forced to dip into your new-found treasury to commission a half-way passable wax replica! Believe me; I know.”

How she goaded me. To say such a thing, so surely to be repeated against me. In truth, I hadn’t just yet decided what I was going to do with her. Naturally, she would accompany our entourage back to Italy. It was customary treatment of enemies to Rome, but would she remain our enemy? That would be up to her.

Meanwhile, I would meet her challenge.

I fixed my eyes to hers, and held her in a deep stare. I looked hard, attempting to find that which so captivated great Roman men before me. That which made men mad, left them to blindly cast away reason. I failed to find it.

“Indeed so, Cleopatra.” I hissed her name through cold lips. It was so low a whisper that only she could be sure of what was said.

Her throat bobbed despite her efforts.

“It is a matter of days,” I said, to her, and now to all of our audience. “Make yourselves ready. I will suffer no delays for lack of planning.”

She nodded solemnly. “As you will it. My people will be ready…” Then her face changed. Her eyes went wild. “But what of Selene?! Alexander?! Where are-”

“They are comfortable, rest assured. Philodelphus, as well,” I added. For all her pestering over her bastard, the pretended son of Caesar (every Roman knows Caesar could father no children!) she only now asked after her litter by Antony! And forgot the youngest, at that.

“May I see them?”

“You may.”

I would grant that request, but only under the chaperone of an armed Roman guard…or six.

I did not wish to make nice with the Egyptian queen as a form of afternoon pastime. There were finance reports to overlook, soldiers to rally, dispatches to sign and send. I had not yet visited the Tomb of Alexander or the famed library. I was finished here, as far as I knew.

I nodded to my men who nodded back at me. “We take our leave of you, most excellent Cleopatra. Well met.”

These were our last words.

I turned abruptly and withdrew from her apartments. My general’s cloak, deep plum, swirled in triumph behind me, like the flag representing a new order.

I would not see her alive again.

I received a letter from her the very same evening of our fateful audience. I was not alarmed by her letters, for she sent several every day since I had arrived. I was weary as I read, but nothing hinted at what she was about to do. She was asking permission to hold a customary funeral banquet in honor of her late husband. This would be in accordance with the Egyptian rites and traditions; which she, though Greek, had always felt duty-bound to observe, as the incarnation of Isis herself. In fact, it had come to be that she fully embraced these rites as her own.

Such grim practices, I thought at the time. No wonder these Easterners lost wars; they lived as though they were already dead so that any victory gained while alive was of no great importance to them. Ultimately, it would be very politic of me to grant this minor favor to her.

Dare anyone say I was merciless toward her! I granted very nearly every of her requests. By whose authority did she have access to her notes and state documents? Mine, of course. Who saw to it there was plenty of food and wine to fortify her body? She chose not to partake. Who allowed her companions to stay with her, for solace and comfort? Who granted her many hours to spend with her small children?

Benevolent Imperator, indeed.

Days later another letter came into my hand. We were set to sail for Rome two days hence. I broke the seal on the scroll, royal, but not complete for I had confiscated the other and she could no longer send any official documents without it. On this day I had no premonition. There are no premonitions fit for the dread Cleopatra. Truly she was capable of anything, never failing to surprise.

This letter was peculiar, even for her. I noticed there was no preamble. None of the requisite obeisance and lengthy introductions. The Egyptian queen was fond of these. They allowed her to celebrate her divine, royal heritage, while keeping the reader on the lookout for the first actual word of import. In any case, all I saw here were names and figures corresponding to them. Some of them were dated, for years ahead in the future. Odd. Yet, it was written in her own hand.

How strange…

Then I knew.

I jumped to my feet, fumbled for my cloak and called to my men: “We must go to the queen’s tomb. Immediately.”

It was a short walk. We were there in minutes. A path was cleared through the crowd, already gathering for news spreads like plague in Alexandrian palaces. I entered.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness and I was guided by torch-bearers to the grave tableau.

She was at the farthest end of the antechamber, dead. I approached her unflinchingly. There is nothing to fear of a dead enemy. I bent over her so that we were nose to nose. Her eyes were closed, which I’ll admit was a blessing. Her lips were pulled back in a serene, radiant smile. Had she been pleased with herself, then? Perhaps I was, too.

She lay atop the lid of her own elaborate coffin, dressed in her finest gown and jewels. Her arms were folded across her chest, her hands holding her insignia, like the pharaohs of old. She looked truly a prince.

“No Rome for Cleopatra,” I told her. “Cleopatra shall remain in Alexandria.”

It was better, after all- for her, and for Rome. Especially for Rome. Experience had taught us that no matter who was involved, or where the scenes played out, Cleopatra only served to divide men and country.

“The queen’s physician!”

A slender man, who appeared neither young nor old, was making his way through the assembly. I took a step back and observed him as he handled her body. Her bent her elbows, fingers, and examined her skin by pressing and poking, especially around her throat. He opened her gown to feel her chest and stomach. Lastly he stuck his index finger into her mouth and why? I could never have known. Medicine in Alexandria was experimental at times. All the while this man kept his expression professionally blank.

“The queen is dead.” He was apologetic when he finally spoke, wringing his hands anxiously, with eyes that looked everywhere except at me.

“Dead?” I repeated. “Quite so.”

I had heard this physician was a sensible man. Perhaps he felt I would descend my great “wrath” upon him now that Cleopatra was beyond any and all ministrations. Well, save for embalming…but why should I? He had been left out of her grand design. Possibly because the queen intuited he would never help her take her own life. I could not fault a man for such ignorance.

How was it done? Poison. By the bite of an Egyptian cobra, whose venom is said to secure immortality; favor from the gods.

I learned all I needed to know from her fat eunuch. Not there, of course, within the tomb, having quit that charnel house immediately following the physician’s prognosis. I learned all of this later, after interviewing her remaining attendants, including both the eunuch and physician themselves.

She had planned this carefully, going even so far as to procure the cobras before I even entered Egypt. On the evening we seized Alexandria, Cleopatra was apprehended in her mausoleum. She meant then to take her own life, but, in her confusion and grief over Antony’s own suicide, she failed to act quickly enough.

My men went in and out, back and forth through the mausoleum, between the fall of Alexandria and Cleopatra’s eventual suicide. Yet, they always over-looked this inconspicuous basket of figs in a darkened corner concealing lethal vermin. At some point after we talked she must have remembered them, hiding them there weeks ago. Naturally they may have slipped away, but possibly they hadn’t gone far. That is how she managed it all.

Cleopatra had been bitten first; on her hand. The poison of an asp is not a quick death. She had time to banter with her slave-girls, check her reflection in a glass, set herself atop her coffin and pose. Both girls were willing to volunteer an arm to die with their beloved mistress. A third girl was instructed to carry the note to the palace- only after the queen’s last breath.

The eunuch was also bitten. They suppose his enormous bulk and the diluted poison (the snake is less venomous after several strikes) saved his poor, wretched life. As I saw it, there was no more place for this queen’s eunuch in public life. He would no longer hold his esteemed position within the palace. Still, there was no reason or purpose for taking his life either. He was entitled to a generous pension and I left him to most of it. The physician, being clever, handsome, and knowledgeable, would never want for employment; but the eunuch? To have fallen from so tall a mountaintop only to live to be useless to every survivor…he would find much to contemplate during his exile in Thebes, the ancient Egyptian capital, as he waited out his remaining years.

I settled matters in an orderly fashion and returned to Rome, where we held our triumph in spite of the queen’s absence. Some say it was cruel to display the children during the parade, to have them walk in the triumph of a Roman conqueror over their own natural parents.

Perhaps so…I leave this to philosophers. It was an absolute political necessity. And also the way we have always done things. I followed protocol. The children- Selene, Alexander, Philodelphus- were raised by my sister, in her household by the Forum; alongside her own brood by- well, how shall one put it? Their father…we no longer speak his name, and it is best when one abides one’s own laws.

Now I am an old man. Not that old; not too old to remember; but old enough to know that any day now I will begin to forget. I have been given many years, and I have spent them wisely. I have been blessed by the Fates in my fortunes. I have held Rome, the best it can be held, for many years. My entire life has been lived in devotion to Mother Rome. All things I have done have been with her well-being foremost in my mind.

I have seen much of the world, and much more of the seas. Yet, Egypt was truly our greatest hour. It was time now to put this story to paper, and clear up the confusion surrounding the Queen of Egypt’s death. Years have passed; tales have grown out of proportion. Now they say she was nude and clasped the snake to her bosom. Not so, not so, but people are fanciful and like a pretty, naked woman to imagine.

No man since Alexander the Great had Egypt until she was beneath my boot. I met Cleopatra when I was an untried adolescent. She came to Rome with her bastard son, to put him upon my uncle. She left Rome in disgrace after my uncle was murdered, for he wrote me as his heir instead, not her own pretended “son of Caesar”.

It is true that while she was in Rome, as my uncle’s guest, Julius Caesar had a statue of her placed in our family temple. What motivated him? Politics? Personal passion? In her youth Cleopatra was very beautiful…in a foreign sort of way. In any case he had it declared inviolate. The people so respected him that they obeyed and dared not desecrate it, although most Romans deeply reviled her and would have had fair cause. But, the great Julius Caesar had spoken, and, besides, the statue is a lovely example of Roman craftsmanship. It stands even now, as intact as if it were placed only yesterday.

Unlike flesh and blood, hers now dust and bone, of no concern to anyone. The people have mostly forgotten Cleopatra. The people are at liberty now to look toward their futures. The youths learn her name, when they learn the fall of Egypt as history in their lessons, plain and simple. I, personally, am not at liberty to forget.

I was he who had the fortitude to pursue this serpent to its lair and I was he who held the sword to her neck. The serpent for which my uncle placed a statue, to sit among our family for ages. How easily deceived even great men could be by a beautiful, perfumed, clever enemy. My uncle was, to his detriment, a trusting man and his appetite for women was renowned. Ultimately this is why he was undone.

She held no sway over me. I was the last Roman to look upon the Egyptian queen, and I saw her then in her most serene majesty.

Thus perish enemies to Rome.

Gaius Julius Caesar Octavinus Augustus



She set the manuscript on his work desk. Augustus invited her to sit. He poured a goblet of wine for his wife and a splash more for himself. The hour was late, the sun nearly set. The fire snapped.

He tried not to sound too eager. “What did you think?”

She smiled. He was pleased to see that it appeared genuine. Few people were honest with him these days. “I liked it very much. Very entertaining, to learn so much I had never known. Like the eunuch…did he really receive his pension?”

Augustus nodded.

“There is another thing, what about what the attendant said? The slave girl, as she was dying? How did it go…? ‘As befits a queen and a queen of Egypt too’. Why did you leave that out? It is a lovely phrase.”

He shook his head impatiently. “I cannot prove it was actually said. Most likely it was, but I only wanted to represent the facts as I could prove them.”

“I see.” Livia drank of her cup. She continued to eye him, her smile now so wide it looked like a death mask. “The facts…”

Now his impatience was turning to anger. “What? Your point, my lady?”

“Oh, the facts! Now,” She looked around. They were absolutely alone. “Tell me what really happened.”

The bulging eyes of the queen…her tattered robe…the attendants on the floor, their cups overturned next to them. Yes, poison. But not an asp. Two men brought the wine in the morning, as they always did, but laced with a little something extra. Something to help matters along in a timely fashion for the queen would not cooperate. She would not take her own life. He had given her ample opportunity. She was plotting, scheming, even still! With the overlord of Rome sleeping in her chambers right next door. She was determined to live, despite it all. She thought she would somehow make it to Nubia, far south of Egypt. If she did not drink they were instructed to smother her. Fortunately she did drink.

These same men came later with changes of clothes and dressed the queen, her slaves, and put them into the mausoleum. He had gone to her tomb at night, and had seen her lying there, but he had seen what was meant to be seen by all, the next day. Seen especially his fellow Romans. The two men who had aided and abetted in the murder of the queen promptly had their throats slit, by none other than Augustus Caesar himself, and were disposed of. They were not true Romans, after all. They were tagalongs from somewhere off the coast. The “discovery” of her suicide was planned for later that afternoon. In the meantime, he thanked her eunuch for his service in intercepting letters and providing him with valuable information about Cleopatra’s plans. He took his money and promised to leave Alexandria immediately. Meanwhile there was the physician to consider. He was very well-renowned and fooling him would not be a simple task…

Cobras! Yes, of course. Cobras…

“Well?”

He laughed heartily. “Livia, my sweet! You are ever suspicious. You are a wise woman, but sometimes you are so cynical. Everything that happened is written before you.” He managed a few more chuckles. The sweat was collecting around his neck, and prayed she didn’t notice. She was so infuriatingly observant.

“Truly, then?”

He gave her a loving smile. “Truly.”

“Truly?”

He nodded, glaring at her.

She stood up. “If you insist.”

          My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time.

          I was born in Hittisleigh, a small run down town in Devonshire, England. 1689 was known for its cold beginning, and one January night was colder than the rest. Winds were wild outside as my mother screamed in pain, my father at her side. My two older brothers sat in the other room, waiting to be called upon to meet me. When I was finally delivered, my mother wept as she held me. Her name was Elizabeth, my father called Stephen. A single look at my frail body wrapped in wool and my parents chose the name that would one day be placed on my tombstone. From then on, I was named Samuel Bellamy.

          At first it seemed like life would continue in a positive way, but not long after my birth, my mother became ill. Her body could no longer produce milk for me, her arms becoming too weak to carry me. Eventually, her heart gave out and she passed in her sleep. After that, my father turned to whiskey and rum to subdue his emotions. My eldest brother Eric, no older than ten at the time, had to take on a lot more responsibilities than any child should be asked of. My father was in no shape to raise me, so Eric did it instead.

          He would milk the neighbor's Jersey cow and pour it into a leather pouch, putting a slit in the bottom and cover it with linen to create a barrier for my tiny lips to wrap around. He dressed me in his old clothes, too large for my infant body but still better than shivering through the nights with nothing. My other brother, Adam, was merely two years older than myself but still helped out as best he could. He would talk to the cow about how big I was getting, how helpful the cow was being after mommy had gone to a better place. He even held me a couple times while I drank, telling me that he would protect me from anything evil. At least, that were the stories told to me.

          My first memory was the summer of 1693 after Eric met a pretty girl named Amanda who was 15, a year older than him, a few towns over. He and our father were talking about marriage, and of course our father disapproved. He had a bottle of whiskey in his left hand, his right holding Eric’s shoulder either for support or to keep him from walking away. With a swig of his drink, our father looked straight into Eric’s eyes while the eldest stared right back.

          “You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’ll let you marry.” His breath must have smelt like liquor when he spoke, for when he did, Eric’s face convulsed in visible disgust. He brushed his father’s hand off his shoulder before responding, a thing we rarely did while our father was drunk.

          After clearing his throat, he once again met his father’s gaze. “It’s my life, you can’t control it.” A flash of movement happened and our father’s hands were gripping Eric’s collar hard, tightening it around his neck in an uncomfortable way. I felt the urge to intervene, but I knew I would merely get hurt in the process. With fear in my body, I just watched the fight take its course.

          Through clenched teeth, our father gave his reply; “I helped bring you into this world, don’t make me take you back out.” He watched Eric very closely, expecting a very specific response from his eldest son.

          “But-” Another flash and Eric was pinned up against the room wall, his pain shown through his expressions as our father held him there firmly.

          The limited control our father had over his drunken anger finally stopped, and his voice became a thunder directed toward Eric’s face a mere inches away from his. “Do I make myself clear boy?”

          “Yes sir.” Eric’s mumble was barely audible, but it was enough for our father to restrain himself and back away, releasing Eric from the wall. Eric felt his father’s grasp disappear from the collar of his shirt, and corrected the shirt’s position on his body before walking away. He strode with granite features masking his face, a brisk movement in his steps as he went to his room. From then on, our eldest brother rarely spoke to our father. When he did, it was always a “Yes sir,” or a “Right away, sir.” It was like the flame within Eric had been snuffed out, but in reality the fight had ignited an inferno.

          A month after the fight, I had awoken in the middle of the night to the sounds of glass smashing and wood splintering. Wiping my eyes from sleep, I descended the steps of our home to find Adam at the base, staring at our father in disbelief. He had thrown bottles of whiskey around the room, shattering them against the walls and floor. The table that used to sit next to a window was now mere planks of scattered wood throughout the entire house. In the middle of the entire mess sat our father on his knees, a single bottle of rum in his hands, still intact. Beside him laid a perfect piece of parchment, somehow unharmed by the destruction our father had caused. Taking a few steps closer, I noticed it was a letter. A letter addressed to me. Adam must have noticed too, for her crossed towards it through the sea of broken glass lying upon the floor. While wincing in pain, he leaned over and picked up the letter, adamant about not disturbing our father. Once back beside me, he placed the letter in my hands and went to his room, biting back screams of pain with every step he took. For a second I just stared at the letter, wondering what it had said.

          Then my legs began to work again, and I walked towards my room in a sluggish manner. Once on my bed, I scanned the parchment for anything I could make out. Eric, like he did with my other brother when Adam was four, was teaching me how to read. Sadly, I had only learned the alphabet and a few basic words. On the page I saw my name, Samuel Bellamy, written at the top. I could also make out a few scattered words like had to go and goodbye. Frustrated with how little I knew, I decided to hide the letter until I could read better. I removed a board in my bedroom floor that was loose from age. Inside, a small space could be reached. I folded the letter with timidness before placing it within the floor, then replaced the board back to its original position. I told myself I would return to the letter when I could, but for now its mysteries were left alone.

          I could no longer feel the beckoning of sleep. Instead, I dressed myself and went down to Adam’s room. He was sitting on his bed wrapping his foot in linen, the glass that was once piercing his skin now on the floor speckled with blood. “I can’t sleep,” I told him as he looked up at me, noticing the awareness in my face. He nodded once and got dressed, then we both left our home through his window. We traveled down the street to the river, oil lamp posts flickering as they illuminated the cobble streets. The moon and stars shone above us, a cloudless night filled with a soft mid-summer breeze. The calm warmth lowered my alertness, and soon we were lying next to the river, looking at the moon through the ripples of water made by the fish under the surface.

          “I want to see the world Samuel,” Adam said as he turned to me, a look of excitement and the hint of an inferno that was found in Eric. “I want to sail the ocean and be a captain. That’s my dream.”

          I looked at him, trying to think of a good response for my older brother. “Will you take me?” I smiled as he laughed at me, his eyes closing and his feet kicking the ground lightly.

          “Yeah, you can come along. I’m captain though.” he said with a small grin.

          “Promise?” I looked at him, the seriousness and hope in my face clear for him to see. He sat up, looked me in the eyes, and swore an oath to me that our dream would one day come true. 

          “I promise, Sam.”