#or as i call it: the paper witness to loss of life in complete deterioration

[definegodliness]

Wanna be at ease? 🍃

[librarycards]

hi sarah. feel free to delete this if it’s too much, but do you know of any work (academic, personal essays, art, etc) about grieving someone who’s died to suicide/wishing they were alive while also grappling with how to square it with your anti-psych, anti-carceral, pro-bodily autonomy politics? for reference i’ve read Alexandre Baril’s paper on Suicidism before and may revisit it in this light, as well as aleks thom's writing on disenfranchised grief and your lovely recent poem about suicide, but i’m sort of at a loss about where to look for other work about the intersection of these specific topics. many thanks and much love in advance

thank you so much for asking! i feel strange saying "i'm sorry for your loss" because it's clichéd and trite and you've heard it a billion times before. i am sorry, though, and i am equally sorry that you carry your loss into a world that is so deeply hostile to everyone affected by suicide – loved ones, those who have attempted, those who have completed, those who are dealing with suicidal thoughts, all of us.

i think that perhaps the most useful thing to remember is a bit simpler and a lot more challenging than can be conveyed in a paper or poem. it's that peoples' bodyminds are their own, including when they treat said bodyminds in ways we on the outside don't like. this is true for people who do all manner of "unhealthy" and "self-harmful" things, and as loved ones, it's incredibly fucking hard to witness, especially when the consequences are deadly.

suicide grief, and in general, work by loved ones and caregivers to those of us who experience extreme states, is pretty tough to find in the area of Mad studies. this is partially justified, given the degree to which we've all been spoken over and around by abusive "caregivers." yet it also denies the simultaneity embedded in basically any Mad community: we are all both, because we're all together and hurting at once.

i actually have two friends who have written about their own experiences as suicidal + Mad people who have lost close people to suicide: MT Vallerta, a scholar-poet [check out In Memoriam], and poet S.G. Huerta [you should read their poetry book, Last Stop].

Sophie Lewis also wrote an intriguing piece that touches on suicidality, death doulaing, and kinship.

Emily Krebs studies suicide/bereavement from a Mad crip abolitionist perspective, and is worth checking out.

i think it's also a good idea to remember that a way to honor those who have completed suicide is to take better care of suicidal people who are still alive. it only does more harm to suicidal people to approach ideation/attempts carcerally, and indeed encourages more covert, risky, and isolated methods rather than open dialogue. here are some ways to honor - not only support, but truly honor, trust, and respect suicidal people:

candidly speak about death, self-harm, and "dark thoughts" - and what to do around them - before and outside of immediate crises. be explicit in your intentions to support those who are actively suicidal before the next crisis occurs. ask people their preferences - who should you call? is the hospital ever on the table, and if so, under what conditions? who will be there to advocate for them when interacting with carceral authorities?

be candid about how their actions affect you, without placing blame. when someone attempts suicide, everyone they love is affected. this is not the person's fault, but it is something that needs to be addressed in community. here's an example from my own life: a dear friend was forcibly hospitalized after an attempt. i had been a main support person of hers in previous crises, when we lived near each other. when we spoke about her experience months later, i admitted that i felt "guilty" and as though i had somehow caused her to be institutionalized by living in a different place now. she admitted to me that she felt "guilty" for having "let [her loved ones] down" and "letting" her health deteriorate. we were able to find comfort and commonality in our affective experiences, and have become better friends for it.

cool it with the solutions. ask for consent before doing anything, but especially giving advice. many people kill themselves, or try to, because they feel cornered - often for very logical reasons (poverty, oppression, abuse/complex trauma). the adage that a poor person probably has more financial wisdom than a rich advice-giver holds true here, so don't immediately offer tips unless they've asked for them. sometimes, suicidality isn't connected to anything concrete, either, or a person's reasoning doesn't "make sense" (duh). if someone has the courage and trust to come to you with their feelings of suicidality, what they need most is someone to listen, to take them seriously, and to afford them the same personhood that they would have otherwise.

when people disclose thoughts of suicide, they take an immense risk in terms of their safety and credibility, and they do so because it is not possible to be a person alone. but, we also need to hold simultaneously that the individuals who do their best to support a loved one, but are not equipped to do so, are also not at fault for somehow "killing" them. suicide is incredibly complex, and suicide grief perhaps even moreso than other types of grief.

i also don't have concrete answers as to what to do about this conflict between our emotions around suicide - wanting to save a person we love, wanting them to stop hurting, being willing to do anything to keep them around - and imagining a world against and beyond the institution in all its permutations. but i know we will move toward it together through open conversation and trust and collective risk. much love and respect to you for asking such a challenging question during a heartbreaking time. <3

[cheri-translates]

Headcanon - Your son isn’t cute at all

Original title: 儿子一点都不可爱

Original author: 君兮耶君兮 (jun xi ye jun xi)

[ VICTOR ]

You’re certain that the strength of Victor’s genes resulted in that little guy at home being an exact replica of him. Even Victor can’t deny that your son resembles him greatly in terms of appearance.

However, this doesn’t mean he acknowledges the resemblance of their personalities. At the very least, he feels that he wasn’t as studious during his childhood years.

Furthermore, Victor has half-jokingly pointed out that your son’s dislike for exercise is exactly the same as his mother’s.

“Victor, your son is bullying me again!” 

Although your opponent is a little brat, you’re still unable to win. In this short round of Go, your white pieces have more or less been “eaten” by your son’s black pieces.

“Dummy. Don’t blame your son if your skills can’t match up to his.” Victor sets down the documents in his hand, walking over to observe.

Is this something he should be saying in front of the kid!? What about your dignity as a mother? 

You turn around with a glare. “You were the one who taught me how to play Go. My teacher didn’t teach me properly!”

In the past, you’d typically respond to Victor’s remarks with a stubborn retort. Nowadays, you simply toss the bucket to someone else.

“If you make that move, you’d be sending yourself straight to a loss,” Victor comments, seeing that you’re once again putting a white piece where it’d definitely be “eaten”.

“Who says that I’m making that move?” You flick your wrist, salvaging the fate of the white piece, along with your pride. With a dignified air, you continue. “A true gentleman keeps silent while watching a game.”

“Mom, putting your piece here isn’t any different from the other spot.” Your son notes expressionlessly. With a thud of his black piece, he is only one move away from “eating” your white piece.

“...”

Despite the truth in his words, being ridiculed by your son truly upsets you. “We’ll continue. What happened earlier was a tiny mistake.”

In the following rounds, your white pieces grow sparse on the board while Victor observes the mother-son battle calmly. Or rather, watching as you get obliterated by your son.

Wanting to prolong the competition despite the lack of prospects, you courageously seek Victor’s assistance. “Hubby, help me out!”

Ignoring his son’s awkward expression, Victor rubs your head in a comforting manner. Picking up a piece and placing it onto the board, he instantly rescues several white pieces from a tragic ending. “Next time, give your Mom a chance. You need to give some confidence to opponents who are weaker than you.”

Your son nods in half-understanding.

“...”

Victor, don’t think I can’t tell that you’re calling me a noob!

[ GAVIN ]

Just as you wished, you had a son. However, there are times when you really think your son isn’t cute at all!

Your son watches you sternly, hands on his hips.

“Mommy, Dad said that you can’t eat ice-cream these days.”

“Be good. If you don’t say anything, your dad won’t find out. Also, I’m not the only one eating. You can have one too~” You attempt to bribe the little fellow who is utterly loyal to Gavin.

He rejects your suggestion decisively. “No way. Dad will get angry.”

This so-called anger is simply Gavin displaying a cold expression momentarily. Away from his son’s gaze, you’d play coy and Gavin would release a sigh of resignation before gently reminding you not to commit this offence again. To you, this isn’t a deterrence factor at all.

Since your son can’t find out about this little secret, you huff while returning the ice-cream into the fridge. Then, you grab a bag of spicy sticks from the snack basket.

Before your fingers touch the jagged edges of the opening, your son stops you.

“Mom, no spicy sticks either.” 

“...”

It truly isn't a good feeling to be ordered around by a child. 

Bored out of your wits, you bury yourself in the sofa, watching as your son stuffs the packet of spicy sticks back into the snack basket. “What other things did your dad prohibit?”

Your son tilts his head as he recalls. “Aside from ice-cream, mala soup, snacks, fried chicken, there’s nothing else.”

“...”

And he called that “nothing”!?

With the loss of snacks, you feel like your entire life has turned dim and gloomy. You get up coldly before walking into the bedroom listlessly. “I’ll take a nap. When your dad gets back, tell him to face the corner and stay there.”

Your son obediently agrees.

Close to dinnertime, your honourable husband returns home. Even before he removes his shoes, his son calls out to him. “Mom asked you to stand at the corner.” The little rascal gloats slightly.

“???”

Gavin is left dumbfounded, and has no idea what he did to anger you. “Where is she?”

“She’s asleep.”

After standing at the corner for ten minutes, there’s no stirring from the bedroom. Gavin pokes his son, who is sitting at the entrance and reading a book. “Go and check if your mom has woken up.”

“Nope.” Your son refuses instantly.

“Why not?”

“Mom said that if I supervise you until she wakes up herself, she’d buy me the latest model aeroplane.” The little child’s eyes brim with anticipation at the thought of the new toy.

“...”

So he abandoned his father for a new model aeroplane?

[ LUCIEN ]

“Mom, do you really not know how to do this question? Dad said that this question is very simple.” Your son looks up with a frown, only to see your frustrated expression as you rip up a sheet of rough paper.

“...don’t listen to your dad’s nonsense.”

The way Professor Lucien defines the word “simple” is completely different from ordinary people, all right?!

“Dad won’t lie to me. Mom can’t do it because she’s too stupid!”

Ever since the little fellow followed Lucien to the research centre, his admiration for his father has risen by another degree.

Having your self-esteem trampled upon, you toss the pen aside. “Why don’t you ask your dad then? I’m done with this!” 

Isn’t making cream puffs more enjoyable than solving problems? Why should you continue torturing yourself?

“...”

The little rascal pinches the booklet and heads into the study room. “Dad, I think I made Mom angry.”

“What happened?” You rarely lose your temper in front of the child.

His son shows him the question in the booklet. “Mom couldn’t solve it, so I called her stupid.”

“Apologise to your mother!” Lucien thinks that aside from him, nobody else can bully his Little Miss. Not even his son.

“Okay.” Your son responds obediently before going downstairs.

By the time Lucien finishes his work and heads into the kitchen, he spots you stuffing a cream puff into your son’s mouth. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Next time, just ask your dad directly if you have any math questions.”

“All right.” The little rascal’s puffy cheeks resemble a hamster’s. When he sees Lucien arriving, he returns to his room to read books, giving the both of you space.

Amused by the mother-son interaction, Lucien waits till his son leaves before entering the kitchen and reaching out for a cream puff. Before he can even touch one, you whack his hand away.

“Hm? It seems that my wife is angry with me too?” Lucien wraps an arm around your waist and nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck. Even though he’s exerting very little force, you're still unable to free yourself.

“I’m so sorry that I can’t do a question which, according to Professor Lucien, is very simple.” While he continues hugging you, you transfer the cream puffs from the baking tray onto a small plate. 

“That’s okay. Having one adult who can teach him is enough.”

You pout. “Your son called me stupid earlier.”

“Nonsense.” Lucien gives you a tap on the head. “My wife is the smartest. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have taken so long for me to win you over.”

Lucien’s sweet nothings are becoming smoother and smoother. Pushing him away with your elbow, you pick up the small plate. “Go and give the cream puffs to our son.”

Initially thinking that the plate was meant for him, Lucien is stunned momentarily. His son had a cream puff personally fed to him, while he hasn’t even managed to touch a cream puff. “What about mine?”

You release an icy “hmph”.

“Considering Professor Lucien’s high IQ, I’m sure he can make them himself. I want to give these to my son, who is also unable to solve that problem.”

“...”

Why does he have to bear the consequences when his son was the one who angered you?

[ KIRO ]

“I’m back~” 

You’ve just returned from a business trip which swept you overseas for close to a month, and it’s been a long time since you saw the two suns in your home.

“Mommy! Welcome home!”

“Miss Chips! Welcome home!”

The father-son duo exclaim unanimously, rushing over to the door with their similar faces and equally dazzling golden hair.

Your adorable son stumbles over to you, and you respond by squatting down and stretching your hands to give him a full hug. The little fellow tightens his grip around your neck to express his joy and how much he missed you.

Apple Box leaps around beside you to convey his welcome, and you can’t help but reach out to give him a pat on his fluffy head. In the time you weren’t around, he had put on quite a bit of weight.

The small entrance hall brims with a warm atmosphere... aside from Kiro.

At this moment, Kiro feels that his position in the home has deteriorated, and he shoots a killer glare towards your coquettish son and Apple Box, who weren’t sidelined by you.

“Miss Chips, did you not miss me... QAQ”

Despite the passage of time, Kiro, who has even become a father, seems to have become more childish.

You purse your lips. “Who said so? I missed you very much.”

“But you hugged him first and even patted Apple Box. You didn’t give me a hug.” The more he talks about it, the more insignificant he feels.

“Dad, you’re so heavy. Mom won’t be able to carry you.” Your son rubs salt into his wound.

Sure enough, Kiro gets offended by this. With a darkened expression, he pulls his son away from your arms, lifting him into the air. “Say that again!”

The little rascal struggles for a while before escaping from his grasp, then buries himself into your arms again. “Mommy, I drew you a picture!” With this, he sends Kiro a competitive glance.

Amused by the usual competition between father and son, you feed off your son’s excitement. “Really? My darling is incredible!”

“I’m incredible too!” Kiro is deathly afraid of falling behind. “Go away.” He pulls his son away from you once again. His left hand reaches behind your knees, and he bends down to carry you up. When he feels your hands tightening around his neck, he lets out a satisfied “hmph”.

“I can pick your Mom up in a princess carry. Can you?”

“Once I’ve grown up, I can do it too!” Your son gives him a glance of disdain. “Also, you’d be old by the time I grow up. I’d also be more handsome than you. Mommy will definitely like me more~”

“Looks like you need a spanking!” Kiro places you down before reaching for his son.

“Kiro, you’re not allowed to hit our son!” You hurriedly stop him before he can do anything.

“He was challenging my authority as his father.”

You tousle his hair in a comforting manner. “Be good. Actually, our son wasn’t wrong. When you’re old, you’d...”

“Miss Chips!”

“When you’re old, you’d still be handsome!” You chuckle gently, tugging him on the sleeve to make him bend down slightly. A sweet kiss lands on the side of his face. “Superheroes are the most handsome~”

[ SHAW ]

“Don’t make a mess out of our house!”

The moment you see the unsalvageable mess on the coffee table, the only thought that runs through your mind is sending this troublemaker back to the oven to be re-made.

“Dad said that an overly neat doesn’t have a homely feeling.” Your son tilts his head upwards confidently, continuing with his work on hand.

“So why are you doodling on the wall?”

The originally pure white wall has been morphed beyond recognition. And why does the style of this abstract art look so familiar?

Your son wipes his hands on a damp cloth at the side, then picks up a crayon. “Dad said that aesthetic sense must be picked up since young.”

Seeing the patches of postmodern art on the wall causes your blood to boil. “Can’t you use paper?”

As compared to your frantic state, your son is much more composed. “Dad said that I should strike while the iron’s hot when it comes to being inspired. I didn’t have time to find paper, so I drew on the wall.”

No matter what, you have to find the main culprit.

“Shaw, get over here!” Your twist your head and roar towards the living room.

“Did you allow him to draw on the walls?” You glare at him fiercely, causing his initial “yes” to quickly turn into a “I did not.”

Your son lifts his head in confusion. “Dad, didn’t you say that I should draw wherever I wanted to? You even said a child’s talent shouldn’t be stifled.”

“...”

With a grim laugh, you toss him a rag. “Since you allowed him to do it, you’ll be the one to clean up.”

“...son, use paper next time. Don’t draw on the walls.” Shaw finds a smaller rag and hands it to his son. The both of them begin wiping off the colourful traces on the wall pitifully, wishing they could travel back in time to stop this from happening in the first place.

Sitting on your son’s small bed while scrolling through your phone, you occasionally look up to supervise their progress.

Once they’re more or less done, your son suddenly pipes up.

“When can we head out to do graffiti?”

“Graffiti?” Why weren’t you aware of such plans?

“...” 

Shaw has a bad feeling about this.

“Shaw. Explain.”

“It’s just... nurturing his artistic side...” His voice dies off at the end.

“Okay. Right now, I’ll be nurturing his mathematical side. Stand at the corner of the wall and count from one to a thousand.”

After tidying your son’s bed, you head out to pour yourself a cup of water.

Shaw tosses a sympathetic glance at his son. “Every man for himself.”

“As his father, you’ll keep him company.”

“...”

More translated and original works: here

-

[ Permission to translate ]

君兮耶君兮: Can, just state the author and the source

[robbyrobinson]

Tales from Cherryshrub, Mississippi: Kidnapped By A Demon

In the early 2000s, a man collapsed in front of a police station. He was completely naked and possessed a skeletal frame. Bystanders saw this action transpire, but they continued their stroll out of the assumption he was merely a drug addict who had become dependent on whatever substance he was taking. The chief of police came to the station not too long after the man fainted. Without much delay, he sends for some of his men to collect the man and bring him inside.

The man awoke in the interrogation room with a warm, wool blanket around him. His eyes were sunken in most likely from weeks of insomnia. He shakily had a cup of coffee in his hands: every instant he went to take a swig of the beverage, he spasmed in his chair, spilling the hot liquid on the floor. He looked behind his back constantly during the interview. He brought his cup down on the table and cupped his face hiding his shame.

"Sir, I'd like to introduce myself," the interrogator began, "My name is Officer Mackenzie, and I would like to ask you a few questions."

The man shook his head violently. "No! No! I can't!"

"Sir, we found you naked within arm's length of the station. We want to know what happened."

"I can't! He'll know where I'm at!"

Officer Mackenzie took a deep draw of his cigar and breathed out a ring of smoke. He waited a bit for the interviewee to recuperate. He set his timer to sixty minutes. During those minutes, he talked pleasurably with the man on unrelated topics to make the interviewee more comfortable in hopes of making him more lenient on elaborating what brought him there. The man breathed in slowly and took a final look behind his back before answering.

"Are you able to tell me what incidents brought you to our station?" Mackenzie asked.

"Yes," he said, "it may sound crazy, though."

Officer Mackenzie leaned backward in his chair, motioning for the man to continue. The interviewee's hands started to shake again, but he was able to choke out a mumbled line of words. "Have you...ever heard of the Popobawa?"

Officer Mackenzie stared at the man and then at his fellow officers. "No. I haven't."

The man sighed in relief. "You don't know? That's good."

"What does this...Pippy-Ba-Ra have to do with you?"

"That thing," the man drew out the last word, "is not of this Earth." He rubbed his eyes that were laced with eyebags. "He is some monster from this country I never heard of Zanzibar."

"Zanzibar?" Officer Mackenzie reiterated. "We live just north of Cherryshrub, Mississippi, son."

"My co-worker told me about the legend," the interviewee clarified, "I didn't believe it at first. Some bat thing from Hell who...well you know."

The interviewee was laughing nervously at the last note of his dialogue. Ugly tears began to fill his eyes as he deteriorated back into a sniveling wreck. "But I was wrong to encourage him like that. With my disbelief."

"What happened, son?"

"He...he appeared to me as a black cat that I pass on the way to work. That didn't intimidate me much. But each time I took the long drive home, I could've sworn I've felt a... dark presence watching my every movement. At night, as I laid in my bed, that same feeling of being watched arose in me. I saw a dark figure with a flaming eye glare at me from my closet. First, it was just a wing. Then another wing. His feet appeared immediately afterward. For an entire week, this thing stalked me, robbing me of my sleep. I held the covers firmly over my face by the time I saw his terrible, hideous eye. He spoke out to me in a voice only I could hear. That mocking, giddy voice continues to haunt me."

Officer Mackenzie raised an eyebrow. "So, this...creature from a country you never heard of kept you up at night and whispered to you?" Officer Mackenzie smashed the end of his cigarette butt onto the ashtray. "I understand being petrified by an urban legend, but what are we supposed to do about it?"

The interviewee shook his head defiantly. "No, you don't understand!" His shaking returned more violent and unprovoked than earlier. "He snatched me away in the night and took me into his world! He put his disgusting body on top of me and pressed down against me. My ribcages hurt so much, I thought he would crush them! He whispered horrible things to me and kept me as his prisoner for two months!" He broke down and banged his hands on the table. "He took me back home, and he made me do…horrid things to my wife and daughter. Amelia, baby, please forgive your foolish father!"

Without warning, he gripped his arms and brought his forehead down onto the table. He bashed his head once, twice, three times. Office Mackenzie watched the display with disturbance and ordered some of his fellow officers to restrain the man from bashing his head further. His forehead split open causing blood to trickle down. The ambulance was alerted to the situation an hour later, and they wheeled the man away in a gurney.

That night, Officer Mackenzie found himself further disturbed by what the interviewee had disclosed to him. Popobawa? Zanzibar? Mind control? He was barely able to comprehend anything that he was informed. In the middle of the night, he decided to conduct some research into this strange monster. A few hours on the internet proved fruitful. He was what the natives of Zanzibar referred to as a shetani or an evil spirit. From the looks of it, he was giving the populace quite the scare. Mass hysteria erupted in his wake; some were even killed under the false notion of them being the Popobawa. He thought back to the interviewee and how his lower regions were bleeding (contributing to him collapsing from what seemed at the time to be blood loss.

The Popobawa's origins were…sketchy at best. Some cite him being conjured by a sheik who was angered with his neighbors but as with any curse, it backfired tremendously. It had a perverted love for the most deplorable of the cardinal sins and in each of the cases, it broke into people's homes and violated them, or possessed family members into committing the crimes before leaving them to psychologically deteriorate from the realization behind their actions. That called to mind something that the interviewee had mentioned about the creature making him do indescribable things to his wife and daughter. Mackenzie couldn't help but cringe at the thought.

"So, what he apparently hates the most is when people vehemently deny his existence?" he pondered. He shrugged his shoulders before yawning. Whatever the case, he had spent too much time online researching something that very well sounded ridiculous.

Life continued normally for Officer Mackenzie. He oversaw the training of new officers and wrote and filed reports on the occasional changes the police department mandated. In July 2001, Officer Mackenzie was reviewing the latest police report, one of his lieutenants ran in.

"Sir, you may want to see this."

Without delay, Officer Mackenzie followed suit of his lieutenant to an apartment building. The road was blocked off by the ambulance. Yellow crime scene paper aligned the scene of the crime. From what the witnesses could describe, a man jumped off the second floor through one of the windows and collided on the roof of a car. Not much of his body survived the impact. Prior to his death, he complained of being stalked by some bat-winged monster who he blamed for his crimes of sexual abuse on his family. Even without a body, Officer Mackenzie didn't have difficulty with the identity of the man.

Officer Mackenzie excused himself from the crime scene, deciding to take a stroll. Along the way, Mackenzie walked past an alleyway. Before turning around the next corner, he heard a small rustle in the dumpster. Curious, he walked into the abandoned alleyway. He readied his gun under the belief that an assailant was making that noise. A cat's head popped up from the slashed garbage bags with a tilt suggesting curiosity.

"Wait, that's a black cat," Officer Mackenzie noted. The cat arched its back and jumped out of the dumpster. It landed by Mackenzie's feet letting out a tiny "mew." It rubbed itself against his legs, indicating wordlessly that it wanted to be picked up. Mackenzie sighed and complied to the feline's wishes. "I guess you can come home with me."

He arrived back home with the cat in tow. He was greeted by his wife and his son. His wife planted a kiss on his cheek while almost not noticing the feline in his hands. "Dear?" she asked, "why is there a cat?"

"Oh, I found this little scoundrel in the alleyway when I was notified of an incident."

His wife shook her head. "I've heard about what happened. I hate that the man took his own life. How tragic."

The couple's young son became enamored by the cat, naming it George W. Bush. The two would often seclude themselves to play with each other. However, strange occurrences began to befall the home. Items were disappearing, and there was knocking throughout the home. The couch and other sofa were getting clawed open by George W. Bush. From there on, Officer Mackenzie placed George W. Bush in the garage. Nevertheless, mysterious happenings were continuing to plague the family.

One night after a grueling hour of work, Officer Mackenzie collapsed onto his bed and immediately slipped into sleep. Around 8, a chill ran down his spine for some unknown reason. Before he could comprehend what was happening, he found his eyes wandering towards his closet which was now open. He tried to rationalize it as just being the case of a gust of wind, but he stopped in his thoughts when he saw something large protruding from the closet. In the moonlight, he could make out a batwing. However, it belonged to what may as well be a larger species than the ones native to his county.

"You have yet to believe that I exist?"

Mackenzie wanted to scream, but he felt something pressing down firmly on his abdomen. His arms were glued to his sides just as paralyzed. The door creaked open further when the wing began to beat in and up and down fashion. The scent of sulfur filled the room. Another bat wing emerged from the closet. The monster's footsteps echoed on the floor. The large frame of the creature erupted from the restricted space. What Mackenzie saw next was the creature's singular, flaming eye.

The Popobawa darted at Mackenzie like a speeding bullet. He swept the chief of police off his feet and made for the windowsill. Mackenzie's wife shot awake from the sound of the glass breaking. Mackenzie regained consciousness and awoke to find himself in a strange realm. Within the realm, he saw what appeared to be emaciated skeletons in piles around the Popobawa. The realm was laced with a yellow hinge, explaining the smell of sulfur.

"Where am I?" Officer Mackenzie finally asked.

The Popobawa acted hurt. "You don't remember me? As your cat, I was certain that you would recognize me."

Officer Mackenzie's eyes widened. He went to pick himself up, but he was still paralyzed. The large bat monster towered over him. Popobawa bent downwards with a demented smile on his face. "I'm so happy to have a new playmate. I once knew this man who also refused to believe in me. I stalked him relentlessly for weeks until I drove him mad."

The grip that Popobawa had on Mackenzie increased. Mackenzie felt his ribcage straining from the monster's weight. If the Popobawa did not relent, his ribcage would be crushed into a paste in no time. Warmblood was seeping out of Mackenzie's mouth. His words came out in a garbled hush. "Please, Popobawa, what do you want of me?"

The Popobawa's sadistic smile flared again. "You didn't believe I existed. That other fool also refused to believe I existed. I kept him in my realm for a solid week, but the rules of my world do not even begin to resemble your own." He cupped Mackenzie's cheek with one of his single-fingered hands. The weight was now becoming unbearable. "I can't decide whether to emasculate you here or now or crush you to nothingness. Either one is a fine idea for me."

Mackenzie's bones were on the brink of splintering. He was done for, he thought. His lungs were getting compressed as with his lower body. He was losing consciousness quickly. His eyes glazed over from the restricting of oxygen flow.

"I'll tell others. Just please…"

The last thing he heard was the shrill laughter from Popobawa. He felt himself drifting away, certain that he was about to enter the Pearly Gates. The creature's eye was glowing deeper. "Remember to tell others about what happened to you, or it will be worse next time."

''Beep! Beep!''

A blaring alarm stirred Mackenzie awake. Somehow, he was in the middle of a four-way way. His clothes were missing. More alarms sounded as the irritated drivers slammed down on their horns. Fully awake, Mackenzie sprinted to the side and called his wife. His wife was noticeably upset even though he felt that he was only gone for an hour. She arrived with fresh clothes and embraced her husband.

"We all thought you were dead, dear!"

"What? I was only gone for an hour."

They returned home, the first person greeting them being their son. But something felt off about the development. Before he was kidnapped by the Popobawa, his son was eight years old. And yet, the boy before him was now 23 years old. Like his mother, he hugged his perplexed father.

"Son? What happened?" Mackenzie inquired, "when did you grow up so fast?"

His son was confused. "I got older, Dad," he replied.

"But how can you be? You were still 8 years old when I disappeared."

His son had a look of depression on his face. "I was 8 years old. 15 years ago."

[stylesmyth]

FLOURISHED SUN

Delaney Burrell fell unconscious on the twenty-first of November 2011 at 11:41 a.m. She died at 11:44 a.m. in her father’s arms, on the ornate rug in his office.

          Samuel Burrell died a week later, sitting on the floor with his back against his daughter’s bed.

           Brandon found their bodies an hour later, when he was positive he no longer heard coughing, or muttering, or crying. Looking at the scene in his dissociative state of mind, he did what he knew he needed to do. He called the Coroner’s Office to retrieve the bodies, grateful that there was someone in the office still alive and working because there was no way he possibly could handle it on his own. Corpses are still contagious unless burned into ash—or so he read.

           The coroner was dressed from head to toe in a thick, white, protective fabric, topped with a helmet so he could see. Four men were with him, dressed the same, for their own protection against the virus. They all examined the bodies, and when the coroner asked Brandon why Delaney was further along in the decomposition process than Samuel, he couldn’t bring himself to go into the details yet. He only muttered that she had been dead for a week longer.

           The Burrell’s were announced dead on the twenty-eighth of November at 8:26 a.m.

           They were bagged and carried out of the house on 10th Downing Street at 8:32.

           Brandon was asked to accompany the coroner back to the office, where he can sign some papers. The death of the Prime Minister called for slightly different procedures than any other citizen, and Brandon was a witness. He was also asked if there was anyone he knew who needed to be called since many government officials were dead or unable to be contacted. Still on pilot mode, Brandon was able to remember Samuels phone and contact book from his office before leaving.

           It was strange to Brandon, finally leaving the house. The last time he left was to get food for the people in the body bags, being carried to a van. He didn’t know if he liked being outside anymore, though he was positive he couldn’t avoid it forever. The streets were empty, the only people around were the coroner and his helpers, who Brandon was surprised were even still working at such a point. But Brandon was also still working, regardless of his employment status.

          In his own car, following the large black van, Brandon didn’t give himself time to think. He has been trained for years to act quickly in tough situations. He knew the moment would come where Samuel would die after getting so close to Delaney. He told himself that there would be time, later, to process the death of Samuel, like there was time, later, to process Delaney’s death. There would be time to realise the two people he left were the closest thing to family he could get were gone.

          But he didn’t think it in that moment.

          At 8:45, Brandon called Zachary Masters, with a hand still gripped in his fist—the only thing that kept him grounded. When Zachary asked who the hell was calling him, Brandon replied, deadpan, “This is Brandon Collins, former guard and assistant to Prime Minister Burrell, and his daughter, Delaney.”

          “Former?” Zachary asked.

          “Well, they’re dead.”

          It was not how Brandon planned to tell the Interim Leader, but it was how it left his mouth, nonetheless.

          “Dead?” Zachary’s voice was laced with shock, a tone Brandon had never heard from him in the times Zachary’s been in the house. “When?”

          “Delaney, last week, and Mr. Burrell, just this morning, sir. I’m on my way to the Coroner’s Office to sign witness paperwork. You’re welcome to come down yourself to verify the bodies.”

          “No, no,” Zachary quickly muttered. “Being outside is too dangerous right now. That won’t work.” There was a pause as Zachary thought of what to do. “Come by my house once you’re done at the office. Bring a copy of Samuel’s death certificate. Are you sick?”

          “No, sir.”

          “And how can I trust your word?” Zachary pressed.

          “How can I trust that you aren’t sick either?”

***

          At 10:15, Brandon found it harder than he expected, leaving the Coroner’s Office. It meant leaving behind a portion of his life he was comfortable with. But he realised that many others in the world were or would be going through the same thing, so he told himself to remember that this—whatever this might’ve been—was his new life. His new normal.

          With the copy of Samuel Burrell’s official death certificate, he ambled up the front steps of the house that Zachary instructed him to go to. On the last step sits a green and white box labelled surgical masks.

          He found enough emotion within him to roll his eyes. Guess my word on not being sick means shite to him, he thought.

          After donning the mask, he knocked on the pale blue door, noting during his wait that there was no way to see into the house. The door was completely solid, with no panes of distorted windows, and the two actual windows to his right were tightly covered with blinds.

          “Glad to see you got the hint,” Zachary commented with sarcasm as he opened the door for Brandon. “Come inside. We’ve got a few things to discuss.”

          Brandon followed Zachary to his home office. The house was far less grand than Samuel’s, and looked like it hadn’t been lived in for some time. He remembered that during one unplanned meeting at Samuel’s home, Zachary mentioned his pregnant wife going away to stay with her family in Hull. By the look of it, Zachary didn’t use the house for living in anymore. Only a temporary residence until he could also get away from the madness.

          “If you would,” Zachary started, sitting back in his desk chair as Brandon stood before him on the other side of the desk, “tell me how the hell the Prime Minister died.”

          Brandon handed Zachary the piece of thick paper he had requested, and began to tell the tragic story. A girl who loved a boy. Loved the boy so much, she was willing to risk her own safety to spend his last night with him. She came home with the disease, and under the semi-pretence of grieving, managed to hide it until she couldn’t anymore. She died in her father’s office. And her father, whom she wanted to protect from her costly consequence of love, fell ill as well. In the week of his deterioration, he would not allow Brandon to have his daughter taken to a morgue. He would mutter that she was the last family he had left, and he would not allow for her to be taken away from him. He moved her in her bedroom, and stayed there with her unless the need for food or bodily relief were too strong. Even then, he didn’t stray far. And then he died. It was the only way Brandon was able to have Delaney's body removed—if it was with his as well.

          “I guess that makes you the official Interim Leader now,” Brandon said, shifting the topic to something a little more bearable. Retelling the events of the last week wasn’t easy to get through, but he put up a front that hopefully made Zachary believe it was. Believe that he only worked for the Burrell family. Believe that he could continue with the job of protecting the leader of the country. Believe he didn’t want to crawl into bed and weep over the loss of the people he loved, but never realised until the moment he lost them.

          “I guess so,” Zachary mulled. “I’ll need to make phone calls this afternoon to see how quickly an election can be set up, and what plans need to be made from here on out. As for you, Brandon, I’m prepared to offer you a position as my security now, until a new Prime Minister is elected in which then you can work for him.”

***

          On the twenty-eighth of November, hours after his boss's death, Brandon did accept Zachary’s offer, but only because he felt like he had no choice. It wasn’t pressure from Zachary, but rather, himself—though he was sure that some amount of internal judgement and awkwardness would occur had he declined. There was no way Brandon thought he could just go back home and do nothing for the rest of his life. He needed something to keep him busy, and to keep working was that outlet.

          However, there was no election for a new Prime Minister.

          After several calls to the few members of Parliament Zachary knew were still healthy, telling the news of Samuel’s death, it was decided that there weren’t enough people to organise and run for the position, and no guarantee they would remain healthy during the election.

          It was agreed upon that Zachary would maintain the title of Leader going forward.

          The next day, Zachary recorded a video from his computer that was then sent to the news stations that were still up and running. It announced the unexpected death of Prime Minister Burrell caused by the Affliction. He unapologetically revealed it was due to his daughter’s foolish actions of sneaking out to be with her infected boyfriend. The people these words reached consumed the information exactly the way Zachary had intended. That the death of their Prime Minister was Delaney’s fault. She wanted one last romp with her boyfriend that it costed Samuel’s life. It bothered Brandon to no end, but once the video was out to the public, there was no stopping the rumours. He took what little solace he could find in the fact that he knew the truth.

          Zachary also relayed his plan moving forward—the same exact plan he detailed to Samuel during their lunch meeting. Bases would be built, for the healthy, and for the sick until a cure was found and distributed.

          That all fell down a hole a week later, when the University of Massachusetts Medical School released its statement as to how the Maspenock Virus, informally dubbed the Affliction, escaped their labs researching the cure to Down Syndrome. The cure wasn’t a cure at all, unlike what the scientist believed. When someone slipped up whilst holding one of the liquid “cure” test, and it spilled onto their clothes, they simply thought that following procedures for decontamination would clear them. However, once the virus was on their skin, there was no way to get it off. Everyone within the lab became infected as well, but never knew.

          When the workers from the lab went out into the world, they unknowingly infected those closest to them—their families, strangers who brushed by them on the streets, the travellers on the plane with them. Quickly, too quickly to be stopped, the Affliction spread across the world.

          The day Delaney died, the worldwide death count was at five-point-six million.

          The day Samuel died, that number reached one billion.

          When the healthy soldiers of the British Military were ordered to take action in getting the sick to their bases, the death count was verging on two billion.

          Zachary Masters went to Hull on the first of December, under pretences of his son’s birth. Really, the death count had risen another billion.

          He had left the job of separating the sick and healthy to the military as he hid away. Brandon went with him because there was nothing left in London for him. He didn’t like the idea of running away from a tough situation, but Zachary finally convinced him with the plan of building a fort in Hull. Brandon would be able to keep people safe, keep them alive, and that gave him enough reason to follow Zachary. He didn’t want to see any more people die under his watch.

          And after his son’s birth on the tenth, at 8:22 p.m., Zachary gathered the healthy citizens of Hull, and they all set forth on building the fort. From the smallest child to the eldest of the group, everyone helped lay the bricks around their new home. It only took two months to finish the circular wall between the outside world and them, and it would be years before proper housing would be constructed, but they finally had a sense of peace after months of uncertainty.

          In nineteen years, that peace would be tested.

END

[brax-was-here]

Some non-Scarlet Briar (and non-GW2) artwork I did years ago. 

I present to you Ogiko Matahachi, Empress of the Kingdom of Jun Tai Kun.

Years upon years ago, my friend Auden ran a pen-n-paper role playing game he called “Tapestries”. Auden is an amazing GM, and he is who I learned a lot from about writing a story. What was amazing about the Tapestries campaign is that Auden it ran for a good 10 years, and included players from all over the country, and Auden was able to keep track of it all and create this fluid story in a world called “Arteus” that was very much like Tyria. (He started Tapestries back in the late 90s, so this predates Guild Wars). Ogiko was a character I created originally for another RPG but ported her over to Tapestries. Jun Tai Kun was a kingdom with a culture that resembled a melting pot of Japanese, Chinese and Korean. She would save the kingdom twice, before being proclaimed Empress and establishing the rule of the Imperial House of Matahachi. 

Ogiko “Ogi” Akita was born in the town of Hinobara, located south of Kyoto, Japan in the year 1558. She is the third and last child of Lord Kazuo Akita and Lady Nyoko Matahachi. Her mother died at her birth. Much of her young life was spent being raised by her brother Mesume and sister Ritsuko, while her father’s health and sanity deteriorated at the loss of his wife. Shortly after witnessing a quarrel between her brother and her father, which resulted in the casting out of her brother from the Akita manor, her grand father, Akihiro, took her, changed her last name to Matahachi, and began her training in the art of Bushido. She was never allowed to see her father again. Into her teen years, she would train constantly in the way of Bushido, learning various weapons and forms of hand-to-hand fighting. She would grow into a beautiful woman, one of the most beautiful in the town and an object of desire for the local daimyo, Lord Yutaka Oraka. 

Ogiko would marry a young soldier in the service of the daimyo, and bare a child, Kazumi. Their marriage would be short, as Lord Oraka burns Hinobara to the ground, slays her husband and captures Ogiko. Akihiro escapes with Kazumi, and leaves for southern Japan.

           For two years Ogiko would be a prisoner, and during a mysterious night attack on the castle she escapes into the wilderness. Wandering for days, she collapses from exhaustion, and is found by a traveling priest named Daidoji. He cares for her until her health returns, and starts training her in the art of war. During this time, she learns she is no longer in Japan, or on Earth for that matter, but the land she called home has crossed to another world named Arteus, and they are currently in the kingdom of Jun Tai Kun. Upon completion of her training, Daidoji reveals himself to be the god Hachiman, and explains that the Matahachi bloodline is decended from him, and the Matahachi are born to be warriors.

[scribblemethink-blog]

FIRST DRAFT BOOK TEXT: DIVI STAMPS

FRONT COVER: TITLE PAGE

INNER FRONT COVER: ILLUSTRATED FORMAT OF A PAGE OF DIVIDEND STAMPS

PAGE 1: DIVIDEND STAMPS INFORMATION

The Co-operative Society revolutionised high street food retailing in 1844 when the dividend was introduced, sharing percentages of the company’s profits with its loyal customers. The dividend stamp book was introduced in 1969, allowing customers to collect stamps each time they shopped. Shoppers would fill the book with stamps and, once complete, could then exchange the book for money or goods. Once filled, the book could be used to either purchase goods or deposit the value into a share account. The concept of the ‘divi’ book was incredibly successful for both the customer and the company, and chains such as Tesco soon followed suit with their own loyalty schemes. The scheme is currently still in place, although it has been updated for the modern consumer, providing the option for users to keep any cash from the dividend or donate it to a local charity – sustaining local communities.

"As one of Britain's best-loved shopping traditions, the divi has inspired many imitators, but with the help of new technology, the Co-op is putting the divi back where it belongs - into the pockets of our customers and into the community." John Bowes, general manager of the Co-op Wholesale Society

At a time, the dividend books encouraged people to visit their local high street, buy local produce and interact with staff in the stores. The concept of a physical dividend book and a dedication towards shopping experience is far from the high streets we know today. The Great British high street is currently in decline. How have we, as a nation, allowed our high streets collapse, as well as the sense of community that is traditionally associated with it? How can we sustain and rebuild our high streets?

PAGE 2: SAVING THE HIGH STREET (IMAGE BASED PAGE)

PAGE 3: THE PORTAS REVIEW

“Shopping used to be a pastime. Today, it’s not. Placing an order online, popping into Little Waitrose on the way home from work – it’s impersonal. But we still need to connect with people. And savvy retailers know this.”

In 2011, retail consultant Mary Portas published The Portas Review which summarised the need for high streets to become spaces for socialising, health, wellbeing, culture, learning and creativity for them to survive. Following the review 12 towns have been chosen to be supported by the scheme, however those involved stated that the government scheme did not help them and Portas herself described it as “a weighted PR campaign”. Small business owners involved claimed the scheme ‘has its own agenda’, however Portas herself was crucial in encouraging their business ideas.

“Experience has become the metric for assessing value per square foot. Brands are using shops as spaces to immerse us in their worlds. Within four walls, they teach us, inspire us and encourage us to try new things. We go to them not just to ‘shop’, but for entertainment, education and connection.”

PAGE 4: WHO WILL BE AFFECTED BY STRUGGLING HIGH STREETS, AND CAN THESE PEOPLE SAVE IT? – THE ELDERLY

·       High street shops offer a lifeline for the lonely as they can interact with shop workers – ultimately helps their overall physical and mental health

·       The demographic will pour money into high streets

·       “We must value older people – everyone should have the chance to live life to the fullest, regardless of age” Jane Ashcroft CBE, Chief Executive of charity Anchor

·       “Baby boomers are an economic force to be reckoned with. As they enter older age, their refusal to retire quietly is an opportunity to reinvigorate the high street, transforming it into a diverse, prosperous, and age-friendly environment. The alternative, £4.5bn annual losses and the death of the high street, will be devastating not just for older people but for everyone.” Dr Frank, Foresight Director at the Centre for Future Studies

PAGE 5: THE YOUTH

·       Students need local, reliable jobs and the high street is a perfect place to turn to due to location and the volume of availabilities in various sectors of work

·       The high street presents an environment for teenagers to gain independence through getting their first jobs, going out with friends without parental supervision and beginning to spend money – this group will devote skills, time and money to the high street

·       The youth are the future – prospective entrepreneurs and potential saviours of the high street

·       “Young people are the entrepreneurs of the future and we should be looking to them as one of our sources of innovation for the high streets of tomorrow.” Theo Paphitis, entrepreneur

·       Entrepreneur Ross Bailey set up Appear Here (an Air B&B style business for vacant shop spaces, allowing businesses to rent the space per week) at the age of 19, with the mission to “make vacant shop space accessible to anyone with an idea” – Bailey is proof that teenagers can possess the initiative, desire and capability to work towards rebuilding the British high street

PAGE 6: PHOTOS/ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE 7: BOSCOMBE FUNDING

It has recently been revealed that Boscombe town centre will not be receiving a government grant of up to £750,000 from the Future High Streets Fund for its proposed renovation.

A report by the council’s head of communities, Kelly Ansell, said at the time that major investment in Boscombe’s retail centre was “urgently required” to continue work to regenerate the area. She continued, “this [regeneration work] has focused on addressing the underlying socio-economic problems of the area” Bournemouth Echo

I believe that this suggests that there isn’t enough government funding to save high streets from decline, therefore making it almost impossible to protect the British high street. Local high streets and subsequently the communities and people that depend on them are being somewhat neglected by the powers that have the power to support them. The combination of governments and large-scale businesses cutting funding and jobs, as well as a decline in footfall and changes in shopping habits have all contributed to the significant demise of the UK high street.

PAGE 8: THE FUTURE OF OUR HIGH STREETS

“what our high streets will become are social places. They are vital to communities, so we need the Government to look at the role of high streets in the future” Mary Portas

Should our high streets continue to deteriorate at the rate they are currently, we will not be able to sustain these local environments. These areas are vital for communities, the elderly and vulnerable and for our future generations, yet not enough is being done to preserve these places. Both customers and workers are impacted by the introduction of modern shopping techniques, decreased footfall and an absence of loyalty. With each vacant shop space, the high street becomes visually less appealing, leading to even less footfall and more stores subsequently closing. Less than 100 years ago, high streets were bustling, sociable environments which people would devotedly visit, however due to an assortment of reasons, I believe that we are witnessing the extinction of a key British tradition.

“Shoppers are opening their wallets, but they’re doing so cautiously. We’re seeing what we call the ‘Lipstick Effect’, where shoppers forgo big-ticket items in favour of affordable everyday treats. […] promotions and price cuts are simply not enough to get people to shop the high street.” Mary Portas

INNER BACK COVER: ILLUSTRATED FORMAT OF A PAGE OF DIVIDEND STAMPS

BACK COVER: WITH IMAGE ABOVE TEXT

Coleman, P, 2019, Divi Stamps, Bournemouth, AUB Publications

Printed on reclaimed paper

Total word count: 1200

[timclymer]

The Secret Heart Attack of Prime Minister Winston Churchill in 1953

Picture the following scene. The Prime Minister has suffered a massive heart attack. A handful of people know this. The Prime Minister may well have to resign if news breaks out, both as leader of the country and his party and a General Election will then have to be called. What will you do? This is the very decision that has to be answered in 1953 by the Prime Minister’s closest confidants.

There is little forewarning. On 23 June 1953 a Downing Street dinner is held for the Italian Prime Minister, Alcide de Gaspieri and Prime Minister, Winston Churchill. The evening begins well with Churchill delivering yet another witty speech joking about the Roman conquest of Britain. Later it starts to taper off as he rapidly deteriorates in health. Barely able to move he holds the hand of his close friend, Jane Clark and whispers ‘I want the hand of a friend. They put too much on me, Foreign Affairs… ‘ and then his voice trails off.

No respite occurs. Those who hope it is just a small attack like the one he suffered in Southern France in 1949 are disappointed. Churchill’s condition is so bad that at one point the aptly named neurologist, Sir Russell Brain doubts whether his patient will live another year.

It later transpires he has suffered a massive heart attack and yet incredibly he struggles on. The next day he even manages to conduct a Cabinet meeting. Some cabinet colleagues note he looks rather pale and white but the only sign something is amiss happens when he requests that ‘Harold, you might draw down the blind a little, will you?’.

The pain that Churchill endures with the loss of function in his left arm, leg and the left side of his face is intolerable. Eventually he capitulates and with reluctance decides to retire to his home at Chartwell for recuperation on Thursday morning. He leaves at noon from No.10 for Chartwell. He is in full glaring view of the public and media and yet somehow manages to walk unaided into his car and escape detection. By the time he arrives at Chartwell he needs full assistance to leave the car.

His problems continue to mount over the next few days. He is well aware that if the media get hold of this story they will have a field day. He can also see how his political rivals circle round him like vultures by a carcass. If he wants to stay as Prime Minister then he absolutely has to somehow recover his health.

The first matter of the media is tackled on Thursday 25th June when the three leading press barons of the day, Lord Beaverbrook, Camrose and Bracken are invited to Chartwell to discuss the Prime Minister’s health. Extraordinarily given the scoop that is at their hands they collectively decide to muzzle their own papers in order to protect the Prime Minister. They also encourage others to do likewise by arguing that the Parliamentary summer recess will allow Winston sufficient time to recuperate.

More difficult negotiations take place on Friday. Winston meets his key adversaries, Lord Salisbury and Butler on Friday at Chartwell. Winston knows he needs their goodwill as either can reveal his condition to the public. He tries to persuade them by suggesting he will leave office in October in favour of Eden. It is dangerous game to appeal to their mixed sympathies and yet it appears to work.

This can best be seen with how both Butler and Salisbury make direct appeals to the Prime Minister’s medical experts, Moran and Sir Russell Brain to alter their original media circular. In the first draft it says Churchill has suffered from ‘a disturbance of the cerebral circulation’. Instead a revised medical bulletin is let out saying the Prime Minister is taking ‘complete rest’ whilst the original comment is cut to stop the general public being aware of how serious his situation is.

Churchill’s problems are not over. On Saturday 27th June key talks about the future of the Conservative Government are held in secret at Chartwell between the key political figures of Butler, Salisbury, Colville and Lascelles, the Queen’s secretary. They agree upon a caretaker government under Lord Salisbury taking over until Eden is in a position to permanently do so.

A suggestion is even put to Churchill that he move to the House of Lords and remain Prime Minister in name only whilst Eden take over effective control from the Commons. He outright rejects the offer and replies with his usual keen sense of wit ‘I should have to be the Duke of Chartwell, and Randulph would be the Marquis of Toodledo’.

The major impediment to a smooth transition of power is the state of Antony Eden. One of Winston’s two main challengers, he is 3,000 miles away in a Boston hospital in America recovering from a botched eight hour operation for his gall bladder that leaves him a 50/50 chance of survival prognosis. His other main rival is Rab Butler, the Chancellor of the Exchequer and he loses his opportunity by vacillating over what to do next rather than aggressively promoting himself and canvassing for support.

None of this matters when Winston’s life becomes touch and go during the weekend of 27/28th June. His health is so poor that his Doctor, Moran tells Colville he is not sure if the Prime Minister will last the weekend. Unable to get out of bed on Saturday morning, his good right hand stiffens and Winston appears to give up hope.

Sunday is a pivotal day in his fortunes. Luckily for him his thrombosis settles so his friends and family, such his wife, Clementine take the opportunity to try to lift his spirits. Winston himself is keen to tough it out. He still has immense resources of mental fortitude and a willingness to fight it out or ‘pig it’ as he likes to say. Rather stupendously he sets himself the goal of walking unaided to his bed. Incredibly he succeeds with much effort and promptly collapses from the sheer exertion.

Keeping the matter of Winston’s health a secret is too much of a burden and so on Monday 31st June more people become aware of how poorly he is when the full cabinet are informed. Grown men cry with shock or have to restrain their emotions to stop themselves from breaking down.

Meantime Winston continues to confound all around him. A remarkable example of his willingness to ‘pig it’ happens on Tuesday 30th June after dinner. It leaves a lasting impression on his colleague, Brook. This time round Winston is in the drawing room and sets himself the goal of standing upright without aid from a chair. All are scared for him so they try to stop him from doing it. He warns them away with his stick so they position themselves on either side of him. With enormous effort he begins to rise, sweat glistening down his face. Finally he stands upright. Content he then sits down and has a cigar to relax. It leaves a lasting impression on all witnessing it. Brook felt that ‘as he had done for the nation in 1940, so he did for his own life in 1953. He was determined to recover’.

Indeed he slowly gets better and on the following weekend of the 4th and 5th of July an evident upward swing begins. Churchill takes his first short walk unaided. In addition to a great deal of pain it also gives him a shot of sorely needed confidence and from then on he slowly makes a recovery.

All the time the public remain ignorant of to his condition. They only become enlightened a full year later during a speech by none other than Winston himself when he lets it slip as a casual aside in a House of Commons debate.

Source by Peter Strafford

from Home Solutions Forev https://homesolutionsforev.com/the-secret-heart-attack-of-prime-minister-winston-churchill-in-1953/ via Home Solutions on WordPress from Home Solutions FOREV https://homesolutionsforev.tumblr.com/post/184569739240 via Tim Clymer on Wordpress

[homesolutionsforev]

The Secret Heart Attack of Prime Minister Winston Churchill in 1953

Picture the following scene. The Prime Minister has suffered a massive heart attack. A handful of people know this. The Prime Minister may well have to resign if news breaks out, both as leader of the country and his party and a General Election will then have to be called. What will you do? This is the very decision that has to be answered in 1953 by the Prime Minister’s closest confidants.

There is little forewarning. On 23 June 1953 a Downing Street dinner is held for the Italian Prime Minister, Alcide de Gaspieri and Prime Minister, Winston Churchill. The evening begins well with Churchill delivering yet another witty speech joking about the Roman conquest of Britain. Later it starts to taper off as he rapidly deteriorates in health. Barely able to move he holds the hand of his close friend, Jane Clark and whispers ‘I want the hand of a friend. They put too much on me, Foreign Affairs… ‘ and then his voice trails off.

No respite occurs. Those who hope it is just a small attack like the one he suffered in Southern France in 1949 are disappointed. Churchill’s condition is so bad that at one point the aptly named neurologist, Sir Russell Brain doubts whether his patient will live another year.

It later transpires he has suffered a massive heart attack and yet incredibly he struggles on. The next day he even manages to conduct a Cabinet meeting. Some cabinet colleagues note he looks rather pale and white but the only sign something is amiss happens when he requests that ‘Harold, you might draw down the blind a little, will you?’.

The pain that Churchill endures with the loss of function in his left arm, leg and the left side of his face is intolerable. Eventually he capitulates and with reluctance decides to retire to his home at Chartwell for recuperation on Thursday morning. He leaves at noon from No.10 for Chartwell. He is in full glaring view of the public and media and yet somehow manages to walk unaided into his car and escape detection. By the time he arrives at Chartwell he needs full assistance to leave the car.

His problems continue to mount over the next few days. He is well aware that if the media get hold of this story they will have a field day. He can also see how his political rivals circle round him like vultures by a carcass. If he wants to stay as Prime Minister then he absolutely has to somehow recover his health.

The first matter of the media is tackled on Thursday 25th June when the three leading press barons of the day, Lord Beaverbrook, Camrose and Bracken are invited to Chartwell to discuss the Prime Minister’s health. Extraordinarily given the scoop that is at their hands they collectively decide to muzzle their own papers in order to protect the Prime Minister. They also encourage others to do likewise by arguing that the Parliamentary summer recess will allow Winston sufficient time to recuperate.

More difficult negotiations take place on Friday. Winston meets his key adversaries, Lord Salisbury and Butler on Friday at Chartwell. Winston knows he needs their goodwill as either can reveal his condition to the public. He tries to persuade them by suggesting he will leave office in October in favour of Eden. It is dangerous game to appeal to their mixed sympathies and yet it appears to work.

This can best be seen with how both Butler and Salisbury make direct appeals to the Prime Minister’s medical experts, Moran and Sir Russell Brain to alter their original media circular. In the first draft it says Churchill has suffered from ‘a disturbance of the cerebral circulation’. Instead a revised medical bulletin is let out saying the Prime Minister is taking ‘complete rest’ whilst the original comment is cut to stop the general public being aware of how serious his situation is.

Churchill’s problems are not over. On Saturday 27th June key talks about the future of the Conservative Government are held in secret at Chartwell between the key political figures of Butler, Salisbury, Colville and Lascelles, the Queen’s secretary. They agree upon a caretaker government under Lord Salisbury taking over until Eden is in a position to permanently do so.

A suggestion is even put to Churchill that he move to the House of Lords and remain Prime Minister in name only whilst Eden take over effective control from the Commons. He outright rejects the offer and replies with his usual keen sense of wit ‘I should have to be the Duke of Chartwell, and Randulph would be the Marquis of Toodledo’.

The major impediment to a smooth transition of power is the state of Antony Eden. One of Winston’s two main challengers, he is 3,000 miles away in a Boston hospital in America recovering from a botched eight hour operation for his gall bladder that leaves him a 50/50 chance of survival prognosis. His other main rival is Rab Butler, the Chancellor of the Exchequer and he loses his opportunity by vacillating over what to do next rather than aggressively promoting himself and canvassing for support.

None of this matters when Winston’s life becomes touch and go during the weekend of 27/28th June. His health is so poor that his Doctor, Moran tells Colville he is not sure if the Prime Minister will last the weekend. Unable to get out of bed on Saturday morning, his good right hand stiffens and Winston appears to give up hope.

Sunday is a pivotal day in his fortunes. Luckily for him his thrombosis settles so his friends and family, such his wife, Clementine take the opportunity to try to lift his spirits. Winston himself is keen to tough it out. He still has immense resources of mental fortitude and a willingness to fight it out or ‘pig it’ as he likes to say. Rather stupendously he sets himself the goal of walking unaided to his bed. Incredibly he succeeds with much effort and promptly collapses from the sheer exertion.

Keeping the matter of Winston’s health a secret is too much of a burden and so on Monday 31st June more people become aware of how poorly he is when the full cabinet are informed. Grown men cry with shock or have to restrain their emotions to stop themselves from breaking down.

Meantime Winston continues to confound all around him. A remarkable example of his willingness to ‘pig it’ happens on Tuesday 30th June after dinner. It leaves a lasting impression on his colleague, Brook. This time round Winston is in the drawing room and sets himself the goal of standing upright without aid from a chair. All are scared for him so they try to stop him from doing it. He warns them away with his stick so they position themselves on either side of him. With enormous effort he begins to rise, sweat glistening down his face. Finally he stands upright. Content he then sits down and has a cigar to relax. It leaves a lasting impression on all witnessing it. Brook felt that ‘as he had done for the nation in 1940, so he did for his own life in 1953. He was determined to recover’.

Indeed he slowly gets better and on the following weekend of the 4th and 5th of July an evident upward swing begins. Churchill takes his first short walk unaided. In addition to a great deal of pain it also gives him a shot of sorely needed confidence and from then on he slowly makes a recovery.

All the time the public remain ignorant of to his condition. They only become enlightened a full year later during a speech by none other than Winston himself when he lets it slip as a casual aside in a House of Commons debate.

Source by Peter Strafford

from Home Solutions Forev https://homesolutionsforev.com/the-secret-heart-attack-of-prime-minister-winston-churchill-in-1953/ via Home Solutions on WordPress

[drdonckeandmdposts-blog]

IF THE WORD DUTY WAS EVER PERSONIFIED, Major General Patrick Ronayne Cleburne was the carrying vessel. Do you admire individuals who carry deep convictions? How about one who exemplified his convictions in action, while also accepting the repercussions both good and bad? Patrick Cleburne's is an intriguing story of an Irish Immigrant who struggled in sheer determination to make his way in life. Cleburne rises through the military ranks as a non West Point Graduate to become a gallant Major General whose men adored him. This is a true story of what hard work and determination can accomplish.                             Patrick Cleburne was born in Ovens, County Cork, Ireland, on March 16, 1828, at Bride Park Cottage to Joseph Cleburne, a doctor, and Mary Anne Ronayne Cleburne. He was the third child and second son of a Protestant, middle-class family that included 2 brothers and a sister.  His mother died when he was eighteen months old  His father remarried Isabella Stewart and there were three half-siblings born to this union: Isabella, Robert, and Christopher. At age eight, the family moved to Grange Farm, near Ballincollig. While residing their Cleburne attended Church of Ireland Reverend William Spedding’s boarding school. His father would pass away unexpectedly of typhus in November 1843, having contracted it from a patient. “Ronayne,” as the family called him, was expected to carry on in the family profession of medicine. Cleburne's formative years while a child in Ireland were critical in the formation of a very grim and determined man. 19th century Ireland  was a land ruled by feudal landlords who would drive their non rent paying tenants away with the bayonet. He attempted to become a physician and apprenticed for two years in an apothecary. When he failed the entrance exam at Trinity College, Dublin, he could not dare to face his family. Thus he enlisted in the 41st Foot in the British army. He found army life in Dublin to be extremely mundane. For three and a half years, Cleburne was posted at a barracks in famine-stricken Ireland. He served during the turbulent months of the 1848 Young Ireland Rebellion and was promoted to corporal on July 1, 1849. The 1840s were years of extreme political and social unrest in Ireland. The crisis deepened after the Irish potato crop failed in 1846. Relations between landlords and tenant laborers deteriorated quickly. Laborers, who usually paid in potatoes, could not pay their rents. Landlords then demanded cash for rent, but with no crop to sell landlords had no cash. It was a vicious cycle that erupted in widespread violence. Hungry, desperate laborers revolted and some landlords were murdered. Cleburne’s regiment was assigned to assist local police in evicting tenants that could not pay. He found himself in the position of guarding food from his fellow countrymen to protect his own social class and the oppressive English government. The famine continued and thousands died in poverty in their homes, by the roadside and in the streets. It is estimated that up to 500 people died in Cork City per week, Food riots and looting increased. Cleburne returned home to find his own family farm in arrears for six months rent. On September 22, 1849, he paid £20 for his discharge from the army and received his papers. In the space left on the discharge for a statement of character was written, “A good soldier.” Cleburne kept the paper for the rest of his life.                                                                                  Cleburne and his family decided to journey to a new life in America in the decade before The American Civil War. Cleburne loved his new country. His family would split up as job opportunity presented soon after arrival in America. Patrick would eventually land in frontier Helena Arkansas poulation 600. Just months later he learned that two physicians in Helena, Arkansas Hector Grant and Charles Nash needed a druggist to manage their store. Nash told Cleburne they needed a competent prescriptionist who could manage the entire shop. In a month, Cleburne had brought complete order to and become the manager of the Grant and Nash Drugstore. As compensation he received $50 a month, a room in the back of the shop, and meals he took with Dr. Grant. He would eventually through grit and diligence earn his way to become a full partnered small businessman. He then dedicated himself to the study of becoming a lawyer. He would soon after be selected a delegate to the Democratic Convention in 1858. Cleburne never owned slaves and often voiced his opposition to the institution. Yet he strongly valued the right and desire of a section of the country to govern itself. Once the American Civil War begins, Cleburne joins the Confederacy purely out of an adoration and loyalty for a society that accepted him and simply gave him a chance. Much of his philosophy was based on witnessing the Irish fight for independence in his homeland.                                                                                            After enlisting He quoted; "If this [Confederacy] that is so dear to my heart is doomed to fail, I pray heaven may let me fall with it, while my face is toward the enemy and my arm battling for that which I know to be right.”  Sadly, that wish would tragically be fulfilled.   The Yell Rifles were formed in the state to become part of the First Arkansas Volunteer Infantry Regiment. Cleburne was elected it's colonel. The First Arkansas was attached to the Army of Tennessee, the main Confederate force in the western theater. Cleburne was promoted to brigadier general in March 1862, and participated in the Battle of Shiloh in April and in the 1862 Kentucky Campaign. At the Battle of Richmond, Kentucky, on August 30, Cleburne was struck in the face by shrapnel and forced to leave the field. He remained away from the army until his recovery six weeks later, He returned to duty for the Battle of Perryville in October. On December 14, 1862, he was promoted to major general. He then commanded at Stones River. During 1863, Cleburne participated in major battles at Chickamauga and Missionary Ridge. On November 27, 1863, his division made a critical stand at Ringgold Gap, Georgia, while as the rearguard protecting the retreating Confederate army. His scant division of 4,000 men managed to fiercely hold back 15,000 of General Joseph Hooker’s Union troops. Cleburne received a Congressional citation from the Confederate Government for his brilliant performance. On January 2, 1864, Cleburne made his most controversial decision ever. He gathered the corps and division commanders in the Army of Tennessee to present a very radical yet extreemely logical proposal. The Confederacy was unable to fill its ranks due to a lack of manpower. Cleburne's correct yet politically charged "Memorial" was designed with the idea to arm the southern slaves for Confederate military service in exchange for their freedom. It was most thoughtfully and brilliantly crafted. However the proposal was not well received at all. Most knew that it was a political time bomb that would stir great controversy. In fact, Jefferson Davis directed that the proposal be suppressed. It was met with so much controversy that it virtually scuttled any chance of Cleburne's further promotion in the ranks. Here is a copy of the full text:                                                                                                                               Commanding General, The Corps, Division, Brigade, and Regimental Commanders of the Army of Tennessee General:

Moved by the exigency in which our country is now placed we take the liberty of laying before you, unofficially, our views on the present state of affairs. The subject is so grave, and our views so new, we feel it a duty both to you and the cause that before going further we should submit them for your judgment and receive your suggestions in regard to them  We therefore respectfully ask you to give us an expression of your views in the premises. We have now been fighting for nearly three years, have spilled much of our best blood, and lost, consumed, or thrown to the flames an amount of property equal in value to the specie currency of the world. Through some lack in our system the fruits of our struggles and sacrifices have invariably slipped away from us and left us nothing but long lists of dead and mangled.  Instead of standing defiantly on the borders of our territory or harassing those of the enemy, we are hemmed in to-day into less than two-thirds of it, and still the enemy menacingly confronts us at every point with superior forces. Our soldiers can see no end to this state of affairs except in our own exhaustion; hence, instead of rising to the occasion, they are sinking into a fatal apathy, growing weary of hardships and slaughters which promise no results. In this state of things it is easy to understand why there is a growing belief that some black catastrophe is not far ahead of us, and that unless some extraordinary change is soon made in our condition we must overtake it. The consequences of this condition are showing themselves more plainly every day; restlessness of morals spreading everywhere, manifesting itself in the army in a growing disregard for private rights; desertion spreading to a class of soldiers it never dared to tamper with before; military commissions sinking in the estimation of the soldier; our supplies failing; our firesides in ruins. If this state continues much longer we must be subjugated. Every man should endeavor to understand the meaning of subjugation before it is too late. We can give but a faint idea when we say it means the loss of all we now hold most sacred — slaves and all other personal property, lands, homesteads, liberty, justice, safety, pride, manhood. It means that the history of this heroic struggle will be written by the enemy; that our youth will be trained by Northern school teachers; will learn from Northern school books their version of the war; will be impressed by all the influences of history and education to regard our gallant dead as traitors, our maimed veterans as fit objects for derision. It means the crushing of Southern manhood, the hatred of our former slaves, who will, on a spy system, be our secret police. The conqueror’s policy is to divide the conquered into factions and stir up animosity among them, and in training an army of negroes the North no doubt holds this thought in perspective. We can see three great causes operating to destroy us: First, the inferiority of our armies to those of the enemy in point of numbers; second, the poverty of our single source of supply in comparison with his several sources; third, the fact that slavery, from being one of our chief sources of strength at the commencement of the war, has now become, in a military point of view, one of our chief sources of weakness.

The enemy already opposes us at every point with superior numbers, and is endeavoring to make the preponderance irresistible. President Davis, in his recent message, says the enemy “has recently ordered a large conscription and made a subsequent call for volunteers, to be followed, if ineffectual by a still further draft.” In addition, the President of the United States announces that “he has already in training an army of 100,000 negroes as good as any troops,” and every fresh raid he makes and new slice of territory he wrests from us will add to this force. Every soldier in our army already knows and feels our numerical inferiority to the enemy. Want of men in the field has prevented him from reaping the fruits of his victories, and has prevented him from having the furlough he expected after the last reorganization, and when he turns from the wasting armies in the field to look at the source of supply, he finds nothing in the prospect to encourage him. Our single source of supply is that portion of our white men fit for duty and not now in the ranks. The enemy has three sources of supply: First, his own motley population; secondly, our slaves; and thirdly, Europeans whose hearts are fired into a crusade against us by fictitious pictures of the atrocities of slavery, and who meet no hindrance from their Governments in such enterprise, because these Governments are equally antagonistic to the institution. In touching the third cause, the fact that slavery has become a military weakness, we may rouse prejudice and passion, but the time has come when it would be madness not to look at our danger from every point of view, and to probe it to the bottom. Apart from the assistance that home and foreign prejudice against slavery has given to the North, slavery is a source of great strength to the enemy in a purely military point of view, by supplying him with an army from our granaries; but it is our most vulnerable point, a continued embarrassment, and in some respects an insidious weakness. Wherever slavery is once seriously disturbed, whether by the actual presence or the approach of the enemy, or even by a cavalry raid, the whites can no longer with safety to their property openly sympathize with our cause. The fear of their slaves is continually haunting them, and from silence and apprehension many of these soon learn to wish the war stopped on any terms. The next stage is to take the oath to save property, and they become dead to us, if not open enemies. To prevent raids we are forced to scatter our forces, and are not free to move and strike like the enemy; his vulnerable points are carefully selected and fortified depots. Ours are found in every point where there is a slave to set free. All along the lines slavery is comparatively valueless to us for labor, but of great and increasing worth to the enemy for information. It is an omnipresent spy system, pointing out our valuable men to the enemy, revealing our positions, purposes, and resources, and yet acting so safely and secretly that there is no means to guard against it. Even in the heart of our country, where our hold upon this secret espionage is firmest, it waits but the opening fire of the enemy’s battle line to wake it, like a torpid serpent, into venomous activity.

In view of the state of affairs what does our country propose to do? In the words of President Davis “no effort must be spared to add largely to our effective force as promptly as possible. The sources of supply are to be found in restoring to the army all who are improperly absent, putting an end to substitution, modifying the exemption law, restricting details, and placing in the ranks such of the able-bodied men now employed as wagoners, nurses, cooks, and other employe[e]s, as are doing service for which the negroes may be found competent.” Most of the men improperly absent, together with many of the exempts and men having substitutes, are now without the Confederate lines and cannot be calculated on. If all the exempts capable of bearing arms were enrolled, it will give us the boys below eighteen, the men above forty-five, and those persons who are left at home to meet the wants of the country and the army, but this modification of the exemption law will remove from the fields and manufactories most of the skill that directed agricultural and mechanical labor, and, as stated by the President, “details will have to be made to meet the wants of the country,” thus sending many of the men to be derived from this source back to their homes again. Independently of this, experience proves that striplings and men above conscript age break down and swell the sick lists more than they do the ranks. The portion now in our lines of the class who have substitutes is not on the whole a hopeful element, for the motives that created it must have been stronger than patriotism, and these motives added to what many of them will call breach of faith, will cause some to be not forthcoming, and others to be unwilling and discontented soldiers. The remaining sources mentioned by the President have been so closely pruned in the Army of Tennessee that they will be found not to yield largely.  The supply from all these sources, together with what we now have in the field, will exhaust the white race, and though it should greatly exceed expectations and put us on an equality with the enemy, or even give us temporary advantages, still we have no reserve to meet unexpected disaster or to supply a protracted struggle. Like past years, 1864 will diminish our ranks by the casualties of war, and what source of repair is there left us?  We therefore see in the recommendations of the President only a temporary expedient, which at the best will leave us twelve months hence in the same predicament we are in now. The President attempts to meet only one of the depressing causes mentioned; for the other two he has proposed no remedy. They remain to generate lack of confidence in our final success, and to keep us moving down hill as heretofore. Adequately to meet the causes which are now threatening ruin to our country, we propose, in addition to a modification of the President’s plans, that we retain in service for the war all troops now in service, and that we immediately commence training a large reserve of the most courageous of our slaves, and further that we guarantee freedom within a reasonable time to every slave in the South who shall remain true to the Confederacy in this war. As between the loss of independence and the loss of slavery, we assume that every patriot will freely give up the latter — give up the negro slave rather than be a slave himself. If we are correct in this assumption it only remains to show how this great national sacrifice is, in all human probabilities, to change the current of success and sweep the invader from our country.

Our country has already some friends in England and France, and there are strong motives to induce these nations to recognize and assist us, but they cannot assist us without helping slavery, and to do this would be in conflict with their policy for the last quarter of a century.  England has paid hundreds of millions to emancipate her West India slaves and break up the slave-trade. Could she now consistently spend her treasure to reinstate slavery in this country? But this barrier once removed, the sympathy and the interests of these and other nations will accord with our own, and we may expect from them both moral support and material aid. One thing is certain, as soon as the great sacrifice to independence is made and known in foreign countries there will be a complete change of front in our favor of the sympathies of the world. This measure will deprive the North of the moral and material aid which it now derives from the bitter prejudices with which foreigners view the institution, and its war, if continued, will henceforth be so despicable in their eyes that the source of recruiting will be dried up.  It will leave the enemy’s negro army no motive to fight for, and will exhaust the source from which it has been recruited. The idea that it is their special mission to war against slavery has held growing sway over the Northern people for many years, and has at length ripened into an armed and bloody crusade against it. This baleful superstition has so far supplied them with a courage and constancy not their own.  It is the most powerful and honestly entertained plank in their war platform. Knock this away and what is left? A bloody ambition for more territory, a pretended veneration for the Union, which one of their own most distinguished orators (Doctor Beecher in his Liverpool speech) openly avowed was only used as a stimulus to stir up the anti-slavery crusade, and lastly the poisonous and selfish interests which are the fungus growth of the war itself. Mankind may fancy it a great duty to destroy slavery, but what interest can mankind have in upholding this remainder of the Northern war platform? Their interests and feelings will be diametrically opposed to it. The measure we propose will strike dead all John Brown fanaticism, and will compel the enemy to draw off altogether or in the eyes of the world to swallow the Declaration of Independence without the sauce and disguise of philanthropy. This delusion of fanaticism at an end, thousands of Northern people will have leisure to look at home and to see the gulf of despotism into which they themselves are rushing.

The measure will at one blow strip the enemy of foreign sympathy and assistance, and transfer them to the South; it will dry up two of his three sources of recruiting; it will take from his negro army the only motive it could have to fight against the South, and will probably cause much of it to desert over to us; it will deprive his cause of the powerful stimulus of fanaticism, and will enable him to see the rock on which his so-called friends are now piloting him. The immediate effect of the emancipation and enrollment of negroes on the military strength of the South would be: To enable us to have armies numerically superior to those of the North, and a reserve of any size we might think necessary; to enable us to take the offensive, move forward, and forage on the enemy. It would open to us in prospective another and almost untouched source of supply, and furnish us with the means of preventing temporary disaster, and carrying on a protracted struggle.  It would instantly remove all the vulnerability, embarrassment, and inherent weakness which result from slavery. The approach of the enemy would no longer find every household surrounded by spies; the fear that sealed the master’s lips and the avarice that has, in so many cases, tempted him practically to desert us would alike be removed. There would be no recruits awaiting the enemy with open arms, no complete history of every neighborhood with ready guides, no fear of insurrection in the rear, or anxieties for the fate of loved ones when our armies moved forward. The chronic irritation of hope deferred would be joyfully ended with the negro, and the sympathies of his whole race would be due to his native South. It would restore confidence in an early termination of the war with all its inspiring consequences, and even if contrary to all expectations the enemy should succeed in over-running the South, instead of finding a cheap, ready-made means of holding it down, he would find a common hatred and thirst for vengeance, which would break into acts at every favorable opportunity, would prevent him from settling on our lands, and render the South a very unprofitable conquest. It would remove forever all selfish taint from our cause and place independence above every question of property. The very magnitude of the sacrifice itself, such as no nation has ever voluntarily made before, would appal [sic] our enemies, destroy his spirit and his finances, and fill our hearts with a pride and singleness of purpose which would clothe us with new strength in battle. Apart from all other aspects of the question, the necessity for more fighting men is upon us.  We can only get a sufficiency by making the negro share the danger and hardships of the war. If we arm and train him and make him fight for the country in her hour of dire distress, every consideration of principle and policy demand that we should set him and his whole race who side with us free. It is a first principle with mankind that he who offers his life in defense of the State should receive from her in return his freedom and his happiness, and we believe in acknowledgment of this principle. The Constitution of the Southern States has reserved to their respective governments the power to free slaves for meritorious services to the State. It is politic besides. For many years, ever since the agitation of the subject of slavery commenced, the negro has been dreaming of freedom, and his vivid imagination has surrounded that condition with so many gratifications that it has become the paradise of his hopes. To attain it he will tempt dangers and difficulties not exceeded by the bravest soldier in the field. The hope of freedom is perhaps the only moral incentive that can be applied to him in his present condition. It would be preposterous then to expect him to fight against it with any degree of enthusiasm, therefore we must bind him to our cause by no doubtful bonds; we must leave no possible loop-hole for treachery to creep in.  The slaves are dangerous now, but armed, trained, and collected in an army they would be a thousand fold more dangerous; therefore when we make soldiers of them we must make free men of them beyond all question, and thus enlist their sympathies also. We can do this more effectually than the North can now do, for we can give the negro not only his own freedom, but that of his wife and child, and can secure it to him in his old home.  To do this, we must immediately make his marriage and parental relations sacred in the eyes of the law and forbid their sale. The past legislation of the South concedes that a large free middle class of negro blood, between the master and slave, must sooner or later destroy the institution. If, then, we touch the institution at all, we would do best to make the most of it, and by emancipating the whole race upon reasonable terms, and within such reasonable time as will prepare both races for the change, secure to ourselves all the advantages, and to our enemies all the disadvantages that can arise, both at home and abroad, from such a sacrifice.  Satisfy the negro that if he faithfully adheres to our standard during the war he shall receive his freedom and that of his race. Give him as an earnest of our intentions such immediate immunities as will impress him with our sincerity and be in keeping with his new condition, enroll a portion of his class as soldiers of the Confederacy, and we change the race from a dreaded weakness to a position of strength.

Will the slaves fight? The helots of Sparta stood their masters good stead in battle. In the great sea fight of Lepanto where the Christians checked forever the spread of Mohammedanism over Europe, the galley slaves of portions of the fleet were promised freedom, and called on to fight at a critical moment of the battle. They fought well, and civilization owes much to those brave galley slaves. The negro slaves of Saint Domingo, fighting for freedom, defeated their white masters and the French troops sent against them. The negro slaves of Jamaica revolted, and under the name of Maroons held the mountains against their masters for 150 years; and the experience of this war has been so far that half-trained negroes have fought as bravely as many other half-trained Yankees. If, contrary to the training of a lifetime, they can be made to face and fight bravely against their former masters, how much more probable is it that with the allurement of a higher reward, and led by those masters, they would submit to discipline and face dangers.

We will briefly notice a few arguments against this course. It is said Republicanism cannot exist without the institution. Even were this true, we prefer any form of government of which the Southern people may have the molding, to one forced upon us by a conqueror. It is said the white man cannot perform agricultural labor in the South. The experience of this army during the heat of summer from Bowling Green, Ky., to Tupelo, Miss., is that the white man is healthier when doing reasonable work in the open field than at any other time. It is said an army of negroes cannot be spared from the fields. A sufficient number of slaves is now administering to luxury alone to supply the place of all we need, and we believe it would be better to take half the able-bodied men off a plantation than to take the one master mind that economically regulated its operations. Leave some of the skill at home and take some of the muscle to fight with. It is said slaves will not work after they are freed. We think necessity and a wise legislation will compel them to labor for a living. It is said it will cause terrible excitement and some disaffection from our cause. Excitement is far preferable to the apathy which now exists, and disaffection will not be among the fighting men. It is said slavery is all we are fighting for, and if we give it up we give up all. Even if this were true, which we deny, slavery is not all our enemies are fighting for. It is merely the pretense to establish sectional superiority and a more centralized form of government, and to deprive us of our rights and liberties. We have now briefly proposed a plan which we believe will save our country.  It may be imperfect, but in all human probability it would give us our independence. No objection ought to outweigh it which is not weightier than independence. If it is worthy of being put in practice it ought to be mooted quickly before the people, and urged earnestly by every man who believes in its efficacy. Negroes will require much training; training will require much time, and there is danger that this concession to common sense may come too late.

P. R. Cleburne, major-general, commanding division D. C. Govan, brigadier-general John E. Murray, colonel, Fifth Arkansas G. F. Baucum, colonel, Eighth Arkansas Peter Snyder, lieutenant-colonel, commanding Sixth and Seventh Arkansas E. Warfield, lieutenant-colonel, Second Arkansas M. P. Lowrey, brigadier-general A. B. Hardcastle, colonel, Thirty-second and Forty-fifth Mississippi F. A. Ashford, major, Sixteenth Alabama John W. Colquitt, colonel, First Arkansas Rich. J. Person, major, Third and Fifth Confederate G. S. Deakins, major, Thirty-fifth and Eighth Tennessee J. H. Collett, captain, commanding Seventh Texas J. H. Kelly, brigadier-general, commanding Cavalry Division                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Patrick Cleburne was a very shy and unassuming figure with a quiet determined inner drive. Yet he carried an undeniable emanation of authority and competence about him. He was extremely introverted, often avoiding social situations. He was extremely shy around women. That would change abruptly on January 13, 1864. Cleburne acted as best man at the wedding of close friend and superior commander William Hardee to Mary Lewis Forman near Demopolis, Alabama. There he first laid eyes on twenty-four year old Susan Tarleton, maid of honor to her best friend, “Mollie” Lewis. The wedding guests left the next morning by steamboat for Mobile, where Cleburne spent the remainder of his furlough, his first since the war began. Their he proposed to Susan only days after meeting her. She hesitated in her decision but did not discourage him. In February, he received another furlough and returned to Mobile. He later wrote to a friend, “After keeping me in cruel suspense for six weeks she has at length consented to be mine and we are engaged. I need not say how miserable this has made me.” A fall wedding seems to have been planned.                                                                                                          Unfortunately, the war woulde come between Cleburne and Susan Tarleton after he departed Mobile in early March 1864. They would never see each other again. Like countless other soldiers and their loved ones back home, the couple tried to stay in touch by mail. The shy, formal, no-nonsense general would reveal another side of his character in his letters to Miss Tarleton. The letters, said aide Leonard Mangum, “were often revelations, even to one who knew him well, as to the depth of his feelings. Devoid of all approach to sentimentality, they were full of a most sweet and tender passion."                                                                                                         Before the tragic and fatal charge at the bloody Battle of Franklin Tennessee that Cleburne seemed to know would be his last he reluctantly but bravely did his duty. Despite seeing the futility of a successful assault, he accepted his final order, stating to his superior commander Lt. General John Bell Hood, "I will take the enemy's works or fall in the attempt." His closest aide stated, "Well General there will not be many of us that get back to Arkansas." Cleburne's response: "Well Govan, if we are to die, then let us die like men." Govan would survive the blody morass to see Arkansas once again. But by that day’s end, in the words of his former Adjutant Captain Irving A. Buck, ‘the inspiring voice of Cleburne was already hushed in death’                                                                     Cleburne rode to a site called Breezy Hill just before deployment of his division and surveyed the Union defenses down on the Harpeth River that flowed through the once sleepy town of Franklin. As he peered through a borrowed snipers telescope he spoke aloud to no one in particular, "They have three lines of works." "And they are all completed." "They are most formidable." Cleburne advanced on horseback in a charge with his men directly into the center of the Union Line. The horse that bore him was shot from under him. Asking to borrow another, Cleburne placed his feet in the stirrups to mount just as that animal was struck by a cannonball and killed. Cleburne drew his sword and charged on foot at the center of the line where he could see the Bonnie Blue Flag being raised on the parapet. He was struck some 50 yards from the trench line by a bullet in the heart and died instantly. Major-General Patrick Ronanyne Cleburne's body was taken to nearby Carnton plantation. He was lain out for morning on the porch along with General John Adams, General Hiram Granbury, and General Otho Strahl, all who perished in the bloody trenches at Franklin. He was initially interred at Rose Hill near Franklin. His body was soon moved to St. John’s Church, Ashwood, Tennessee. Cleburne had passed this cemetery just days earlier during the advance into Tennessee and remarked that it was ‘almost worth dying for, to be buried in such a beautiful spot’. In 1870 his body would be moved once again for the final time, this time returning to his adopted State in Arkansas, where he remains in Maple Hill Cemetery, Helena.                                                                                                           Back in Mobile, Susan Tarleton waited anxiously for any kind of word from the man she loved dearly. Union raiding parties had cut all telegraph lines into the city. Six days after the Battle of Franklin, as she walked in her garden she heard a passing newsboy shout: “Big battle near Franklin, Tennessee! General Cleburne killed! Read all about it.” She fainted dead away. After spending a year confined to her bedroom in “deepest mourning,” Susan Tarleton reluctantly re-entered life. In 1867 she married Captain Hugh L. Cole, a former Confederate officer and an old college friend of her brother’s. Less than a year later, she died unexpectedly of an apparent brain effusion. While growing up in Ireland Patrick Cleburne learned valuable lessons of the harsh realitys that life often presented. He also developed an incredible work ethic. While in the British army, he had learned patience, discipline, self-control, and how to live a life of self-denial. He also came to deeply appreciate the position and suffering of those at the mercy of tyrannical authority in the form of a far too powerful central government. Those lessons served him well as the leader of the men he drilled and prepared to go into battle with. Duty is not just following orders. It is seeing that some ideals and some causes are bigger than one's self, and duty in its deepest sense is the following orders that one does not always agree with. One of his closest friends, Lt Gen. William J. Hardee said of Cleburne after his death, "He was an Irishman by birth, a southerner by adoption and residence, a lawyer by profession, a soldier in the British army by accident, and a soldier in the southern armies from patriotism and conviction of duty in his manhood."