Exiled to the Island of Lost Souls

Napoléon à Sainte-Hélène, by Francois-Joseph Sandmann.

London, July-August, 2014. After being cast out, I awoke two weeks later to find myself planted in a chair at a Starbucks on the Island of Lost Souls. Physically, I’m sure I was there, but my mind was hundreds of miles away.

They say it takes one to know one. That could explain why I could see a legion of similarly discarded middle-aged men planted at tables just staring into the abyss. Like me, their coffees untouched in front of them, getting ever colder as the ghosts of their pasts floated by their mind’s eyes.

I was haunted by the ghostly apparitions of my sons. They were everywhere, in every teenage boy’s face, in every dream cum nightmare. I had one strange vision either during my sleep or during my waking slumber – I found myself staring at a photo of my oldest, my first born, when he was about 16. As I stared, I could see his face shifting backward in time. From the pimply faced teen through the years right to his very first breath.



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