Hugh W. Roberts

Why Do We Not Like Talking About Death?

Published on Aug 19, 2019Jan 23, 2022 by Hugh W. Roberts129 Comments

In September 2015, when my mother passed away, both my brother and I were with her as she took her final breath. I remember thinking how beautiful she was. She’d been in a deep sleep for nearly a week and, over that week, she seemed to age quickly. But during the last ten minutes of her life, beauty and youth came back to her.

Can people nearing death hear us?

The medical staff told us to talk to Mum while she slept. ‘She’ll hear you’, were their words, but how could they have known? Had they once been near death’s door where they witnessed the voices of those still living, or had somebody who had experienced near-death told them what happens?

#family — My mother and grandmother. Taken January 1962 ©hughsviewsandnews.com

We took their advice and talked to Mum as if she was sitting there having tea and biscuits with us. However, occasionally, general chit-chat turned to tears as we told her how much we loved her and to go on her way with whoever was waiting for her. But how did we know that somebody was waiting for her?

Twelve hours earlier, Mum had briefly opened her eyes and looked up at me. I spoke to her and wondered if she knew who I was. I didn’t tell her who I was but made sure I told her that I loved her.

Having suffered from dementia for the last five years of her life, I asked myself if her condition was still stopping her from recognising me, and if she saw me as a stranger?

When she looked into my eyes, squeezed my hand gently and smiled, before closing her eyes again, I thought I knew the answer. However, years on, I still wonder if I did have the answer. Why? Because I didn’t have any proof of who she saw when she had looked up at me. However, at least she did know that she was loved.

Do books and movies hold the secrets to death?

Maybe the answers are in the fiction we read and watch? After all, whenever we read a book or watch a movie, are we witnessing what the author or authors believe about death?

When we read about a person being at ‘death’s door’, or watching a film where a death occurs, is the author sharing some of their experiences with us from a previous life they can’t quite remember?

What about those who claim to have witnessed the bright light that appears when they were near death? Are they talking from experience, or is it guesswork? Even if only a tiny amount of what they tell us happens, are they telling us what they have witnessed, or are they merely portraying it?

Do the lights go off when we die?

Is knowing you’re about to die, a gift?

Death is something many of us find difficult to talk about. When my step-father asked me to help him organise funeral plans for both him and my mother, it was something I didn’t want to talk about with him. I felt uneasy having to discuss it with him.

He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have any problems in asking me to help him put the funeral plans into place. He’d already decided which company he wanted to use, how much he wanted to spend, and what would happen on the day.

After I agreed to help him, I wondered why he had chosen that time to ask for my help. He had, after all, been thinking about death because he already knew which company he wanted to use and what both funerals should include. Nine months later, he suffered a heart attack and passed away. Did he know that the actual day of his death was nearing?

Are the displays of death as beautiful as the displays of life?

Have I made any plans for my death? No. Why? There’s something about death that I don’t like talking about, yet here I am discussing it with you.

Talking about death makes people uneasy. None of us wants that, do we? However, in some circumstances, shouldn’t the discussion make us feel happy that it’s out in the open?

If talking about death takes pressure off others, why do we still not want to talk about it?

I knew that my step-father was glad when I helped him organise his and my mother’s funerals. He knew that nobody had anything to worry about when he and my mother passed away. It was all paid for, and nobody had to do anything apart from pick up a phone, and report their deaths.

Everything was taken care of. My step-father was happy, and I should be happy because some of the pressure he’d experienced with death was something I wouldn’t have to go through.

If Hell is below us, why do we still bury some of the dead in the ground?

Can only the dead answer the questions we have of death?

Do you ever wonder who the last person will be that you will see before closing your eyes and allowing death to take you on your next journey? Is there another journey after death? Are there journeys for all of us, none of us, or just some of us?

Some of us still have a birthday to look forward to this year, while the rest of us may be looking forward to a birthday next year. But what about our death day? During the last 12 months, we’ve all passed the date in the month we are going to depart this world (our death-day). Do you ever wonder about that date, knowing that it passes you by every single year?

Does not knowing the date of our death day make us better people or make our lives any more comfortable? If you knew the date of your death-day, would you change anything about the way you live your life? Would you ensure you became a better person and made the most of every single moment of your life?

Do we become isolated when we die?

Would you visit those you seldom see more often knowing that you may soon lose the chance ever to see them again?

Like my step-father did, would you ensure that loved ones are taken care of by preparing for your death? As well as celebrating a birthday, shouldn’t we all celebrate our death day?

Has the location of our death already been chosen for us?

I’ve often wondered about the place where I am going to die. Is that place already somewhere I know or is it somewhere I’ve yet to visit? Will it be at home? Will it be in a shop, theatre, cinema or a bar? What season will it occur? What day of the week will it be? Perhaps, Friday (the day I was born)?

Will I be with others who all have the same death-day as me, or will I be on my own? I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be alone when death approaches me. I want to be with people (just as I was on the day I was born).

I’m not sure about being surrounded by my family and friends at the time of my death. I don’t like the thought of them watching me pass away. It wouldn’t be fair to them, would it?

However, being surrounded by total strangers seem alright. I wonder if those strangers are already in my life or if I’ve yet to encounter them?

I don’t like to think about myself dying in a hospital bed or on a beautiful beach in full sun. Although I love living by the sea, the feel of sand on my skin is something I’ve never been fond of experiencing, yet its beauty attracts me.

Can I become a rainbow when I die?

I do like the thought of dying while sitting in front of the TV, especially if what I am watching is making me laugh or feel happy.

Does the way we’d like to die change as we grow older?

When I was younger, the thought of passing away while in a passionate embrace was something I thought was one of the best ways to die. However, as I grew older, I started to think about how unfortunate it would be for the person with me at the time. Now, I wouldn’t want to find myself in that position. Would you?

Final thoughts

When I pass away, will anything or anybody replace me? How do I convince people not to be sad that I am no longer here? I want them to celebrate my life, not my death. Does grief have to come hand-in-hand with death? Even if it is a stranger who has just entered my life when I close my eyes for the final time, and sadness will be erased away by time, won’t it?

There is something about death that I do know. While we are still here, we should do all we can to ensure that the sadness that often comes with death is not the kind that buries its roots deeply into those that we leave behind.

Do the dead leave us behind, or are we leaving them behind?

Front Page Splash #flashfiction

Published on Jun 12, 2019Dec 29, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts38 Comments

London, May 1965

All his fears had come true. Had it been worth it? Yes. But here it was splashed all over the front pages of every newspaper.

As a single, 33-year-old, man who had just been elected as a member of parliament, the woman he had slept with had done all the hard work in persuading him to have a sexual relationship with her. He wondered how long it would be before the police came to arrest him.

As he lay back on the bed, he questioned if there was a parallel universe where heterosexuality was not illegal.

Written in response to the 99-word flash fiction challenge with the theme of ‘splash’, hosted by Charli Mills at the Carrot Ranch.

Image Credit: Charli Mills

Click here to join hundreds of other writers who have taken up the challenge.

Note: The Sexual Offences Act 1967 is an Act of Parliament in the United Kingdom (citation 1967 c. 60). It decriminalised homosexual acts in private between two men, both of whom had to have attained the age of 21.

The Global Warming Effect #flashfiction

Published on Jun 3, 2019Dec 29, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts39 Comments

Strawberries and mint! She’d forgotten to order them.

The local shop was too far away to go and get any before her first guests arrived.

A few years ago, she would have gone out into her garden and picked both. How sad that the return of global warming had since not only turned her green garden into a dusty, bone-dry desert but had also robbed her of her love for gardening.

Looking out of her kitchen window, onto the vast martian landscape, she asked herself again if the human race would ever learn the lessons of their past mistakes.

Written in response to the 99-word flash fiction challenge with the theme of ‘strawberries and mint’, hosted by Charli Mills at the Carrot Ranch.

Click here to join hundreds of other writers who have taken up the challenge.

David And The Monster

Published on May 28, 2019Dec 29, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts41 Comments

All had been quiet in David’s garden. In fact, everything was perfect. Even all the people he’d just been chatting to around the big table had seemed happy.

However, after a particularly busy morning, he’d come out into his back garden to get some fresh air and to take in the perfection he thought he had created over the last six years.

While walking into some shade, to stop the hot sun from melting his face (climate change was something else David needed to tackle), the beautiful little house, he liked to call his ‘man cave’, had come into view.

He hadn’t been down there for some time, ever since he had discovered the monster at the bottom of his garden. His so-called friend, Nigel, had claimed he had created the monster. How David had managed to get Nigel’s horrible monster into his ‘man cave’ all on his own, he had no idea.

“Should I go and listen by the door?” David had asked himself. “It should be dead by now because it hasn’t eaten anything since I locked it in there.”

Creeping quickly towards the door of his man cave (to stop the sun melting his face), David had put his ear close to the door and listened intensely, but all he had heard was birdsong and the faint sound of traffic.

“Hello. Are you dead, Mr Monster?” David had whispered, but his question had been met with no response from inside the man cave.

Taking a key out of his trouser pocket, David had carefully unlocked the door and turned the handle. As it had creaked open, the monster inside had made its move and burst through. It wasn’t long before David had been gobbled up and never heard from again.

“Yum, yum” the Brexit Monster had growled, “a tasty human man. I do hope my next meal is a female human.”

***

(Almost) Three years later

All had been quiet in Theresa’s garden. In fact, in her eyes, everything was going to be perfect. But what was in that strange little building, the previous owner, David, had called his man cave, at the bottom of the garden of 10 Downing Street?

Written in response to the #writephoto challenge hosted by Sue Vincent at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo.

Growing Older

Published on May 14, 2019Dec 29, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts45 Comments

She sat, watching the world around her getting older, her included. It had been a rather tough day and she disliked what ageing did to her.

I may be wiser, she thought, but I feel like I’m on my last few breaths before I leave this world again. I don’t want to go, but know it is time to move on.

As she sat back to take in the last sight of the world she loved, a door behind her opened and slammed loudly.

“Move over, Saturday. The day of rest has arrived. See you in a week’s time.”

Written in response to the 99-word flash fiction challenge with the theme of ‘growing older’, hosted by Charli Mills at the Carrot Ranch.

Click here to join hundreds of other writers who have taken up the challenge.

Hot Dates

Published on May 9, 2019Dec 29, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts72 Comments

Warning – adult content.

He was the perfect example of everything she’d been looking for. With the body of Adonis and the smile of Casanova, Mary Daniels knew she was in for a good time.

He had sat her down on the bed and allowed her to undo the buttons on the white dress shirt he wore. Something down below had stirred within her as she undid the fifth button and got a glimpse at what lay beneath the white shirt. Not yet, she had told herself, let the excitement build and take in every single second of the anticipation of what was to come.

When she had looked up into his dark eyes, as she undid the last visible button of his shirt, she had imaged that he was communicating with her telepathically. ‘Go on’, said his voice in her head, ‘pull up the remainder of my shirt so you can undo the final few buttons.’

As Mary Daniels pulled up his shirt and undid the last few buttons, the passion inside her had almost exploded. After watching him slowly removing the expensive, gold cufflinks that had held the shirt cuffs in place, she had stood up and gently pushed the shirt off his shoulders. Before her had stood absolute perfection.

Having pushed her back onto the bed, Mary had watched as the hunk undid the belt of his trousers. She had slowly licked her lips as his trousers dropped to the floor revealing a weapon of mass destruction behind a pair of black, Lonsdale boxer shorts. He really must have found her as attractive as she did him if he was going to use it on her.

Several minutes later as he picked up the $500 left on the bedside table of the hotel room, Mary Daniels was dead.

As he dressed, no emotions passed through his mechanical brain. His job was to now get the money back to his creator, change his appearance by shift-shaping, and await the next call to the ‘Hot Dates’ Escort Agency.

Who would he be next, and who would be his next victim?

Written in response to the May Speculative Fiction prompt hosted by D. Wallace Peach at Myths of the Mirror. Click here to join hundreds of other writers who have taken up the challenge.

Can Dogs Solve Murders?

Published on May 2, 2019Dec 29, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts62 Comments

We may not have to introduce ourselves to some of you, but we’re Toby and Austin, two Cardigan Welsh Corgis owned by author Hugh W. Roberts and his partner, John.

#dogs #pets #corgis #books — Austin (left) and Toby

Why are we famous?

We had no idea that we’d be appearing as characters in one of the stories in Hugh’s book, More Glimpses. He didn’t even ask our permission to use us in the story, although we suppose we have to take into account that Hugh and John feed us, walk us, groom us, look after us, and keep us out of danger. Well, we say danger, but that’s not always the case.

What could possibly go wrong in a sleepy little village?

Picture this: A sleepy little village in the heart of Dorset, England, on a few sunny days in mid-June. The village may look quaint and as if nobody dared think about committing murder, but nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors, do they?

Those doors can hide all kinds of dark secrets, even more so if you see the door handle or letterbox flap moving frantically while walking past. Is something trying to get out or, even worse, something you can’t see trying to get in?

#dogs #pets #corgis — ©hughsviewsandnews.com

What you shouldn’t do when you discover murder has taken place.

We found ourselves deep in a murder mystery from the day we arrived in Evershot. All you humans seem to do is panic when you hear the news of a local murder because you think you could end up as the next victim. Silly thoughts start entering your minds, like: “Is it safe to go out after dark?” or “Does rubbing salt into an arctic white carpet remove blood-red wine stains?”

#pets #dogs #corgis — ©hughsviewsandnews.com

Because we have a better sense of smell and sound than you humans do, you may think we had an advantage in solving the case. But you humans have a far better sense of sight than we. Use your eyes and look for those red herrings when reading ‘Murder in Evershot‘ because, like all good murder mysteries, they are there. Sure, we used our noses and ears to solve this case, but not every smell or sound was what we expected.

#photography #WordPress #space #dogs #corgis — Did anyone say treats?

Did we really solve a murder?

You’ll have to read the story to find out how the murder(s) were solved, but if you still don’t know when you’ve finished reading it, then make an appointment with us as the first client of Private Investigators Toby and Austin (Cardigan Welsh Corgis), Bureau of solving the unknown and missing dog treats. However, we’d much rather play chase with each other.

Toby and Austin play

Story 7: Murder In Evershot

Genre: Murder/Mystery

Set in the sleepy English village of Evershot, John, Toby, Austin, and Hugh find themselves in grave danger when several murders take place. Can they find a well-known detective who lives in the village and ask for her help in solving the murders before the murderer finds them?

If you’d like to meet more characters from More Glimpses, click here to meet Jane Collins from the story The Jump, and here to meet the strange ‘being’ from the story The Man In The Television.

This post was written in response to this week’s theme of ‘A Dog’s Life‘, for the Sunday Stills challenge hosted by Terri Webster Schrandt.

All photos in this post are copyrighted by Hugh W. Roberts

Where Unicorns Come From #flashfiction

Published on Apr 30, 2019Dec 29, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts44 Comments

“Come on, I’ll show you where unicorns come from,” said a convincing, eight-year-old, Tracy.

“Is it very far?” asked her best friend, Allison.

“No, just a few minutes’ walk, over to that small wood,” Tracy pointed out. “The grown-ups won’t miss us. We’ll only be gone for a few minutes.”

As the two young girls walked away, their parents enjoyed a picnic that included several bottles of sparkling, English, white wine. Helped by the warm sunshine of a late summers’ day, the laughter and merriment that filled the meadow made the slow disappearance of the girls go unnoticed.

“This is the place,” Tracy decided, as she peered towards a leafy, green glade, at the centre of which was an old, moss-covered stone trough.

“But where are the unicorns?” asked Allison. “I can’t see them.”

“In there,” responded Tracy, as she pointed towards the old, moss-covered stone trough. “Go on, have a look,” she smiled, as she gently pushed the girl who was one month younger than her towards the trough.

Taking a few quick steps towards the moss-covered stone relic, a slightly chilly breeze blew through the red ribbon that sat on top of golden curls that always bobbed up and down whenever Allison accelerated from a gentle walking pace. With goosebumps populating her bare arms, she peered down into the shallow trough.

“I can’t see any unicorns, only green stuff and a few yellow leaves,” sighed Allison.

“You’re not looking closely enough,” laughed Tracy, as she walked towards Allison. “Can’t you see the rainbow coloured horn of the baby unicorn poking through?”

Placing her hands on her knees, Allison bent forward to take a closer look, but couldn’t see any evidence of a rainbow coloured horn.

“No,” replied, Allison. “All I can see is green stuff and a few fallen leaves.”

“Oh, you won’t find the unicorns in there,” came a voice that startled both girls. “I’ve moved them all to a safe place. It’s unsafe for them in there.”

Turning around, both girls raised their hands to protect their eyes from the glare of the sun that occasionally flashed through the branches of the trees that surrounded the old trough.

“I’m the Unicorn Keeper,” declared the figure with a long grey beard, and who Tracy thought looked like a wizard. “The unicorns are all safe. I can take you to them in my magical vehicle if you like? It’s just over the hill on the other side of the meadow. Come on, take my hands and I’ll take you to them,” he said, as he turned to walk away in a direction that would take the girls out-of-sight of their parents.

Several minutes later, as the two unicorn-loving girls walked hand in hand with the stranger who seemed like a very nice wizard, he told them stories of a magical place he was taking them to, where nice things were about to happen, and where there would be unlimited ice-cream.

Written in response to the #writephoto challenge hosted by Sue Vincent at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo.

The Porthole

Published on Mar 20, 2019Dec 29, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts74 Comments

Everybody has a chance, but it does depend on where you are at the time it appears. I only say that because I am sure I have seen some of the faces here, before. Like, for example, your face.

Now, as we watch the young child take her chance to join us, I will do all I can to make sure she makes it in time, but I need your help too.

What I have created now looms in front of her. If this had been happening a few years ago, I would have had full control over how long the porthole on our spaceship would remain open. Now, however, my power over my creation seems to be weakening.

Even though I know life has been cruel to this child, you’re not so sure, are you?

From what I have witnessed, this child will be a credit to both of us. And, as our world is dying, we need all the souls we can get to build our army.

“Run, child, run,” I shout, as she nears the opening. But you remain silent. Why?

We need her to help save our world. Don’t you see that?

My heart drops when I see the porthole begin to close. I can hear my followers behind me screaming, yet you remain silent. I hope the child makes it through in time.

With a mighty leap, she makes it through before it closes.

“Daddy,” she whispers, as she wraps her arms around my waist. I could tell she now felt safe.

“Now go, child, go do all the bad things you really meant to do when you were on that world. No more being good and trying to make yourself acceptable because of what others told you. The world you have just left was too cruel to you.”

As she looks up at me and smiles, I know she will not fail me.

“Thank you, Father. I always wanted to meet the Devil and come to Hell.”

***

Written in response to the Monthly Speculative Fiction Writing Prompt, from Diana, at Myths of the Mirror. Click here for full details.

The Battle

Published on Feb 14, 2019Dec 29, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts66 Comments

With the dead bodies of her two best friends close by, eleven-year-old Miranda carefully raised one of the window slats with her finger and peered out into the garden.

She watched as the massive creature, known as a Nellyphant, pushed its trunk against the tree house looking for its next meal. Although it was snowing, she could also make out the smaller creatures, known as Mickice, on the roof of the treehouse. They, too, had grown a liking for human flesh.

Miranda’s trap, of leaving her dolls in the treehouse, had worked. The creatures thought they had their next meal, but Miranda knew it wouldn’t be long before they worked out that they had been tricked.

While sliding her hand slowly between the window slats, the door behind Miranda creaked. She froze to the spot, terrified of what was coming into the room. However, she had her weapon ready in her other hand, so she knew she had a good chance of spinning around, taking aim, and killing with one shot whatever was coming through the door.

As she quietly counted down from five, she heard whatever it was, slowly approach her. The wheezing sound it made as it took short, sharp, intakes of breath, made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

Just before her countdown ended, Miranda gripped her weapon firmly, span around, took aim, and faced what was behind her.

“Take this,” she yelled, as she fired her weapon at the biggest Nellyphant she’d seen.

Then the real world appeared.

“OK, young lady, that’s enough,” coughed Miranda’s Mother, while removing the PlayStation virtual reality headset from Miranda’s head. “You’re too young to be playing this violent videogame,” she voiced while holding the box of the game in front of Miranda’s face. “Go play with your dolls instead.”

As Miranda climbed the stairs in protest, her mother blew her nose before slipping on the virtual reality set. Maybe playing a video game would take her mind off the head cold she had.

***

Written in response to the Monthly Speculative Fiction Writing Prompt, from Diana, at Myths of the Mirror. Click here for full details.