Mr. James’s Reviews > Ward No. 6 and Other Stories > Status Update

The Bishop: Bret had been an altar boy for two weeks. Two hours before mass he went into Sacristy and opened a cardboard box filled with bags of unconsecrated hosts. Bret stuffed several into his backpack, opened one and ate ravenously; when he stood Father Cliff appeared, holding a bottle of wine. With slurred speech he said, "This," he paused, taping the bottle, "Is mine."

In the Ravine: You're looking scruff... stand straight... that forearm hangs loose: stand still. (SNAP!) Don't grimace; it's unbecoming. That ankle needs fixing; time is small -- later perhaps; you're pretty. Take this plate of caviar and feed it to your husband. The caviar, not the plate. When he smiles, nod. You'll be stuck in the ravine, but when he comes to your chamber, he'll realize, so is he.

The Lady with the Dog: The beast pulls southwest, on a leash made from braided rope; your father's Derby shoes are broken. He pisses on flag poles and shits on Ms. Sheber's tomatoes, taking breaks to scratch his mange and turn to growl. Die, you think: an Eldorado passes, backfires, startles -- the rope falls from your hand. The beast sprints down Tender St.; the clicks on tarmac fade and disappear.

A Doctor's Visit: The doctor walks through the tenant buildings, touching the top button of his morning coat every eleventh step, and stops just outside the factory; smoke billows from the farthest stack. He whispers, "All of these improvements," he thumbs the button on his coat, "all of these improvements... are nothing but incurable diseases."

The Darling: The theater; that's where you belong. You can play any part... Yes, costumes succumb to must. How about the timber trade? Calculations! And making pieces fit! I know, dry rot is unforgiving. Animals then... you could be a veterinarian. You have the touch. True, arthritis. My dear, what then. What do you want? Oh... I see... OK. But first tell me why.

The Student: realizes words from 1912, scribbled in a loose leaf notebook, resemble a text message from 2054.

Rothschild's Fiddle: What did you lose? Is it in a cardboard box labeled: Lost & Found? What was it? Did you look under your bed? "Sorry, just dirty dishes. Forgot about that peanut butter sandwich." Are you sure you lost something? Perhaps a phone: Pinterest lock screen? "No." [...] I understand now. The loss is out there: somewhere; between the new synagogue and the old cemetery.

Ward No 6: My thoughts are in the comments. This novella deserves more than a footnote; and more than that if you're ambitious. "Why aren't you?" asks Chekhov. "Wait... I said wait... Damn. Wrong words," I reply, "just look below. Will ya? That'll have to do. Leave me alone!" "Yes... That answers my question," Anton Chekhov says, and removes his spectacles.

In Exile: Chekhov always reminds me why storytelling is important. This is another example of full character development within a few pages. It also serves as a warning: beware of want.