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 Storage of stories written for The Bradbury, 2025 and 2026. |
| Names “It’s all in the name,” said Grant, leaning forward as he enthused over his theory. “Your name is a ruling factor over your life and influences everything you do.” Orson sipped at his beer before answering. Then he wiped the foam from his upper lip. “I don’t see how that follows,” he said. “You’d think my folks named me for Orson Welles but they never mentioned any particular respect or liking for him. Maybe they just fancied the name.” “Doesn’t matter,” replied Grant. “The parents’ reasons have nothing to do with it. It’s the name itself that brings influences and provides a framework for your life. You won’t notice how it affects you but it’s there even so.” Orson shook his head. “A rose by any other name… Old Bill Shakespeare wouldn’t agree with you.” “And yet it may have been his name that drove him to write all those plays. Maybe he had an ancestor who could see through people and knew when they had bad intentions. That might have been the reason for all that spear-waving and Bill, through the name, inherited the ability to read people.” “Could as easily have been genes,” objected Orson. “Nah, genes are for physical things like eye colour and big noses. Names decide character.” Orson took another sip of beer while he pondered this. He was not particularly concerned by Grant’s argument and was just looking for a way to end a pointless conversation. Humouring the guy might work, he decided. “Okay, let’s say that you’re on to something. How d’you think my name has affected me?” Grant went silent and his eyes narrowed. “Well, there’s your constant attempt to be in control of all situations. That would figure with your namesake’s career in film directing.” “Possible, I suppose.” Orson paused again before asking, “And what about you? Does your name cause your liking for beer? I know General Grant used to drink a lot.” Grant laughed. “Could be, I guess. But I prefer to think it’s the cause of me always getting into battles like this one.” Orson spread his arms in surrender. “Alright, you win. I can’t argue with that.” At a nearby table, a small man with dark moustache had been eavesdropping on the conversation. If that’s true, he thought, I’d better change my name from Adolf. Word count: 388 For The Bradbury, Week 3 2026. |
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