A short story by Alan N Webber 

July 2, 1961

Ernest Hemingway opened his eyes. Then he closed them again. When he reopened them, nothing had changed.

He found himself sitting on a fine leather davenport, perhaps the richest leather he had ever felt, with no idea where he was or how he had got there. He doubted he was still in Idaho. If this place existed in Idaho, he surely would have found it by now.

And where was Mary? His fourth wife should have been at his side in this strange journey. He didn’t see her anywhere, and that thought frightened him.

The last thing he remembered was sticking a shotgun into his mouth.

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