A gift at the last hour

The doctor made it pretty clear. He was a free man. It was the greatest gift he had ever received, the gift of life and even then as he walked out of the door at the Morningstar Rehabilitation Ranch in Exchange City, he could sense that he would make the trip back – he was always going back. He looked up and allowed the gusts to meet him, breathing in the light air which made no particular scent but in his mind it was May in the gardens. It was beautiful.

He looked over to see his friend, who was standing beside him and smiling.

“What a great day it is, Gus. A day like no other,” exalted the now free man.

“What will you do with such a gift?” asked Gus, his eyes staring intensely in to the eyes of his friend not letting go for a wink or an instance.

“Seems to me such great gifts should be paid back in full,” the man said, tipping his head to bid Gus adieu and walking down the street, who in return performed a little jig and tipped his head.

“I’m certainly checking out,” he called back, “and don’t worry, I haven’t pocketed the pills!”

“Oh good,” cried out Gus, “more for me.”

As he left, he noticed the wonderful frozen grass lying stoically like plastic Lego. It made him think of curiosities he had often held as an older child but forgot some time after he became a teen. He thought about professional wrestling and the characters that filled the inauthentic profession. He thought of storylines that did not add up nor found their finish. He thought of the way old wrestlers were young, and elder wrestlers were dead. And he soon felt an inward exit of this tired thought leaving his mind by way of his heart and out his chest.

A much more modern thought occurred as he now pondered what made man vulnerable. Was it the weakness in the knees for a good woman? Was it the drive to succeed where others have failed? Or was it the infinite fight to stay straight in a zigzag world. He couldn’t conjure up the answers as he hadn’t been able to do so as a child but he knew he could spend the rest of the day thinking about the question. It was in his nature to dwell on such black hole thoughts that tended to suck him in. He rejected this notion.

First the flight. Now it might have seemed odd for most to have planned so meticulously well that when the man left Morningstar he would actually have a plane ticket in hand but the man always knew what he was going to do, and he had repeated it many times to his doctors who very much disrespected him during his stay at the Ranch and spent quite a bit of time scrutinizing his ability to make things right. They would often say such curious things as “Try to relax Jeffery,” and “Think of something else, for that obsession is the source of your pain.” But Jeffery, yes that was his name, always remained focused on the task at hand. He would not forgo those thoughts and what was needed to be done, how simply he could pull it off just so long as he reminded himself every day that it was he who must make things right. Not the doctors. That required getting on a flight as soon as he got off the Ranch. That required movement.

“Yes but sir we land planes 99.9 per cent of the time, if not better than that. Really you should sit down, we’ll be playing the movie very soon,” Rebecca said to Jeffery.

“Really, so when you say 99.9 per cent if not better you don’t have a convincing number to quote and so you think I would be better served by your guesstimate?”

Rebecca pushed Jeffery kindly towards his seat and smiled, closing the sliding window next to his seat and leaning in to him.

“I suppose you may be correct. But I suspect this flight is not doomed,” said Rebecca.

“Quite right and I will now sit down as you like but I haven’t pocketed the peanuts. There they are sitting in your tray,” Jeffery pointed out the obscure truth.

Then the landing, which Jeffery freely admitted to the stewardess he was none too comfortable with. In no uncertain terms he spent a good twenty minutes discussing with Rebecca that the landing was much different than the departure because the plane was trying to get off the ground not drive in to it. As he knew from experience, suicide is not in the jump but in the landing.

“Sir, are you alright?” asked Rebecca in a soft panic as the plane took one of its many scoops of air towards the ground.

“I don’t think there is a problem,” said Jeffery, his eyes glancing at her face, obvious with fear.

Sitting uncomfortably in his window seat as the plane began its landing pattern, he looked over to the world below and thought how precious and innocent it looked from way up high and how it could all end so quickly for those… no it would all be well. He closed his eyes and thought of what faced him when he opened his eyes, left the plane and headed to his destination. He expected to see the flower-shaped door knocker glistening in the winter sun, the oak door still a little battered from dog scratches and general decay. The front foyer would smell like wet dog just like it would in the summer when Crispo was lying in his hamper waiting for a walk. To his left he would see that clock in a square open box clicking away the hour. And he would call out “hello” and she would say “yes” and he would say “it’s me” and she would say “I can’t believe it.” How lovely it would all be, Jeffery thought waking up to hear the tires of the plane screeching along the tarmac.

The taxi. He was a little taken aback by the smell, which seemed absent of the musky scent from taxis he used to take before his enrolment at the Morningstar. He began shifting a little around the back seat, massaging his closely chopped mane. He could feel each bristle flood against the webbing between his fingers. The sensitivity had him a bit discombobulated.

“Yes, sir. Where to?” Aqbal Amenjuwari asked exasperated by some sort of inconvenient wait.

“Uh, well of course to 343 is the number but the street… the steet…” Jeffery could recall the shape of the street where the little white bungalow stood, how it bent longingly away from the rest of the city and seemed to be cold towards the habitants who did not belong there. It was not a beautiful street laid with tall oak trees and lined with pleasant sidewalks with decent people. Instead he remembered an ugly street lined with pop cans and condoms and with a jigsaw puzzle sidewalk which fairly nefarious people used to grumble about making their way to the bus stop. But he wished it better and so in some spot in his brain it was so.

“Yes, sir?”

“Well, take me to Elba Cemetery,” Jeffery said irritably with knowledge that this was the way forward even though he hated to be stuck on any significant shift in his plan. Elba was the only place he could remember.

Elba Cemetary. Nothing is ever static. Bodies move, even in a cemetery and this was absolutely astonishing to Jeffery even though his doctors had warned him not to expect anything to be the same, that things would be evolutionary. How could anything remain as they were before the Ranch? Man became rot, rot became dust, dust became wind, and wind became life.

A gentle breeze did brush swiftly against Jeffery’s face as he sat against the hard, cold headstone of one William Swift. The headstone read:

Here lies the author of his own demise – ‘twas an author of lesser merit. 1927-1969

Jeffery ran his hard hands across the granite, each rock feeling powerful in his palm, the curvatures of the literary indents felt smooth to his coarse index and under the spell of the cemetery creep he felt quite at ease.

The tree. It stood no more than five feet from Swift’s grave and though it seemed absurd at the time that Jeffery would walk there and dig with his bare hands, it was exactly what he did, feeling an innate sense of obligation to do so. He began to pull at the loosened root, unconsciously digging after it had been pulled until his tired arms made contact with a wooden box. He opened it briefly and then shut it.

Taxi Cab. Aqbal was waiting patiently, he was a saint if not an angel to wait for Jeffery as he made his way around Elba. The driver said nothing of Jeffery’s dark arms and stained pants, only was he ready to go and where that place was that he would like to go.

“To the airport,” said Jeffery.

“Sir? I do not mean to question and it likely is not my business, but what are you doing flying to this city to dig in a cemetery only to pull out a small wooden box and then return to the airport. I am very curious…”

“I can see that,” said Jeffery, rubbing his face slowly with his right hand, unbothered by the smudging mess on his face.

“… tell me, sir, for curiosity sake, please good sir, can you quench my thirst for knowledge. Is it money, good sir?”

“No, no. Money is a cowboy, my good man – it rides us like horses, robs banks as it pleases and always disappears at night,” said Jeffery, grinning with a hint of unhappiness about Aqbal’s inquisition. “No, the contents inside are more valuable than that my good man.”

Aqbal seemed to have lost his zeal for the box after the answer and drove Jeffery back to the airport in silence.

Inside the airport. The buzz around the airport stripped Jeffery of his humour, frustrating and distracting as no other environment could. Standing in the check through, his mind opened to the possibility that he might be stuck there for hours, if not years – a silly extension yes, but not unheard of. In the Ranch he had heard from one of the inhabitants a story of a man who was left in the airport for three years, stuck in some sort of immigration limbo. At first, Jeffery was told, the man was just glad to be anywhere but where he came from. Watching people come and go, forced to sleep on the hard airport foam chairs, and eating gut wrenching food, Limbo Man had adjusted well. Soon, the airport management felt it could no longer support the man living there for free and they quickly put him to work cleaning toilets. To some it might have been indignant, but to Limbo Man it was the exact opposite, he felt he had become an extension of the airport family, glad to exist rather than sitting around as just another plastic plant in the waiting area. While most staff members enjoyed his company, and he worked hard, the fact that he worked without a union card immediately made Limbo Man an enemy of the workers union who took a hard line with management that he should be included in the union or be turfed from his job. When told he did not receive a cent for the work he did and hence could not make union dues, the union became outraged and soon ran to the newspapers telling a story of a man who had become a slave to the airport because of his immigration situation rather than a contributor in spite of it. Many workers ran to his side, while others called him a menace, and soon the airport staff was torn in two. However they clawed and mashed and screamed at each other, soon the staff was so involved in the fighting itself that they were not able to determine exactly why they were fighting in the first place. Politicians, lawyers and journalists and all sorts of society big wigs got involved and eventually the man, too, forgot why he was there. He had begun to feel very small in the airport. When the time came for investigators to ask why he was claiming refugee status, he said buoyantly that he wasn’t and gladly returned to whence he came.

Jeffery was not certain who had told him the story but it seemed to him that someone had told him this was authentic, and it was likely that whoever had told him about the story of Limbo Man was indeed far less important than the story itself.

“You are going to have to take those off, sir,” the security man said pointing at Jeffery’s shoes.

Shaking his head he removed his shoes, while his bag passed through the scanner box. The conveyer belt stopped at his bag, examining it thoroughly. Having pleased the hippopotamus of a man who always stood after the security scanner, Jeffery walked over to the end of the conveyer belt hoping that his bag would be returned without incident but as it came to him another hippo, this time a woman, asked for him to open the bag.

“What for?”

“The bag, sir… now the box.”

“But you cannot see inside. It is impossible, only the person who the box is meant for can see inside.”

“That is ridiculous sir. I insist you open that box or I will call for help,” the hippo woman said as if unsurprised by the argument or the circumstance they were in.

Jeffery pleaded further that the insides were not his to share and that if he was able to pass through without further interrogation, it would be best for all involved.

The female hippo looked over to the male hippo and both nodded their heads in sequence as if it were an animalistic language told only in body movements and grunts. Jeffery, feeling lost in this jungle of thought, began to fear that he would gladly rather return to Elba and spend time with the unknown authors rather than face further persecution. He was sure glad they were herbivores.

A larger man, the build of an Indian Elephant, powerfully walked over to where the hippo woman stood, shaking his head listening to her explanation and then slowly opening the bag himself.

Looking at Jeffery, he thrusted his hands in to Jeffery’s bag searching for the box, then pulling it out presented it to both Jeffery and the hippo lady and then slowly lifted the lid.

“Uh well, you really shouldn’t,” warned Jeffery.

“Uh well, I… my god. Here,” said the Elephant, placing the box back in Jeffery’s hands.

Jeffery nodded his head and moved on to the gate.

The flight part 2. No Rebecca and no calming influence at all. The plane dipped and dived ostensibly to avoid turbulence. Jeffery did not question this at all. He only sat back and listened to the plane struggle, cherishing the thoughts of opening the box.

The stop. Off the plane and in to a cab.

“Hey buddy, where to?”

Jeffery said calmly 343 Westview Lane. The road curved just like he remembered and the doorknocker was the same flower but there was no sun. There was no Crispo. He knocked three times on the door. At first there was nothing. Then Jeffery heard faint footsteps that grew louder until they approached the door. But no barking. No Crispo.

The door swung gently open. A round, vacant face opened the door. Jeffery could not understand. What was going on.

The hippo security guard responded: “it’s you boyo.”

Aqbal responded: “it’s definitely you boyo.”

Rebecca whispered in Jeffery’s ears: “it’s time to go home.”

“But I haven’t shown her the contents of my box.”

A man in a white lab coat stepped in where the vacant face person had stood. He spoke with a thick Swedish accent that calmed Jeffery even as he approached.

“The pills have not worked yet. We must have gotten the chemical balance wrong. Airplanes? A box? We can’t have them thinking they can fly out of here.”

Gift-a-lee part 5 -- Finale

Garry Perry was awakened by the maniacal barking coming from Coloru. Looking upon the table he saw a white envelope on the coffee table and immediately walked out, storming by the Breadman and Char McCool who were walking up to the front door.

“Garry Perry, da good ‘fo about us,” said the Breadman in a voice that sounded like 4am chirping birds.

“He where?” demanded Garry Perry.

Both Char McCool and the Breadman looked lost.

Garry Perry turned around, his heart beating a mad beat until he looked up and saw the pure adulation in the Breadman and Char McCool’s eyes.

“Da’ ‘fo id good,” repeated the Breadman.

“We are getting married,” said Char McCool.

A gun blast went off from the other end of Dyke Rd. The invading aficionados had arrived again.

Garry Perry pinched his nut sack three times hard and wondered how long this dream would last.

Gift-a-lee part 4

Billy Bulkley was so new to the Slough that he hadn’t learned to master conversation with sloughians yet, still speaking that more clear form of English that was used by Lulu islanders. He understood sloughian, he just could not speak it well.

It was the first time Billy Bulkley had ever asked to come over to Garry Perry’s. It was strange to Garry Perry that at this time of sorrow he could not expect such an irrational change but there the Simpson Indian was, his milk-chocolate eyes staring at Garry Perry at the Dinner Plate Island School.

“Su enter-ya,” said Garry Perry sarcastically.

He offered the well-known stranger a seat on his couch and asked if he would like a cup of tea or orange juice. Garry Perry always drank orange juice when he was depressed, the sweetness was a necessary antidote to a bitter heart.

As Garry Perry walked towards his fridge he saw that the shadows had changed shape and now looked as if they were crawling on the floor. There was no good reason for them to have changed, the sun was not out, the light had not changed and even the extra presence of Billy Bulkley was not enough to have brought different looks to chez Dinner Plate Island School.

When Garry Perry returned to the couch area, Billy Bulkley was smiling brightly, that his dental shine almost forced Garry Perry to drop the glasses of juice. He had no idea as to why Billy Bulkley would be smiling like a kid at a carnival but he was – his face innocent and joyful.

“Here be da jaweys,” said Garry Perry who then sat down very slowly.

“You fiddled through this day didn’t you?” said Billy Bulkley grabbing the glass and sipping it slowly.

Garry Perry looked at Billy Bulkley confused not understanding a word but nodding his head to hurry up to the point.

“This day. You could see how even the gullies paid attention when on most days they would have pooped on him. Today they walked the street with us. But you slipped under the pressure.”

Garry Perry wondered how that could be, how the man responsible for dropping the wooden casket could come in to his home and lie about who was responsible for that mistake.

A fire began to rip through Garry Perry’s soul. He wondered how long he could take it and he placed his glass down on the table and pushed his cap upwards readying himself for a yelling.

“I didn’t slip,” said Billy Bulkley. “It was you.”

“True?” asked Garry Perry yet more confused by Billy Bulkley’s hateful, smiling face.

Billy Bulkley looked to the ground, his puffy cheeks swelling as if someone had stuck cotton balls in his mouth. A little bit of drool seeped from his lower lip, but Billy Bulkley wiped it quickly.

“They brought his body to me first. I didn’t know what to do. He looked so different, a rotting corpse. He had this lost look on his face like he was not sure where he was and when the police asked me to identify him I said I had never met the man. I had never met the man. Never met him.”

Billy Bulkley’s voice was without a hint of sadness and to Garry Perry, though he had begun to wonder why the confession was being offered, mirrored the smile with a fierce grimace.

“They asked where they could take his body and who knew him. I told them that I didn’t know. I was scared. He was like an uncle to me but, you know, he was dead and I had no idea how to deal with that. They didn’t give me a choice. One of the cops said that he knew I knew Clay Biffley and ordered the other officer to throw the body in living room. I asked about a morgue and they said they didn’t keep his type in a morgue and that he was our problem to deal with.”

This was not done. No true sloughian should ever be placed in a morgue, it wasn;t respectful. You were not gone until you returned to the slough and your body became food for the slough’s slippery inhabitants. To sleep with dead bodies was not acceptable.

Gary Perry swallowed his heart and tried to remain composed.

“They tell ya a ‘tory ‘bout how Clay Biffley died?” asked Garry Perry.

The shadows had spookily crawled up Billy Bulkley’s face, seeming to age the sloughians face. Garry Perry’s heart jumped out of his stomach and on to his tongue. Yet he bit it.

He recalled that it was Char McCool who told Garry Perry about finding of Clay Biffley’s body and confirming to him that he was dead. She had ostensibly forgotten to tell Garry Perry about how she had come across the body.

“They told me that he was found in a farm field near the Slough a week or two after he had disappeared. They said when he was found, his hands were stained with red berry juice, likely it was from Strawberries.”

Garry Perry felt very frustrated with this piece if news. He was dealing with a lot at this point.

“I mean I would have told everyone as soon as I could but I needed time to think of a way to tell everyone, it was a great responsibility…” said Billy Bulkley, who was still smiling, his voice filled with all sorts of insincerity.

“IT WAS ME ‘TORY TO TELL BUDDAY!” yelled Garry Perry pointing emphatically at his chest. “UNKLY FOR YA, SURE. No fiddly. A BRO TA ME, NO DOUBT!”

“Listen I just came over to let you know. I thought you would appreciate this gift of information. You may have known him well but really he was my friend. I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Two weeklies. Two. Ya no be da only one who love him. How could you have left da Biff in ya paws for dat long?”

“He needed to air out. He looked like shit. He was my friend too. You don’t own him.”

Garry Perry’s red hat had fallen off his head to the ground and his face was a raging crimson colour and it somehow felt good to turn on this tap of anger and allow the spout to rage until Billy Bulkley had received a sink full of digust because that, in then end, was exactly how Billy Bulkley had always made him feel, he had always felt that Billy Bulkley got the best of Clay Biffley’s time.

“I no wanna buy him neither. One like you killy him, I know id. I have da ‘fo.”

Billy Bulkley smile grew larger after that statement – stars were shooting out of his mouth. Garry Perry felt Billy Bulkley’s face was egging him on and he wanted to hurt him, to bash his bones in so badly, to turn this man with chocolate milk-coloured skin in to a man with a mixture of red, black and blue just like the way he said Clay Biffley was returned to him. He went to grab a bat that said “Lil’ Slugger”. It was blonde and would certainly be evidential of Garry Perry’s new found insanity, but Garry Perry didn’t mind. He would make Billy Bulkley pay for the poor way he treated Clay Biffley on his final days on this planet.

“Come on little man. Bring what you got!”

The two would-be combatants stood opposite looking, examining who would blink first.

“How come ya no looky at da slough. Ya no real sloughian,” jabbed Garry Perry.

“How come ya never left the slough. You are not a real human,” returned Billy Bulkley.

They stood staring at each other for a long time – probably 10- 15 minutes until Billy Bulkley’s face lost its smile, his mouth lost those stars and a black hole ate his brightness. That shadow had worked its way over to Garry Perry and now reached for his heart.

“He was a good man,” said Billy Bulkley who’s voice had taken on that of a ghost locked down a well, hallow and filled with echoes.

Garry Perry began to see him as just as pathetic as he was feeling and begun to understand the greater connection between the two men that had been connecting them all along.

Gift-a-lee part 3

Inside his home he was surrounded by the pictures of Clay Biffley and it would have been hard for sloughians blame him if he spent a considerable portion of the rest of his life thinking of his friend stowed away on Dinner Plate Island. He leaned back in his chair when Coloru began to bark. He could not will himself to shut his dog up.

There were so many pictures and they seemed to form an inconsistent wallpaper pattern. Another dream that was so real it had created photographs all over his wall. Had life with Clay Biffley been only a wonderful “restin’ da peeps” or was it more? In the dark milieu that could that man have possibly mean to Garry Perry. As he closed his eyes he imagined his photographs and they moved click after click, growing in to a movie that kept repeating.

Dark, gloomy light peered through his front window and painted over the wall with shadows from the slough. His eyes followed tree branches that reached from the bedroom door to the framed picture of Garry Perry, Clay Biffley and Coloru taken on a fishing trip up the Fraser River in 2002. That was the day Clay Biffley found Garry Perry’s Gone Fishin’ hat at a flea market in one of those copycat Fraser Valley farming towns. Clay Biffley told Garry Perry that the lady who sold him the hat promised that the person who wore the hat would have very good luck that day. However, Clay Biffley spent all day wearing the hat and didn’t catch as much as a summer breeze but Garry Perry, who was starting the long march to cue ball/Mr Clean status at that time, was catching fish like they wanted out of the water. Upon seeing Garry Perry’s day end total, Clay Biffley handed Garry Perry the hat and told him the story of the lady at the flea market.

“Bud a ya no catch a thing,” said Garry Perry.

“Tis not a thing to catch, but you had-a luck tis day, no? Id be no more dan slough-doo to keep id,” reasoned Clay Biffley.

Clay Biffley told Garry Perry that he wasn’t surprised Garry Perry hadn’t noticed his catch count because it seemed like he was lost in some paradise located who knows where, just no one could tell, but wherever it was, there wasn’t a flight that ever seemed to get him back on time.

“Fo shu, ho can dat be Clay Biffley,” wondered Garry Perry.

“Surely dunno but to be da safe I tell you a gift-a-lee, yeah? When you feel buzzy to da dream pinchy-da-nut sack three times. Da dream over den,” explained Clay Biffley, making slow pinching movements with his fingers.

He looked up at Clay Biffley’s hands and witnessed them dive in like gophers on a golf course, rummaging and purging until they unearthed something. Clay Biffley’s face became something fierce, scrunching three times real hard. He then pulled out his hand and smiled confidently he had shared a deeper understanding.

Upon the example, Garry Perry plunged his hand down deep and began to squeeze his testicles a little too tight, each squeeze getting tighter until the last squeeze made him yelp in pain as a scalded dog would after being kicked in the ribs by his master.

“Wada ya do Garry Perry,” laughed ferociously Clay Biffley. “You take a gift-a-lee and make it a gim-a-now.”

“Gim-a-now?” wondered Garry Perry.

“In livey we got two things: gift-a-lees and gim-a-nows. Gift-a-lees are good-ah things, given to you. Gim-a-nows be a bad thing that trickees give you but is no gift-a-lee but instead work. You think it s gift-a-lee, the giver belees id a gift-a-lee but id be just yet more work.”

Garry Perry nodded his head and pinched again and again and again…

“Wooo.. Waooo!” Coloru barked from the porch. Garry Perry had been a sleep for a few minutes, or was it hours, he could not tell but his testicles hurt something bad.

“Eeeuugh, Coloru, wada ya do today, boya?” Garry Perry got up and walked to the door – BANG! BANG! BANG! “Coloru?”

It wasn't Coloru at all. It was Billy Bulkley and by some measure of elaborate slough-doo he was already sitting on Gary Perry's couch.

Gift-a-lee part 2

“Id a bee-ya a swelladee ‘tory Char McCool,” said Garry Perry with an uneasy smile on his face. “You speak-a swelladee.” And he walked back home leaving the group behind.

The Breadman walked over to Char McCool. Tears had pooled under her eyes and rested there giving her a helpless look.

“Finish be a udder ‘bage, not sad at all,” said the Breadman trying not to cry himself even though his voice crackled.

“Was missy Clay Biffley da udder day when he would ’ave…” he trailed off some more and then just gave up trying to be needlessly strong.

Char McCool held his hand and walked him over to the Horseshoe Slough trail for privacy.

The rest of the procession was still milling about and staring at the greenish Slough. Some were remarking that the water was still bubbling for no reason and others said it wasn’t bubbling enough. Soon they all floated away back in to their flats to a chorus of “Muddy Flatters” from the Lulu joggers.

****************************************************************

The grey soup in the sky had given way to a milky black evening, and the late afternoon stir had given way to an early evening calm which simmered over the slough. Often, this would be the way before the late night invasion of the narcotic aficionados, or as they were known "da Narcosy".

Garry Perry was back inside the “Dinner Plate Island School” home and back to his red Salmon Fishin’ hat. He thought long and hard about the reasons these things were happening to him. He wanted to know why Clay Biffley, his closest of friends, had been taken from him.

When Clay Biffley returned to Finn Slough, Garry Perry was never told how he had died, where he had been found and why they brought him back. He did not ask anyone any questions when the body was returned but instead began planning the very important Finn Slough ritual of giving the body to the slough. It was a busy time too, one could not be left to allow those who did not truly know Clay Biffley well to plan his final day and it would do him no good to dwell on facts when the only one that mattered was his good friend had died and needed proper sloughian respect. It had to be done by someone who cared for him because if not the slouhgians could quite well fall in to the trap of muddy flatting and toss Clay Biffley naked in to a bush somewhere to be found by the police or worse yet, the joggers. He could not allow sanity to slip out of the hands of the sloughians, especially now.

There had been recent talk of kicking the sloughians out of the Slough citing their odd behaviour. Rumours continued to swirl that they were the sickest zombie freaks who ate dog hearts and made cats fart – yes somewhere it was possible the truth had been misconstrued.

Clay Biffley would never have allowed the slough to fall out of his hands and losing him had definitely torn the fabric of slough society but Garry Perry would not allow his hands to tear the final stitches by allowing Clay Biffley’s body to be found decaying on Dyke rd by some drug dealer and user during one of their dealings; no, not his hands, which held the lines of life for not just him but the sloughians as a whole.

However, Clay Biffley had said in the past three months that his biggest worry of all was that Garry Perry would make dreams his reality and never make reality his dreams. He feared that he would spend time “restin’ da peeps ‘tead of working da arms.”

In his hands he saw lines of memories and he thought heavily of Clay Biffley who had taught him the final speech that was only to be read on the final day:

“Where once lifey sprung from the begin, you shoulda slow to be one with da Finn,” he whispered with remorse. His voice had wilted and his lips had fallen low, his eyes felt swollen.

Gift-a-lee

The procession made its way down Dyke road like a slow applause for a movie star. Only the movie had just ended for Clay Biffley. Today was digging day. Today was it for him. Today the movie ended and he was a gift to the slough.

Garry Perry left his cap at home remembering that it was not a good show of respect to have your hat sitting on your head in front of the deceased. That would be wrong. Even Clay Biffley could not forgive that.

All of Finn Slough was out on the street as a soupy coloured grey fog had rolled in sometime in the morning and had refused to leave. No one seemed to have mentioned it as a problem but the way every one in the procession kept looking upwards with those “oh fug-a-loo” eyes there was certainly an appearance of weather regret.

Birds on the street stood without bobbing their heads. The winds did not blow through the reeves. The Lulu Island joggers slowed down and walked.

The procession itself was clumsy if for no other reason then the joggers running on the road would blatantly rumble in to the crowd saying “get out of my way”, and “move it muddy flatters”. But that was to be expected and so the pall bearers, which included Garry Perry, eventually began moving in a zigzag motion to accommodate the joggers, who while not moving fast, were still defiant. The zigzag was not a small feat as even in death the enormity of Clay Biffley weighed heavy on the ragtag group’s hands. Char McCool said in fact it was Clay Biffley’s soul stuck in the coffin box that made it so though Billy Bulkley had his doubts that anyone soul could be stuck in a wooden box.

Billy Bulkley was one of the pall bearers and had known the man quite well during his life. He would often arrive to Clay Biffley’s home with a pack of cigarettes and a sparking topic of conversation that often burned until the early morning. Garry Perry didn’t know him too well, though. He would often be arriving to Clay Biffley’s flat when Garry Perry was leaving and would often be leaving when Garry Perry was arriving. They were cordial but not friends.

The only biographical information Garry Perry knew about Billy Bulkley was that he was a Simpson Indian from around Prince Rupert.

Prince Rupert itself seemed so much like a mystery. Garry Perry knew that it was so far up north that it almost touched Alaska and that it rained even more there then it did down here. He thought he had read a book that told him about how many people lived up there on only fish and beer. He wondered how anyone could live eating like that. The lifestyle and distance seemed so far away that Garry Perry thought you would have to take a spaceship to get there and once you did it would be difficult to ever leave.

He had no idea how Billy Bulkley came to live in the slough. But he was glad his big hands were on the other side of the coffin because he felt so depressed he wasn’t sure he could make it the whole way to the greenish slough finish line.

Coming to the edge of the cliff that looked over the slough, something strange happened. Billy Bulkley turned his face away from the water, as if looking at it would bring him great pain. He started walking backwards and soon the lack of coordination from Billy Bulkley created a collective stumble motion and all six pall bearers tripped and lost grip of Clay Biffley’s coffin, which subsequently tumbled to the ground – face down.

“Uh, sorry-a-pology,” Billy Bukley said meekly but he wouldn’t look at the slough.

Char McCool raised her arms pointing her index fingers upwards like an maestro before the final gusto. It was well speculated that Char McCool loved having all the eyes on her because it reassured her that there was some merit to her slough-doo even if the rest of the sloughians believed they only listened to humour her. The other five pall bearers picked up the casket in concert and awited the maestro’s orders, who had been chosen to lead the ceremony as her slough-doo was the closest thing to a religious figure they sloughians had. She was also the only one who seemed to get the final speech right.

“Let me tell you, loud man true. You lived a life, quiet in Slough. Where once a life sprang from the begin, you shall slow to become one with the Finn. Sparks fly from all of us, from the fire of life, but we all burn out when sparks become ash, when the taste has no spice. So fear not as we place you in the water that cools. You have joined seabed of great minds not a weak bucket of sad fools.”

And with that they disposed the coffin abruptly in to the water as if Clay Biffley was no more than an old tool that had outlived its use, a screw that had been stripped of its edges. Even the Lulu Island joggers stopped their fast remarks for a brief moment.

A gift of love - act 3

Margaret sat in silence in the porcelain covered bathroom her mother had loved so much. It was a clean place to such a dirty task. She slipped the thingy under what used to be her warm soft place that now seemed so cold and hard she hated it but she went ahead as she had to know.

When she looked down it was just as she thought – another defective device. It read positive when she had bought the damn thing to read negative. She yelled at it to work…

“Are you alright in there Margaret,” yelled her mother askance.

“Work…work…work…damn it…”

“Margaret honey...”

Margaret opened the door slowly and peered out. Her tears were heavy and heart was hollow and if ever she needed a mother she would need one now.

“Mom,”

“Yes Margaret,”

“I’m…I’m fucking pregnant.”

Margaret’s mother pulled her in close and began to tear up as well. She grabbed Margaret’s shoulders sternly and lifted her chin.

“This is wonderful news. This is a gift.”

Margaret lifted her stomach. Her faint smile said much more than her words would. Nothing had brought mom and daughter together like the knowledge that she would be a single lesbian mommy by Christmas.

A gift of love - act 2

The berry field was dark and filled with drunken teens, two of them being one half of the best romance in a fictional world.

Ned Bryant had brought a stereo and two speakers that boomed triumphantly the sounds of Tupac, NWA and Metallica. He was a tall boy, handsome with defiant brown eyes and long black hair the colour of crow feathers. Most girls thought he was too difficult to like, even to love because he would challenge anyone on anything. Most teen girls like boys who didn’t think too much, who wanted a lot and who drank more than they talked. That was Surrey for ya.

But Margaret and Stacy loved hanging out with Ned because he was not bothered by their lesbian lives and because he was so challenging. He would ask how come lesbians said they hated penis and then used dildos shaped like a penis.

Stacy would answer that she liked a penis that was neon blue and until she met a man that had that particular colour she would stay a woman-wanter.

“But I have a magnificent dick!” said Ned.

“But it’s your balls that are blue my dear,” quipped Stacy.

Margaret kept looking at Ned and wondering why on earth he wanted to sleep with a lesbian so badly? He certainly was not an ugly boy by any standards and there must be a girl who would easily slip off the cotton between her thighs for a trip down prom memory making lane. Her eyes kept searching him for a physical clue to his mental make up and all that she could discover without words was that he was a curious fucker.

“What is the deal Ned?” asked Margaret.

“I love this song…”

“No, what is the deal with you? You always argue about nothing like you are fighting someone else who is long dead.”

“Shut-the-fuck-up,” said Ned, his head now searching the fields.

The music had seemed to become louder and it felt to Margaret that Stacy had been gone for too long. Yet her attention remained on Ned, his boyish charm heightening a certain curiosity in herself that she seemed to have missed somewhere.

As he began to swing his head to ‘Off to Never Neverland’ she could see the raw power in his physique. His body moved like a mad accordionist drunk on the power of carnival lore, tempting the clowns, public and bears to stop what they were doing and fall in love with the tune he was playing. Enter night, enter love. Somehow, Margaret fell off to never neverland and she was not sure just why she was there.

What she understood was “Shut-the-fuck-up”, in all its ridiculousness, became a sort of call to inebriated lust. It was everything she had wanted to say to her mother but hadn’t. It was everything she had wanted to say to Stacy when she was under her in the bedroom. It was everything she wanted to believe in. And it came from this boy whose face had never worn a moustache.

Ned handed her another bottle of beer and she chugged it back hard, leaving little to remember.

“You know Margaret I always thought you were alright for a dyke,” said Ned. “I mean, I’d do you. And not just because of the challenge but because you don’t where army boots and don’t listen to Ani DeFanco and you don’t smell like months old cheese. You have a lot of don’ts for a dyke.”

Margaret kept throwing back the beer. A lot of don’ts for a lesbian angered her. She would and could do as good as any straight girl if given half the chance, and feeling colder, moved to sit on the pick up back door and sat beside Ned staring at him, smiling.

“Really, really look great,” said Ned.

Margaret didn’t feel anxious around Ned. She liked his smell of teenage male shamelessness – a stirring desperate mixture of Aqua Velva and sweat. She leaned on him.

A few moments passed and then Ned began to run his palm against her back. The strength of that motion made her weak and she felt that she was to let go. But she held on tight not wanting to give in. What was she doing?

“It’s ok, if you don’t want to?”

Margaret began to think of what did she not want to? Did he actually believe there was light at then end of this love tunnel?

But his hand kept pursuing and whether it was the alcohol or the dim light she was not able to see nor could she muster up the defense necessary to block off his moves. So for some unknown reason to her she went with it.

Kissing Ned was like being held to a vice, the squeeze hurt. The music was blaring behind her but this new thing was making her deaf. The whole world around her seemed to have been muted and her senses seemed to have piled in her lips, feeling only Ned and his worthless teenage lips. Out of curiosity or out of sympathy, she wanted it to continue like with one simple kiss the world was turned in to her world and she was god.

“It’s ok if you don’t want to” was in chorus with “Shut-the-fuck-up” and as his hands felt there way in to her pants she “Shut-the-fuck-up” because it was “ok if you don’t want to” but she did want to, dearly try what she had never tried.

As the pacing of their searching picked up the lights turned off, the music went mute and the night ended.


The noon sun glared on the back of the truck. Margaret awoke in a pool of beer cans and cigarette ash and she was not certain where she was until she looked up to see the squished berries and sunken footprints in the muddy field. She felt like shit.

It her like a winter gust, she had slept with Ned Bryant that night. It was not the way she had pictured the first time having lesbian sex. In that it wasn’t took some time to register and the horror of that realisation made her wince so hard her face felt like it would eat itself without the help of the mouth, having done quite enough already, thank you very much.

“Here you’ll be needing these,” said a female voice as wayward panties made their way back home.

It was Stacy and the look in her eyes could not have even begun to describe the hurt that she felt. She walked Margaret back to her car and said nothing. She did not even look at Margaret.

When she dropped her off at Margaret’s home, she used no words to say goodbye, the peeling of her tires said enough.

Entering her home, Margaret’s face was dry as if somehow a hurricane of emotion had veered off course but there was no one left to witness the good turn of fortunes. It was an empty feeling.

A gift of love - act 1

Margaret’s mom found out Margaret was a lesbian when they were at the dress shop looking for a prom dress for the big night. Her mom asked her if she had in mind who she would be going with and when her mom asked who, Margaret said it was someone she loved very much. That left Margaret’s mom in a heap flush as she became very hungry for info about the boy she would be going with. What was he like? Did he drive a car? Was he tall, was he smart, did he play sports,was he in to art – what-what-what!?

“No mom,” is all Margaret answered and tried to leave it there.

But mom pressed further and asked her if this boy did not have any of such qualities what, pray tale did he have?

“He doesn’t have a penis,” Margaret said while twirling in a magnificent blue dress.

Obviously this left mom a little confused. If this boy didn’t have a penis how on earth could Margaret and he copulate and eventually have children. She told Margaret she wasn’t sure she wanted her to date a eunuch.

“She isn’t a eunuch mom,” Margaret said. The flush heap was now a ghost white. Mom’s baby girl liked other moms' baby girls and that was no small thing. In fact it seemed to have cost a lot of money because as soon as mom registered this little fact, the till closed at mom’s bank and suddenly she could no longer purchase a dress for Margaret’s prom.

Not being able to attend prom would have been a disaster but Stacy was so in love with Margaret that they pledged to get drunk at Stacy’s home, whose parents long ago assumed that their baby girl liked other baby girls.

And so prom night was a great. Sublime bounced off the walls that were dressed like a clubbing paradise with intermittent blue and green Christmas lights illuminating the room, and martini glasses on Stacy’s night stand beside a bottle of vodka and vermouth that illuminated their thirst. They both liked dry martinis but Margaret loved dry martinis.

They devised a plan to announce their own winners for prom night and wouldn’t you know it one of them was always the winner.

Heck, each announcement they made was met with a congratulatory martini and soon the announcements got pretty ridiculous –

Best butch dancer in a comedy role: Stacy Sherman!

Best non-attendance in a Home Ec class: Margret Rollings!

Best romance in a fictional life: Margaret Rollings and Stacy Sherman!

It kept going like this until the winner was Margaret who had soundly drank three quarters of the bottle and slipped a bit on the rug. Tumbling over her was Stacy, who faded in to her and kisser her – that kiss feeling more like a big hug on her lips then a deep embrace.

Margaret soon thought of being bad and having her fingers roll up Stacy’s leg, they had never traveled such distances, and visiting that soft warm place she had wanted play in. The thought of being closer to Stacy made her very anxious and she closed her eyes thinking of doing what she felt she needed to do.

Stacy never gave her the chance and got up to go to the bathroom.

Alone, Margaret could feel her panties were damp. She got up and took them off, slowly examining the centre where her own soft warm place rested and she blushed at the sight of this. Hearing approaching footsteps, she hid the panties under a pillow on the bed and straightened her dress.

“James just called. There is a wicked after-party happening in one hour in a berry field. What do you think?”

Not wanting out of the room, Margaret nodded her head passively and poured another martini for herself.

Time In a Bottle, pt. I

"Kickin' booze is hard to do," a voice piped up.

Dave Berry swivelled his head alertly toward a mangy, hirsute man who sat in a corner, sucking on the last drag of a cigarette through nicotine-stained fingers. He raised an eyebrow and nodded knowingly at Dave Berry.

"I know," Dave Berry said, "I just did it." He was proud of himself, pluming garish shades of self-satisfaction on this, his final day at the drying out clinic. He'd put in his month and was ready to strut away into the sunset, but it had been a hard, sleepless month full of shame and cold sweat and tears.

"Nobody kicks the demon drink for good," the man said.

"Yeah," Dave Berry said, puffing up, "what do you know about it?"

"I know a thing or two about time," the man said, then coughed and continued, "it always catches up with you."

I don't need this, Dave Berry thought, it's too soon for aggrivation.

He was getting frustrated, it felt like someone had grabbed his brain and squeezed. Why couldn't they let him have this? Why wasn't he allowed to have his moment? His frustrated brain sat two images side by side, rain and parade. He clenched his fists.

"I didn't mean to be insulting, now," the old man said, he held his arms out as if to display himself for scrutiny, "I know a thing or two about failure."

"No kidding," Dave Berry scoffed.

"You look like you could use a little helping hand is all," the old man said, "something to get through the badtimes."

"You're gonna help me?" Dave Berry was skeptical, "how are you gonna help me?"

"I told you," the old man said, "I know about time." From his pocket he produced a glass bottle with a clear liquid in it.

"This your idea of a joke? It's vodka."

The old man slapped his knee, then untwisted the cap and offered the bottle to Dave Berry, "go 'head an' smell it."

Against his better judgement, he smelled it, expecting to detect booze and spiral down into a frenzy of temptation. But, to his surprise, it wasn't booze.

"It's just water," Dave Berry said.

The old man shook his head, "it's time."

"Uh huh," Dave Berry shoved the bottle back in the old man's hand.

The old man leaned forward in his chair and said, "well let me ask you this: you ever kill time?"

"Sure."

"And where you think it goes when it dies? I process it."

"Yeah, okay."

"Take it," the old man shoved the bottle back into Dave Berry's hand, "consider it a gift. There's too much spark in your eyes for me to want to see you back here. Remember, when the going gets rough and the craving is snapping at you to take a drink, take a drink of this."

Dave Berry didn't have the strength left to refuse.

***

We offer ... Gift Month

'Tis the season of giving, merry readers ... so I'd like to announce our new paypal account! - Only kidding!! - as you know the Theatre of Technicolor Dreams is sponsored by the Elephant Army, and we all know the Elephant Army is a non-profit organization.

The holidays are meant to be about family, etc., but we know what it's really about: the gifts. I think we can fairly take that little nugget of inofrmation for granted these days and we needn't argue about it here.

And sometimes, gifts given or received can have unexpected consequences ... or benefits ... depending on whichever mood the projectionist is in here at the Theatre.

The holiday season is also partly about misery. Shopping misery, travel misery, weather misery. The weather is a big source of misery here at the Theatre, gentlepeople, and you know we all get a case of the lazies once in a while when the weather outside is disgusting (you thought I'd say frightful!). So, why not curl up with a cup of 'nog and hear us spin some tales of other people's misfortunes to put it all into perspective and make you feel better? Who can argue with that, hm? Come on, tickets are free!

And ... ah, I see you have yours in hand. So, enter the Theatre of Technicolor Dreams to witness Astonishing Tales of Wonder!

Hesitation

Looking down upon the son, he saw himself laid bare upon the cross. And it was bad.

His heart burned with dark coal and his hand rose as a mallet upon the cloud and summoned great strength to scare those who might now think themselves his equal. It was within his power to giveth and to taketh away.

But the night soon came and the tears washed away all desire to avenge, to create havoc which he innately held the power to create. He chose the path of resistance.

“See what you have done to me father?” the son asked, his soul tired and his heart faint. Their plan had worked. “See it for the whole world.”

The Father knew well what had happened. He knew that he had done this to his son, but his son was no victim but a benchmark to begin HIS time.

The Father ignored the son and looked upon others who might sanctify, who might know better than him. They were not there.

Time and it always went ticking by. He knew that it didn’t but the books said it was so. And it was good.

Curious things happened that were not intended.

People began to march one by one, to the cross to cry. Their tears swelled the canyon and soon a river flooded one village to the next, to the next, to the next, until we were all next… oh how the tears could flood.

Soon they made arks and ate apples. Soon they hated snakes and climbed ladders.

The Father was unsure about these turn of events.

So, HE raised HIS hand without knowing the plan. HE might have just as well summoned the whole litany of angles. But HE again chose the path resistance.

Books were then written, people were talked to; words that were well spoken, hearts that were constantly broken.

HE felt good about this.

One millennium passed. Then the next.

Darker spirits had jumped from the fire and cooled their hate along the salty plains.

Many spirits, some dark, some bright, jumped across the flooded rivers and brought the good words with them, naming this for that, that for this, all for HIM.

Soon such spirits faded in the dark, new spirits rose, some yet darker, some yet brighter.

With them a new Father was born.

This new Father, a step-father, cast aside the meek for HIS words decreed that only the strong shall inherit. Evolution was HIS name and he was not at that time stronger then the Father.

And so the Father did nothing.

Bars were created and people were kept behind them. They were then eliminated as part of the final solution.

White dresses marched with black suits and smiles were shared all around.

Men got around without walking. They had their own invention and they spat on the Father’s creation.

And HE held his hand high above them, always waiting to drop.

A great wave of smoke dried out a large village. Then another one. The meek have not inherited the earth.

How HE was angry. But he stuck to this path of resistance.

A man had a dream. He stood on a mountain, just below the Father, and had a peak at the valley below. The father touched him and he fainted. And he died not on a cross, but on a patio.

A nation gave themselves to the Father. The Father deemed them to be HIS, and to go forth and spread the message far and wide, quite and loud.

And they did.

A great battle was begun with no end in sight; every day since the son, men and women have lost the battle but the war band continued to be tight.

This caused some to wonder whether the good words were in fact good in nature.
They turned to the new Father because his new good was more rational.

Children who had looked inward now looked outward and the message began to spread in conflict with that message of the nation.

Two tall hands, that had reached for the Father for many years, fell to the bottom of the land and some tears rained, some of them joyful and some of them sorrowful.

The Father raised his hand yet again. But he resisted. He again chose the path of resistance.

The people took a big straw to earth and sucked black milkshakes.

The father waited.

Such milkshakes gave them ideas and then wrote books that used many words to dispel the good word.

Books were also now written announcing the good word for a buck.

But HE did not smash the earth with HIS mighty hand.

More villages dried. The tears no longer fell. Soon that canyon dried and so did the good word, which had become stale as the body of the Son.

But the Father did not smash his hand in desperation. He kept it dangling in the heavens, always a threat but never an action.

And soon the Son returned to share the new message.

“You hesitated too long.”

And now the world was on a new flood without the Father, who retired his hand and sat down only to observe.

Little Angels part 3 -- Finale

Doug swung the screwdriver around like a lightsabre making wooo…wooo… cresss… sounds until he spoke in a muffled voice that was a poor attempt at Darth Vader. “Johnny, I am your father,” said Doug. “Give yourself to the dark side.”

The whole episode destroyed the Pulp Fiction feel of the moment and things became pretty geeky, with both making lightsabre sounds, pretending to be the Emperor and Vader and even once General Grievous.

“Brother, I am so serious, we could kill those bitches with this screwdriver. Just plunge it in to their hearts and we’ll give them the what’s for, no what I mean motherfucker?”

Johnny nodded his head in agreement. So Doug began to walk across McBride, the gusts trying to blow him over and away from the church but he was all good, he made it across. Johnny soon did the same, the winds for some reason trying their hardest to push him over, the rumbling from the skies unearthly.

Upon reaching the Jehovah’s Witness church, the door slammed open, and Doug dove behind a bush. The priest could be heard out the door and Johnny had a peak inside.

“And let there be no young soldier who dies, no blood taken from the arm and given to the arm, and let there be no confusion that the end will come…”

Johnny turned away to see Doug wiping his pants at the thighs, knocking off grass and mud.

“Wholly, holly motherfucker. Did you hear that junk those bitches are listening to? Here.” and Doug handed Johnny the screwdriver. Johnny held on to it tightly and thought long and hard about what he would do with it. “I can’t hold it, you know what I mean?”

The wind kept hollowing, and pulverizing. Johnny kept whispering and stabbing. “If you will not join the dark side then you will die!”

Doug watched and laughed at the sight as Johnny seemed to become more accomplished with the device after each swing. He would alternate between swinging it hard and then light, fast then slow. Each time he did it, Doug seemed to have grown in presence as if the swinging of the screwdriver was interconnected to his puberty.

As the procession ended and the people moved outside in to the violent breeze, hats and hands began to rise to the sky. To Johnny, the churchies looked like little angels falling from heaven, kicked out for some greedy deed.

Doug looked over at Johnny and started to demand that he do what is right, what is necessary, what should be sovereign to him. The big words put a shock in to Johnny.

“No wait a minute, I thought…”

“Do it motherfucker. Don’t be a wuss.”

“Seriously dude, I don’t…” and Doug grabbed the screwdriver, pointing it directly at Johnny’s chest. “You want to be a bitch the rest of your life or do you want to be boss? The choice is clear. Do it!” and he handed the screwdriver back to Johnny.

Jason and Aaron walked out of the church, shivering and lurking. Their hair blew all over the place and then Jason fell over trying to catch his umbrella. It ran away across the lawn, far from where Johnny stood, making it difficult to even threaten him let alone stab him. But the weakling Aaron stood there alone. He turned to see Johnny standing strong, his eyes tearing a whole through his chest.

It would be so easy.

“This is the time to make good, motherfucker,” cried Doug.

Aaron stood, his body appearing more fragile then a 10 year-old should, not knowing what was in the palm of Johnny’s hand – his life.

Johnny counted to one… “Do it!” to two… “His chest, motherfucker!” to three…

Johnny kept his arm down too long and his feet stood like cement statue.

Doug approached Johnny.

“You motherfucker.”

Little Angels part 2

Jason took it real easy as he approached, and Aaron – ever the follower – tripped on Jason’s heels and then slowed himself.

“Hear you are on the welfare,” said Jason, his teeth china white, his lips curved upwards like Ark. “Your mom asked my mom for money. No way my mom is going to pay for your mom. But I guess she is because you are on the welfare.”

Jason elbowed Aaron, as if they were privy to a private joke at Johnny’s expense.

“Oh, I don’t want to pay for your shitty family,” said Aaron missing a personality of his own.

“Praise be to our parents for doing the right thing and having jobs,” said Jason, really extending the b on the word jobs.

“Yes praise. Praise indeed,” said Aaron, as the two continued down McBride, crossed the street and then disappeared in to the church.

Johnny had a feeling that Doug was listening real close to the conversation even though he was not standing by him. And when he reappeared, his face had that ponderous appearance boys had when they didn’t look you right in the eye but stood really close to you.

Johnny and Doug sat by the stoop looking at the docile street, seeing sparks.

“Welfare, huh?”

Johnny turned back to the broken window, fearful of talking about what he didn’t really understand.

“Well are you a mute or what, motherfucker?”

“I saw this movie last night, Pulp Fiction. You remind me of Samuel L. Jackson’s character,” said Johnny finally breaking his silence. “Right before he kills that guy he asks for a bite of the cheeseburger. I loved the way he takes that bitch’s burger and pop.”

Doug nodded his head real slow like he got the point.

The wind kept pulverizing and garbage pails were running side by side with trucks down the road. Curiously one stopped at the intersection as if it had a mini man inside driving and stopping it.

Doug didn’t seem to notice it and said to Johnny that he had a way to pay them back for their moms’ investment in the welfare. He pulled out a screwdriver with a rusted end with a red and gold handle. It looked like it had been left outside for years in an empty lot or one of those houses with dryers, stoves and shopping carts all over the front lawn.

“This is what I call the equals,” said Doug. “Those churchies think they are so pious, but Johnny we ain’t got to take their shit, no what I mean motherfucker?”

His eyes seemed to be filled with malevolent intent, as if the world was indeed to be fucked with by his little hands, that there was not enough havoc to be created by them, nor enough danger to be experienced by people from them.

Little Angels part 1

Johnny thought long and hard about what had happened to him, his face turning red turnip and his eyes with streaks of red lightning jettisoned from his black pupils.

Instead of joining in the Sunday morning street hockey, Johnny just stood on the corner of Third West Avenue and McBride and stared at the broken window where Dairy Queen used to be.

A boy named Doug walked up the street, smiling for whatever reason and stopped when he came up to Johnny. He looked at the broken window, its new sharp angles that looked like murder, the blinds falling upon the edges as a martyr would. The whole scene looked a crucifix.

“Hey,” said Doug, who was a boy Johnny was familiar with through back conversations he’d had with friends but not one who went to his school and not one he knew much about. The only fact he was aware of was that he was to leave him alone. But he was there.

“Did you do that?” asked Doug.

Johnny just shrugged his shoulders providing no answer and turning his sight back to the street. Across McBride was the Jehovah’s Witness Church, the notice board reading: Watchtower awareness week.

“I said did you do that motherfucker?” asked Doug in a bully like tone.

The wind was pulverizing Prince Rupert that day and it seemed to be in synch with Johnny’s heart, which gusted gale force blood through his chest.

“Doesn’t matter if you did or didn’t, someone is going to think that you did because you are standing here staring at it. Me, I don’t give a fuck, know what I mean. I’ve broken a share of mine. It’s cool that you did. And if you didn’t, it’s still cool,” said Doug in a much cooler way of saying something, like he was Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction. “Because you look like you appreciate that kind of thing. It’s in your eyes. They say broken windows, broken system, broken arms, broken hearts. It’s all good. Me too.”

In fact that Pulp Fiction idea struck Johnny in a particular way seeing as how he had just watched the masterpiece last night just after the obvious news hit home. Dad was long gone. Mom was out of work. No money was coming. So the family was now on the welfare – the system.

Only one day on, and it was already hard to be on the welfare. Somehow Johnny took it as a sign that he was not good enough to be good enough and that stood as proper rationale for him to not share his new family finances with his friends, who even in their best days were jerks and certainly not this new kid, Doug.

Two friends of his, Jason and Aaron, made their way up McBride. They looked well dressed in clean black slacks, a pair of white dress shirts and black ties, dressed like they were off to a funeral.

By the time they reached Johnny, Doug had receded to the background, somewhere Johnny couldn’t find him.

Oh faith my addiction or how I learned to land

Her hands trembled, but she twisted her arm and slid it forward. Could the words of her favourite verse save her this time, she asked herself.

Crucifix.

And God said, “Let the Earth bring forth living creatures according to their kinds: cattle and creeping things and beasts of the earth according to their kinds.” And it was so. And God made their kinds and the cattle according to their kinds, and everything that creeps upon the ground according to its kind. And God saw that it was good.

But is he kind, she asked herself.

And she saw that it was good as well. For HE is the one who led her here and it will be HE that will save her yet. It is the way she has been taught. This was a fact she did not doubt, even with the slithery beast held in her hand.

“Oh faith, oh faith, what shall ye be? Oh faith, my lord, shall only set me free,” she whispered slowly, beneath her breath.

Stephanie had always whispered to herself moment after moment. Day after day. Year after year. Agony was dealt best without anyone noticing.

And trust me here kids, nobody was going to notice her here, lost in isolation in the most alone city in Canada.

Today was a lie for everyday, the beast is in her hand, waiting to break her skin and decay her soul, the rain clouds forming over her head, and nothing but malcontents to surround her.

Why such a repetition, she would ponder. The curse never breaks and keeps the world bound in chains, a same old routine, day, after day, week after week, pitter-patter after pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter
Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter

Prince Rupert. Not the best home for vagrants. Nor was it the best place to get your fix but you did find it, all you had to do was get down to the needle exchange, kneel to the ground and eat the biscuit. As simple…as…that… and then you flew…

Zoom—another flight on the beautiful plane, so sky high, but there is ice on the propellers and god checked out a while ago. He took all the parachutes with him. So when she falls, no one catches her and she crashes right on West 2nd Avenue.

Today she will not kneel, today she will only pray – just a prayer or two.

“Oh lord, oh lord, what shall ye be? Shall you be the same as today, the same as tomorrow, and as infinite?” she continued to whisper to herself, her eyes sunk towars the impending long thin metallic purge.

Her black spiralling locks fall over her eyes that look like black holes misplaced in the universe. God had crashed her plane many times.

Then flight of thought about the quadric of holy governance: the father, the imagination, the boy, and the boogieman, all has her in chains. Go ask Alice if you dare. Go ask the boy if you dare. Go ask the boogieman, if you dare. Go ask the father, if you dare. Stay in the plane, there are many movies on this one.

The rain falls over her shoulder looking just like tears, the remorseful repetition that keeps her whole Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter

It always rains when the beautiful plane dives. She can’t get a break.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Lord, her clock runs, her hands fall, her hope like little grains of sand falling to the bottom of the hour glass.

She prays, but the repetition pays no dividends. She is stuck in the hourglass.

It was glass that got her here in the first place.

Another prayer comes to mind, she remembers this one as a child.

“Call the king, call the queen, and call the tin soldiers out of bed. The king here, the queen there, so bring your horse, bring your soldier, they have left, disappeared. Vanishing until there is no more king and the queen is dead,” she whispers still.

God must be ignoring her because the plane is crashing on autopilot.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. You can’t be anywhere but here girl. In the hour glass, on West Second Avenue. Prince Rupert. Alone.

The sleepy city has no idea – the storming horse, the tin soldier, the insidious invasion; oh how the sleepy city has no idea. But the rain still falls, Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter

Stephanie is never alone. Creepy crawly beasts slither and hiss there way down this street:

“A dime here, a quarter there, the king is gone, the queen is dead,” said when certain the power over her is attained.

She is offered no protection but she will not be swayed by dignity decay and is not about to ruin the last bit of dignity beholden to her heart for a dime.

“Maybe then you should pray little one,” the beast seems to say without words, its breath the foul stench of despair, like turpentine without the clean fair, its risen high to heaven, his eyes vacant of all divinity.

Pray for what? Pray for reality, pray for blood but to pray to fall is to make the greatest mistake of all. For she doesn’t want to bring attention to herself… shhhhhhhhhh!

“Still believe in choice?” the beast has asked.

“Oh lord, here me cry, I cannot fight the horse. Where is the boy?”

The invasion nears, sleep no more. One horse, two horse, three horse more.

He hears her not. The needle is ready.

But a hand reaches out and at the last moment she pulls back. The pitter-patter has pattered away, and below the clear night sky, the divine beasts do not howl.

The boy was here all along, no need for sorrow. He was where you are, his name was Myles Morreau.

“Come with me m’am. I’ll take you home.”

And the beast has slunk away in a Prince Rupert alley amongst creeping things and others according to their kind.

All kinds find each other.

All planes must land one way or another.

I Have a Magic Hammer, I Found It In a Field

but it didn't do me no good then, I had to wait, like everyone else, for the change to come. A twister brought it down to where our strongest men could not budge it, our mightiest cattle could not move it and our fairest maidens could not stir it. It was I, back then your humble milksop, whose sturdy but wiry limbs and tout though excitable heart saw fit to remove the object from its resting place. It was a burden that only I could handle. Now, the hammer is my friend, and I gave it a name.

I have a magic hammer, I found it in a field

I control the weather with it, but I've never been able to reproduce the magic twister which dropped it in my way. I clap clouds and peal thunder, which always brings up a cheer and a hunger for drink. Our town had not expected things like magic hammers to fall out of the sky, but we are nothing if not fine adjusters. My father sacrificed an eye to see the future. He is a great man, we used to call him Fred and he drove a tractor shirtless, thick with sweat. He grew up in and around rodeos and he takes crows as pets. But he cannot lift my hammer.

I have a magic hammer, I found it in a field

I crack skulls open with it. There once was a man who lurked in the woods, who would peek his calculating eyes out from behind trees. After the twister, when the changes started taking place, he was a troll who murdered children. He slept days beneath the foot bridge over the creek. He ate the children, all the ones that did not change, he ate them all away. So I cracked him in his skull with the hammer and his head split open. I think when I did that, tall the little children's souls wandered out and went back home. I wipe my hammer clean and smile.

I have a magic hammer, I found it in a field

and don't think it could happen to you, because this is my hammer, the only one of its kind. We love each other, my hammer and me and I gave it a name. I wield it and give it power, my mind and my hands give it a job to do, give it purpose. I think the hammer appreciates that. And I can feel already that I have put something of myself back into it, there will always be a little part of me in this hammer. Until the next twister comes, powerful enough to sweep it all away and deposit it in the next town, it's just going to be me and my magic hammer, which I named Percy Pepper.

Who's writing this thing anyway?

(((100th post!!!!)))

Lucas Klaukien sat down to write a story about a character named Lucas Klaukien.

He got up, went around, and in between fidgets and hesitations he put pencil to paper, then fingers to keyboard and moved his character around the chess board of a make-believe life, set in a make-believe world.

He motivated his character to go left, or right, pick an apple and fly a kite. He had his character play guitar against a tree on a hill in overalls and a straw hat. His character waxed philosophical under the moonlight, and soliloquized like a cat in heat, "... my breast doth twitter and torment 'neath the pale gaze of the shadow's moon ..." never knowing or understanding what the words meant or how they came to be. He did all this in a single day, knowing all days would be as grand, and he never feared the boredom of the ordinary. He would fight dragons one day, romance the maiden the next. Something, some motivating force gave him the power. Nothing was too much of a challenge.

So, never arguing with the force that compelled him to do such things, he decided to get a hobby. He would write.

He smiled inwardly as he sat down on a log in a dewey meadow and began to tap his lower lip with his pencil, looking skyward, waiting, waiting for some force to put words in his head. It didn't take long. He laughed aloud at his cleverness, he would write a story about a character named Lucas Klaukien.

Message

A question to G-O-D:

Where the hell have you been? i sent you a letter last week saying we were getting together for a divine intervention. yes, that's right, Johova is up to the old tricks again.

And this dude name Beelzebub called. Said urgent shit about to go down. Was really vague but he did say you could expect retribution.

Anyways, while you are out and about i thought you might like to know your popularity ratings are down with the Western crowd but waaaaayyyyy up with the middle eastern crowd. Seems to me like you can have one but not both.

And what is the deal with them Chinese?

Oh well i'll try to keep you as informed as possible but do get back to me. We are going to try to calm Johova down asap and maybe another DI will help.

You man in the pan,

Matthew

Scenes From An Election

(reprinted by permission from various news services)

... world was stunned today when God Himself accepted the Republican nomination for President of the United States ... "I've taken a day to rest and think about it," he was quoted as saying, "and I'm excited to get back to work" ... Democrats are not without a headline grabbing candidate of their own as Jesus Christ accepted that party's nomination ... God Himself announced today that he had chosen Zeus as his running mate ... Christ named Buddah as his running mate ... debate raged yesterday when as yet unrevealed sources claimed the Republican candidate had attempted to coerce Mr. Abraham to kill his own son in cold blood ... "I'm being called a demiurge," God said in a press conference, "well, I'm not a demiurge!" ... "If I am elected president," Mr. Christ said, "my first order of business will be to pull our troops out. Let's end this war and admit we made a mistake. Can I get a hallelujah?" Mr. Christ then raised his arms gregariously and strutted emphatically away from the podium amidst thunderous applause ... Republican vice presidential candidate Zeus has been called a war monger by the left wing media ... Mr. Zeus has been accused of sexual harrassment, abuse and even rape by over fifty women against ... Zeus, sweating profusely, was forced to take his name off the ballot in a press conference ... vehemently denied rumours of his sexual misdeeds from his compound in Greece ... America is swept up in Jesus fever ... Jesusmania continues to sweep the nation ... republicans are calling it the 'cult of Jesus' ... republican senator Ares had this to say, "it's like the liberals are worshipping this Jesus guy. Well, we believe there is only one supreme being in the universe, and we've got him on our ticket" ... Mr. Christ was unfazed by the criticism laid at his doorstep by opponents ... criticism concerning Christ's inexeperience continues to resound ... "A vote for Jesus is a vote for change," Jesus said at a rally on Tuesday, "can I get a hallelujah?" ... breaking news on Wednesday ... Scandal ... disillusioned masses ... it's official ... confirmed reports on Thursday that the democratic nominee for president Jesus Christ is actually the son of republican nominee God Himself ... nation was stunned on Thursday ... Jesus remains outwardly calm, but ... suffered a huge blow ... the Jesus camp said that the issue was "irrelevant." ... still has support in some coastal states ... polls open tomorrow morning, so get out and vote America ... polls are closed and it's official ... it's a landslide ... Landslide! ... "confirming that yes, it is indeed a landslide" ... largest margin of victory in the history ... victory speech ... "who's you're daddy," an elated God Himself said as balloons and confetti rained down from the rafters, "don't mess with God." ...

Psycho Babel

For Allen Ginsberg

We are all toys in God's toybox. I am a G.I. Joe, I'm not one of those colorful superheroes. G.I. Joes are soldiers, G.I. Joes get the job done, and sometimes G.I. Joes get killed in the line of duty. This gives me the fear.

God is a philosopher. God is a scientist. We are all control experiments in His laboratory. BY broad standards all His experiments are a success. All are failures. We all prove the rules. We all reassure God of his immense talent and popularity.

It is a chess game. I am a knight, always taking strange turns just at the end. My horse is a curious one, I am always getting sidetracked. Sometimes chess pieces are taken off the board, which gives me the fear. The only way to manage to stay alive is if your side wins. Kill your opponents, stamp them out, make sure they cannot breathe and will not live. Which side are you on?

We are all florae. I am a hedge that refuses to be clipped. I am not a blade of grass, I am not a weed in the society of grass. He would have me believe that my bright yellow dandelion petals are a travesty to the uniform field of emerald grass. I say to Him, let me be special, let me stand out, let me draw attention because I'm going to anyway, God. God, or no God, you can't stop me.

I am a G.I. Joe, I am an experiment, I am a knight, I am a dandelion. God is a child, God is a scientist, God is a chess player, God is a gardener. I exist independant of Him, I do not need a Prime Mover to motivate me. Child scientist chess playing gardener let me be. Let me float calmly upon the waves of contentment in an inner tube of peace, let me relax. Let me

be.

Eternal guarantee

Hey Jesus, a letter slipped through my mailbox this morning. Right through the green door and – poof! – down it fluttered right on the entrance way floor.

ETERNAL LIFE GUARANTEED.

I examined the envelope and my eyes read the wishes of a child.

You know Jesus, when I was a child I had came to believe that death was inevitable and my heart sunk when I closed my eyes for the terrible sight of my casket appeared before me as if someone had deliberately placed it in my head. I knew when I understood time I understood my enemy. And I cried as little as a boy does in the solemn of his room wondering why I had been burdened with such thoughts of an enemy that cannot be beaten. Sorry, Walt.

That’s why I can’t sit in the room with a filled casket, Jesus. These wooden boxes serve one purpose – to sit eternally under six feet of dirt and hold rotting corpses until there comes the time when space runs out for such silly rituals and we are dug up, our bones burned and returned to earth as munch for some plant. I will not lye with a casket’s legacy.

Living forever seems to suit me better.

ETERNAL LIFE GUARANTEED.

This letter with no return address offered me hope that maybe a casket does not await me, after all. Heck, maybe if I play it smart I might become somewhat like you and resurrect every time I get in a mess. Amused with this thought I opened it. Had you sent it to me? I am pious, Lord. I just don’t want to die. Maybe you have finally heard my prayer. I know that you must have – I always betted that if I kept on repeating my prayer to you that you would hear me, based solely on the consistency of my words. It’s no good to just pray one day for world peace and then the next day for the death of the rapist in the news. That was the trouble with most religiosos, they never had uniformity with what they asked for. How could Jesus, as miraculous as you must be, capably fulfil these demands? You died for our sins and not our indecisiveness.

I knew what I wanted and I expected its deliverance had come to me in this letter.

Dear Friend,

You pass through this life but once, death is guaranteed and can come at any time.

Lies! The words on the envelope lied to me. Jesus, what kind of bullshit is this crap offered to paper for my eyes. It proposes eternal life and then I open up and see that it does not propose anything of the sort. It only offers hate and paranoia, a sort of anthrax in word form, infesting itself in to my mind to strip it of the very oxygen of thought it needs and replaced it with fear and distrust.

I am pissed, no doubt. But I am reading on, the disappointment coursing through my veins demanding answers I cannot provide in my heart.

The amazing thing about the salvation message is the plain and simple fact you do not need to believe in God Almighty to begin with in order to accept it.

I close the letter. I accept none of what it says. Had you really sent this to me? Had you nothing better to do? I do not believe you would mock the very thing that beats my heart and calls my soul.

I walk outside and consider the sky. The everlasting sky I live under is filled with azure and stars. I look up and see the unique Preston blue by day and unreachable stars blinking by night over my balding head. Jesus, you’re up there and listening, perched on a star and shedding your light towards our salvation that you no longer want.

Then a curious thought enters my head.

Funny that some men dream of reaching diamonds, not stars, and grabbing hold of them so that they might shine their own light.

Perhaps I should, Jesus?

I close my eyes and there was love and I can’t hear just what I am being told but out of the corner of my dream I turn to look and realise the sky is gone, my heart is gone, my soul is gone. My hands feel just like balloons – they are light and reaching. There is place they are going. Jesus, God, Beelzebub and the others cannot come. They are left in the horizon of this blue ball and my lips move to say to them adieu, good luck god men, but there are no words. Earth is a speck in the vast blackness of the universe. The sound of politics and preaching fade away. My head is clear. I reach for the edges of the nearest star and feel its cutting sides. I want what they offer, what others have wanted. I want eternity.

As I have always.

Things to remember:

Do not look up to seek spiritual guidance.
Read the Bible at least once a day.
Avoid books written by Christian authors as these books will only confuse you.
Never try to understand the Bible through your own understanding.
Our saviour asks your sacrifice.

Meditations on the Divine

This month's subject is a doozy. I imagine it is the biggest subject we will ever cover. It is unknowable, yet coneivable. Neither provable nor unprovable, but it remains a constant obsession for the majority of people on the planet.

I'm talking, of course, about God.

The Theatre of Technicolor Dreams is not a forum to discuss the merits of belief in this God or that God, who's right, who's wrong. We will spend the month of November discussing all Gods from all religions past and present (or as many as we can get around to, at any rate), and we're going to set these tales within a contemporary milieu.

We're not going to attempt to answer any big questions, there's just not enough time for that. We will discuss the very nature of God and get inside His head, put them in unfamiliar territory and pick them apart. That's the idea anyway, the creative mind has a way of going where it wants.

So if you're looking for signage on the marquee outside the theatre, perhaps we'll spell it out simply, meditations on the divine.

Now hand your ticket to the usher and enter the Theatre of Technicolor Dreams to witness ... Astonishing Tales of Wonder!

Behind Glass Doors.

Every time he goes by this place, used to be on the bus ‘till his pass ran out, every time he goes by he looks at the window, the poster, and he thinks. Walks by, and stares at the window. Tries to match his reflection so his face covers the one on the poster. But he’s too short, his hair’s a mess, not slick like the man on the poster. His smile is a grimace, and his eyes don’t shine.

So he walks by. Every time. He wants to “Apply Now!” , to go behind the glass doors, to be the Man in the Suit, smiling and beaming and shining. But all his clothes are old sweaters and jeans, Salvation Army. He knows, though, he’s got to look just right, just like the Man, to even get past those doors. He knows he’s got to do it.

When he’s picking up his unemployment cheque, he knows, somehow he knows by taking it in his hands – it’s the last one. The envelope feels too heavy. Sure enough, there’s a letter inside, and they’re telling him he’s not trying, but he’s been walking. But they just won’t get it. Folding the cheque into his wallet, he feels like he’s been kicked in the sack.

And when he’s in line at the bank, the feeling doesn’t go away. The pain rolls up into his bladder, man, oh man, it’s not comfortable. Walking down the street, he’s limping a little. When he’s trying on the pants of a suit, the pain has shot up into his side, just rolling up and down, from balls to bladder to under his ribs. And he’s squirming and bending and cramping. The sales guy’s talking to him about shoes, and he just nods and counts out the cash for the suit, and bolts. Runs bowl-legged all the way to a clinic. Gets to catch his breath in the waiting room while kicking himself for wearing the suit, nervously eyeing all those people walking around with samples.

Old army boots under a new cheap suit, that’s what the doctor sees when telling him it’s either a kidney stone or a bladder infection, but he can’t afford x-rays or follow-ups, so he just gets a prescription for antibiotics and hopes for the best. Never in his life did he think that hoping for the best would be hoping for a bladder infection. And now he can’t even afford dress shoes.

Monday morning. He walks by the place. Once. Forgot his wallet, so he walks back home. Twice. Forgot his resume. Three times, four, and now he’s just pacing. And now standing in front of the glass doors. There’s the poster, behind his reflection. The reflection with the cheap suit. The bad hair. The army boots with a thick coat of black shine that look nothing like dress shoes. The Man in the poster looks down at him. The Man in his crisp suit, great hair, a smile like a switchblade and the hand extended to shake his, but it feels like it’s grabbing him. Right by the balls. And that pain starts up again, he thought the pills cleared it all up, but now it’s shooting right through him. And nailing him right to the spot along with his fear and anxiety and desperation.

Then he feels something like fire and acid fill his bladder, and he forgets about the Man in the poster, and his desperation and his fear. The pain flings him through the doors and at the counter where all he can squeeze out, red faced and teeth clenched, is “Bathroom! Stone!”. The guy behind the counter – cheap suit, bad hair- just points, looking terrified.

When he finishes screaming and his eye focus again, he thinks he can see a tiny rock in the toilet along with the blood and piss, but probably not. Doesn’t want to give it much thought. He can hear a knocking at the door – “Sir, it’s the manager. Are you alright? Should I call an ambulance?”. He pulls his pants up, opens the door, and trying to keep his hand from shaking too much, he hands over his resume.

ZERO

I've been up here much too long....much too long. I've seen the worst of man, heinous crimes upon their brothers, sisters........and the children...the children look dead. For in some times and in some places children are alive, safe. NO one appears safe..................WHAT THEY FEEL IS MY NAME..I'VE BEEN TAKING IT FOR SOMETIME......NOOOWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!





WHERE IS JESUS?



September 9th, around 4 am, the most important and baffling situation the human race has ever encountered took place. Every effigy of Jesus on the planet ....just got off the cross and walked away. The phenomenon whipped the world up in a mass frenzy of paranoia. Our savior has left the premises and vanished..............





A drunk?.... Just look at him, slumped over, half passed out, cigarette burned to the filter in his finger tips.... is it him? Is this man to take my place? He's very strange looking! Not a handsome man, shaved head, missing teeth, lanky, not healthy at all. He is a strange being....without a care....without any real moral judgment, perhaps a pagan from my youth...... looking to the sun again? That would be a grand turn of luck but I know why I'm here. The end...the end of my story. For this drunk I look upon is the guardian of his fellow man,

the next "savior" if you will, or maybe the great destroyer of all that is....live or dead.

I remember the days I was a young man like him, a great time, but every one's youth gets better with age. The friends that I talked to, the ideas we shared, all radical milestones and the memories that carved today. Yet, nothing has changed.....Rome is still in power ... the lost souls, those of structured spirit. I was about the same age as him when I got the call, sorry, when I answered the call (one always has the choice). Free...... we are all free, right and wrong are abstract thoughts, intertwined to form the mystery of.... fate. See, my fate was served with friendship and fellowship, maybe brotherhood, but I took the passive way out. I chose love........ the only feeling in the universe that never ends. Though scars of fear rip dark holes in time, those places demons lurk.

She was 23 when I died. She showed me, as women do, how to love... cherish, how to be a man. I can't really tell how long it has been. How much time has gone by? The mid-age was so loud with callings for the most hideous prayers, asking for pointless metals and ownership of others........... sometimes called a marriage, mostly referred to as slavery........ To beg for great love then turn around and beat that very love with every fear and insecurity one can channel at that grand instance of weakness............ That is the root of all weakness and shackles most souls, most people, the fear that you are not the best you. This race stops when in the hands of a lover.

I don't believe it, I can't! This shell of a man, mind recoiling in heartache and loneliness, is to lead the spirit back into the hearts of the human race. But I can hear the chattering of demons in the shadows, whispering in his ears while he sleeps, and not the smallest sign of fear in his slobber. He dreams of that great love with the bravery of a million dead warriors....... he reminds me of a being that wanders through the halls of conscience...Odin the warrior poet, all father of his tribe. His time may end in the same way as Odin and I, hanging for wisdom. I hope that he isn't misused as I was, forming the perfect, divine fright to control the thoughts of the world...... the only freedom men and woman have is in their hopes and wishes, once that is controlled by any institution or tyrant the soul begins to die. I knew the moment that I gave up my physical self that the future was up to humanity............. i had to watch every person all the time. They hung me up there, like a scarecrow, chasing people from freedom and personal growth. Everything I lived and died for has been twisted to control the innocence of children and make them forget every soul's true mission, the golden rule, to be nice and helpful to every thing.....To grow into a loving mother..........or in the case of men, to quell the jealous breast, become gentle and peaceful.

A stir...... Without missing a step he bolts from his inebriated state pulling a razor sharp dagger from his person, dashing crazed into the night. Around the side of the house and over a fence without a thought, the man stalks......So I followed, but by the time i found him, he had a demon by the neck........ Once a human, the demon came from a lust for acceptance which led to the dark solitary life of poison....... Man made demon juice that leaves the chained in a state of terrible self gratification, harming all that stand in it's way.

"Leave now, get off drugs, there may be hope for you, but the next time I see you trying to sneak through a little girl's window........",he pauses to press the blade to the demon's ear," I'll eat your fucking skin."
With a quick motion he covers the demon's mouth and lops the ear off then leans in to whisper, "Hear me now?"

He lets go the wounded beast, and with a whimper the demon disappears into the night. He wipes the blade on his leg and brings the other arm up to soak up a mix of blood and rain water from his face. He turns and realizes that I am standing behind him. Without missing a beat he says,"Oh Jesus, I didn't see you there. Want a beer?" He walks right passed me and hops back over the fence, to take his seat and pulls two beers out of a half empty case.

"Come on .", he says while waving me over.

"Come have a beer, if you're really real?", he snickers,"Come on....You can tell me all about hell and punishment. I'm ready."

"That was the most hideous form of justice I've seen and it will probably work, I don't think that I can really say that it was wrong of you. Your motives where pure.", I said to him.

"So ... you're not hear to smite me?" he shrugs.

I look him right in the soul, right to the pit of his conscience, and try to break his smug sarcastic demeanor, replying in a stern voice," You don't know, do you?"




....TO BE CONTINUED IN NOVEMBER.