i cannot go on.

July 28, 2008

through the heat i trudge.
look at me, i'm raining;
watering this dry, dry ground.
with every step my strength is taken
drawn into the dust
which flies away; free.

i cannot go on.

my pursuer never stops-
not to blink, or sleep, or breathe.
arms outstretched, he moans and moans,
not for my death,
but that i am still escaping,
still running.

i cannot go on.

i will be consumed,
pieces of myself taken from me,
pulled with dull teeth-
drawn into that simple mouth.
my skin tingles,
waiting.

i cannot go on.

better to be eaten.
better to be torn to pieces,
to gorge this monster,
slowing it down, then to arise-
the unforgiven, the damned,
walking that shuffle-step.

i cannot go on.

vive la vidés

May First, Two-thousand Nine.

It was early afternoon and the sun was bright, yet she sat beneath the trees, a little before the sidewalk. There weren’t many benches along the Boulevard Saint-Michel- she sat in a wheelchair.

She viewed the May Day processions with her head tilted back slightly, leaning against the chair’s headrest. Her eyes were dim and unemotional, seemingly unmoved by the waving red flags, the crowd adorned with stickers that boldly proclaimed RÊVE GÉNÉRALE on their chests, arms, and knees.

Her long straight brown hair fell over her shoulders, onto her long-sleeved pink top. A white scarf was wrapped around her neck, and on the left side of her upper lip she sported a simple piercing. Her body appeared shrunken, slightly too small for her head; a subtle disproportion. Her legs were encased in jeans, and they were as still as the rest of her body, lying askew on the footrest.

The day was a full one, blaring music, cries of protest, and people everywhere. A jazz band passed by on a float, a troupe of clowns marched down the street; the crowd was colour-coded to identify what they wanted. The chants become a muddle of words: down with Sarkozy, up with socialism, stop the persecution of the Tamil Indians, join the Marxist Leninist Kommunist Partie.

What did she feel? Would she have marched, screamed, danced with the best of them, if she could? She sat beneath the trees, in the shade, watching. From what anyone could tell, she was alone.

Vive la révolution.

ghosts

I just realized that to my grandmother, this house is full of ghosts.

Not being able to remember anything, the sounds she hears from above, with Anh and her children on the upper floor, and the noises she hears from below, with me living in the basement with the radio going, are a quiet commotion that cannot be attributed to two octogenarians lying in their bed.

At times I am walking in and out of the living room, and perhaps she glimpses my comings and goings. She is surprised every time, and does not call out. Who does she think I am? Some phantom who stalks a path from basement to sofa then back?

The walls are covered in photos of past celebrations- birthday parties, anniversaries, and the like. There are grandchildren she cannot recognize, their pictures changing every so often as they age. All around the house there are families of strangers- happy, smiling people, all of them foreign and unknown.

Even as I sit here writing this, the door creaks open and a pair of eyes peer out of a darkened room. Before I can even raise a hand to wave the door is shut again.

Perhaps, taking this into account, it is my grandmother who is the ghost- haunting a house that does not belong to her.

birds of par[ad]is[e]

April Thirtieth, Two-thousand Nine.

The morning sunlight is warm and gentle, and falls lightly upon the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. Known to be a perfect spot for slow, romantic walks, couples walk through just as they would at any other hour, graceful and meandering. The walkways take you beneath the sun’s rays, and where it passes beneath the trees it is just cool enough to remind you that the day has just begun, and that the evening is a long way off.

The wall that borders the park is accompanied by trees, shading the sidewalk at intervals. On the pavement a man limps along, his big, brown boots worn and dirty. His left foot is slightly askew, and the sole of his left foot does not quite touch the ground with each step. A crutch under his left arm, he leans heavily against it, using it to take the weight of the bag on his left shoulder. His right arm is held against his body- twisted like a broken wing. He’s balding, and his thick beard has jumped straight from red to white in certain parts.

The man’s eyes are tired, but he continues to lurch forward, making his way down the sidewalk to some unknown destination. His awkward gait attracts glances, but on such a beautiful day as this there are not many walking along the outside of the park. His day has just started, and it will not end for many hours still.

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May Fourth, Two-thousand Nine.

Pigeons are dirty birds. The rats of the sky they are, always swooping down and pecking about at scraps on the sidewalk. They are completely shameless, flaunting their insolence as they waddle forward, eager to pick at crumbs by your feet.

She wears a ratty red sweater, the worn spots in the wool highlighted by the rays of the setting sun. She sits with her legs to the side, and underneath her is a large black sheet, like a theatre curtain. Beside her is a pile of twisted, broken baguettes. One is torn in half, and chunks of stale bread fill her hands.

The pigeons feast on the bread she throws before her, flapping their wings and strutting back and forth. Their heads bob up and down, as do their throats as they gorge themselves frantically. However some are already leaving; gratified or bored they have had their fill.

Old and worn, she watches them. Pigeons are dirty birds.

coming home

May Ninth, Two-thousand Nine.

-I sit in the bus station, beginning the two hour wait until my bus arrives. Staring through the glass, between the brick buildings, I catch a glimpse of a park and see petals dancing in the wind. Fluttering back and forth, they look like tiny white butterflies.

-A man buys a ticket for a friend, and spells his surname out ay ell bee ay are ay dee oh. It sounds like El Dorado, like the name of some lost city of gold.

- As the bus pulls out I spot some more of the petals riding the wind. One of them flies upwards, flies over the large brick building that houses the bus station. I don’t think wind should work like that. Maybe they were butterflies.

- The rain drums its fingers on the emergency hatch on the roof of the bus, and trying to peer out of the windows makes it seem like we’re underwater. The world outside is a complete blur, nothing but water.

- Passing by a field, I see a dead dear crowning a rubbish pile. The world is grey.

- Traffic lights hang on cables that run back and forth at an intersection. The wind blows them back and forth and they inform us that we can go as they wave good-bye.

- The sun comes out while we are at the Buffalo Airport. The clouds float over the air like giants. A stop sign motions us back, but we carry on.

- There is a tree, strong-looking yet leafless far below us. It is surrounded by the lanes of the highway, fenced in and dead.

- The clouds before us blanket the horizon, lying lazily above the city skyline. They resemble a slow-motion explosion, like some sort of natural nuclear bomb has erupted at our eventual destination. We head straight for them.

- At the border we disembark for customs. The wind makes the door weigh one hundred pounds- we all become weaklings.

- We wait in line, and as the door is closing it is blown open again- it closes slowly, shakily.

- I see a hill- the grass is long and has been smoothed over. The wind has brushed it lovingly, like a giant palm petting an equally giant cat.

- We are coming underneath the mass.

- A woman talking to someone on her cellphone says the word “beauty” and puts a lot of emphasis on the “u.” There is something in her world that is a “beauuuty!”

-There is a lake and it is probably Lake Ontario. Large clouds dominate the sky and the sun makes its way through like a spotlight on the steely grey water.

just dance.

If you have ever sat beneath Nelson’s Column facing south, then I’m sure you have had the immensity of the National Gallery fill your vision; just like on any other day. However, if you had been doing the same this afternoon, and if you have been so fortunate as to have been blessed with particularly keen eyesight, something peculiar might have caught your eye.

If you had been outside the main entrance of the National Gallery, your back to countless works of art and multitudes of noisy schoolchildren, leaning over the railing of the balcony, it would not have taken much for your gaze to be drawn down towards the square grounds.

Often times the section of pavement located before the Gallery was occupied by a street performer or some other not-as-entertaining individual trying to scrounge the public for their spare change. However, today was a Tuesday, and the likelihood of there being a crowd gathered around some street magician or people-pleaser was greatly diminished.

Beneath the hulk of the National Gallery one man stood where so many others had before and did it without an open hat or guitar case, without chains to escape from, without gimmicks and without music.

Without music anyone else could hear, to be precise.

In his right hand he clutched a Walkman, the record player of the 21st century. He wore headphones that swung back and forth with each and every step, every smooth, energetic step.

His feet stepped left and right, clad in black dress shoes. Moving upwards, dark slacks encased a pair of swaying legs. Despite his bulky frame, a too-large leather jacket came down mid-thigh, worn over a dark blue shirt. His hair was buzzed short, and all his emotion was shown in his dark-chocolate face and the movement of his body.

Eyes closed in confidence, his right foot came down, toe first, and his heel snapped left once, twice, three times. He spun around completely, fingers flung outwards on his left hand, Walkman again his chest.

The man jived and bucked his hips, and kept within that little patch of pavement. A kick left with the right foot, a step right, back, left, another spin around. He did the moonwalk, and from the sound his shoes made against the pavement you would have expected skid marks on the cement.

Every now and then there were a few spectators, people who stood and watched, both on the ground and from up on the Gallery. People snapped photos and spoke to each other under their breath; they were amused, confused.

If you had walked past him you would have seen the front of his shirt was dark with sweat.

For Renee [ poetry: what attacks? ]

The day we've all been waiting for
Addressed in movies, songs, and books,
Has come to our now-present's door,
Slyly, despite watchful looks.

There are no tripods, beams of light,
Our skies are flying-saucer- free.
They came to Earth a summer night,
To make their simple hostage'ry.

They came from planet aptly named
After the Grecian god of war
A heavenly body crimson-stain'd;
Burning bright vermillion star.

Perhaps they are around you now,
Over your shoulder this is read-
The unfamiliar firmly vow
To steal you from your creaking bed.

And when those bedsprings have released,
When your body's gone and left,
All the noises dulled and ceased,
Caused by fingers swift and deft,

You will be so far away-
In craft without easy depiction.
How long you'll be I cannot say,
This is a quick-writ work of fiction.

For Renee [ prose: written on a whim ]

The branches reached skyward, scratching the cloudy, troubled heavens and failing to leave a mark. Eleanor Ruby Greenway stood at the bus station and sighed; it should be illegal to have to wait more than fifteen minutes for public transportation.

Only a little past three on a Sunday evening and this weekend had already begun its slow, sullen march to its grave, filled with a heavy sense of resignation. Going to the park was sort of a social excursion, right? After all, there were a lot of people there, and she had even spoken to a man selling red balloons; they had been just like the ones the man in the park had sold in Curious George. Except, that of course there was no Man in the Yellow Hat to buy her one, and there had certainly been no antics or adventures.

A strong breeze blew down the street, as if a semi had roared down this quiet, suburban road. Elly clutched her bag closer to herself and shivered.

lights and sounds.

They huddled together, crowds of them battling the intense cold. In spite of warm jackets, scarves, mittens, subconsciously they knew that the warmest they would get was when surrounded by other people. Puffs of warm air streaming out with every gasping breath, their bodies pressed closer to one another for warmth, while their pride kept them from it.
 
The stairs leading up to an office building were covered with a thick blanket of groups and individuals. The groups were much snugger, friendships and family ties ensuring they would last the night without too much shivering; the individuals fit themselves in between the groups, breathing into their hands, shoving them back under their arms. Every one of them was waited, knees knocking, teeth chattering, feet stamping.
 
It was Chinese New Year. Looking out among the hundreds of people crowded around the square, black iron fence surrounding the grass and ancient trees, the crowd couldn’t have been more than twenty percent Asian, let alone Chinese. It was London, and here was an excuse to race to the Tube Stations towards China Town, fill the streets and restaurants and, especially, the supermarkets; as if the supermarkets were closed every other day of the year. That night was a night for foreign food, far eastern ethnicity, and, most of all, fireworks.
 
Underneath the overhang which protected the people on the stairs from the buffeting, frigid wind, two policewomen stood, presumably warm in the centre of the crowd and neon yellow vests.
 
The fireworks began abruptly at six p.m., and although everyone had been waiting for it, no one had really expected the intensity of the lights and sounds. They commenced with the launching of small, bright rockets which cracked like whips fifty feet above their freezing audience. Pinwheels high up on wooden poles had fireworks which trailed sparks and spun them around, turning them into white hot circles of light.
 
About five minutes through the excitement a line hanging between two trees burst into a shower of sparks, the individual fireworks igniting from one end to the other. They shockingly bright illumination fell upon the crowd like a floodlight, and everyone in front of another person became just a dark silhouette. It was like a waterfall of lights, pouring down on the grass, turning the world into bright and shadow.
 
It was after this that the large firecrackers began. Strings of them hanging down from poles went off like machinegun fire. To the Chinese there not London born and bred they were reminiscent of funerals, the sound never quite loud enough to raise the dead. Somewhere in the masses an old man heard the noise and watched the flashes of light and remembered.
 
They continued to go off, thunderous like the games of ninepins Rip van Winkle heard, bright like Hephaestus striking Zeus’ lightning bolts on his forge. A thick smoke, red and orange and brown began to billow out from the square, muffling the flashes. The bursts of light were like the flash from a dozen muzzles, the dissonant sound like modern warfare. Dozens of minds imagined that this was the closest they would ever get to an actual battle.
 
An eye twitched, and amid the booming like giants’ footfalls a heart beat in unison with the staccato discharge of the firecrackers and stopped. A man’s wrinkled face relaxed from the panic that had so gripped it moments before, and the mouth parted slowly to release a final breath, barely visible in the wintry air.
 
After the final two, a grand finale that forced glittering light from the ground up into the heavens, the crowds began to loosen. Blood was forced back into extremities and hundreds of minds, slowly draining awe, remembered how cold it was. They left the square in droves, pressed up against each other like salmon spawning. The crowds whose path took them in the direction of the old man flowed around and onwards, water against an obstacle it could not go over.

Purpose in every step they left for their homes, to be satiated at a restaurant which served £4.95 buffet, for a few warm, smoky hours in a pub, to go on with their lives.

just passing through-

She looked too young to be riding on a streetcar alone. Sitting there at the window seat in her blue-green dress, her soft brown eyes watched as she, along with the rest of the passengers, were rushed on into the city, immense office buildings looming overhead.
 
It was obvious that she wasn’t accustomed to riding on public transit. Veteran passengers who needed to get off at the next one to five stops never sat down- especially not next to the window; the momentary rest wasn’t worth the hassle of getting up and shuffling past the stationary wall of bodies.
 
Her fingers loosely held onto the neck of a guitar, slightly larger in its thick, black case. One hand traveled over to the other and pulled at the sleeve of a light sweater, stretching it over her wrist. Pale brown hair and freckles stole years from her face; she couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen years old.
 
The streetcar screeched to a halt in front of a subway entrance, a set of stairs leading down into the concrete sidewalk. She stood up awkwardly and did her best to squeeze past the woman on her left, gently lifting her guitar behind her. Hanging down past her back was a bag that matched her dress, begging for wayward fingers to reach down and shuffle through her belongings.
 
The last one to step off she heard the hydraulic doors close behind her. Behind the subway entrance a skyscraper towered above the sidewalk and the single-minded individuals that hurried over it. The buildings hemmed in the streets and made you smaller.
 
Something in those soft brown eyes hardened, and she strode down the tiled steps, into the bowels of the city.
 
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He took the steps two at a time, just making it to the streetcar as the last passenger got off. He caught a flash of blue-green in his peripheral vision, and his mind wondered at the hue marching along past the grey, city streets. He turned his head, but the streetcar doors closed and the colour was gone.
 
Over half of the passengers had gotten off to take the subway, and he strode down the aisle to the rear to take a seat. Looking to the left and right sides of the streetcar he saw that every seat available had someone at the window. A little early in the day to be tired, he thought, noticing the expressions and, more often, the closed eyes.
 
He made a snap decision and sat down next to a black man on the left of the aisle, his body falling a little too swiftly into the seat as the streetcar lurched forward. The man grunted, moved closer to the window, and stared down at his watch. A streetcar was not a place for conversation, though for another boy who sat next to that same man that afternoon there would be a chance to hear a fascinating tale.

Staring straight ahead at the backs of people’s heads, he wondered idly about what the day would hold for him. He gazed from head to head as he thought, a balding spot already dealt with pre-emptively with the magic of the comb over, and garish red hair dye on the woman two seats in front. It was just another day of work, just a little money into his bank account, just a bit more purpose to the last remaining month before college.

the cave.

He scuffed his shoes as he walked, imagining the soles of his shoes cutting up the damp leaves underfoot. The grey sidewalk extended forever, and almost every yard held a massive maple tree, their branches cutting off the pale afternoon sky.

Along the sidewalk, street, and yards were patches of light. The leaves were falling, even now, and the gaps they left were like stage lights, the stage crew having left them pointing every which way. His steps brought him through an illuminated area, and his steps hastened oh so imperceptibly.

Up ahead of him he could see where the trees ended, right before an intersection. Out there the whole world was exposed, naked in the absence of the comforting shade. There were no trees to keep out the sky, no houses to push away the wind.

Underneath that massive red-brown canopy he walked, scuffing his shoes as he went.

quatre: good morning

It had been a blur- his arms strained against the straps and broke free of them, they had been loosely done with no expectations that this would happen. He’d waited, until the pain had subsided to a dull roar, until his skull had been sown back up, and until it had been trapped inside his head.

His brief scuffle with the “doctor’s”, the frenzied grappling as scalpels and syringes and surgical instruments were grabbed and swung, and thrown around, it was all a haze. He remembered the “timer” the detonator, and lunged for it, and seconds later he stood, back against the wall with it clutched in his hand. They were on the ground, clutching their wounds, bleeding all over.

Looking down, he saw that the screen had been cracked, and it was a mess of red light shining through the tiny black screens.

“When is it set for?”

“We don’t know. We never knew.”

“I don’t even have any meetings planned what do you mean, blowing away half the businesses in America, how can you not know?”

“You don’t ask questions. You never, ever ask questions. You don’t talk about it! There are rul-“

The voices had faded as he walked away.

A warm breeze blew at his back, stinging the wound, ruffling his shirt. Higher in the sky, the sun glinted from the windows, from the cars coasting by, from the sunglasses of people walking past. He wondered why he had bought the house, and remembered the other reasons; remembered imagining loved ones in every room, a home with the curtains pulled up and warm, clean sunlight pouring in.

Richard Gabourel walked down the sidewalk, not knowing where he was going, but knowing what he wanted to do. He had a life that could end any second, and a thousand things to fill it up with.

trois: good morning

Revelation after revelation exploded in his brain clearing away thoughts that had lingered only moments before. His whole life lay open before him, and Richard Gabourel could do anything he wanted, swim an ocean, climb a mountain, start a family.

The playground was already far behind him, but the sounds of children screaming and having fun still echoed in his ears. What would it be like to have one of his own, to love and to care for, to raise up and to teach. Thirty-eight and a highly successful businessman, there had been no time, not for dates that didn’t involve the CEOs of other companies, and not for love, a four-letter word rarely heard, if ever, on the golf course.

“We could have picked anyone. There were at least four other people we could have taken, why this guy?”

“Look at him. What do you see? A man with a life who has never lived- we’re not changing anything here.”

He absentmindedly wondered if there was anything even left of his house, 27 Willow Crescent, three bedrooms two bathrooms, a forty-minute drive from the city, large cherry tree out on the front lawn. The payments on that house were forgotten, but why he had bought it in the first place was beginning to surface.

It was supposed to have been a place away from work- away from that world of suits and good mornings and meetings, where people met and met and met, but never knew each other. It was the place where he had been ready to leave for after three nights of sleeping in his office. 27 Willow Crescent, a place but not a home.

They had known enough about him to catch him as he walked out of those plate glass doors, rough hands grabbing his jacket, a needle frantically plunged into his arm, through his clothing. He could not recall wondering why the security guards stood by and did nothing, could scarcely remember his captors, black shirts, black pants, black shoes.

“That should do it then, operation successful.”

“Did you set up the timer?”

“It’s all ready- we let him go, we watch from a distance, and when the time comes-“

“We blow him and the heads of half the businesses in America to kingdom come.”

deux: good morning

Richard had life in his step, an epiphany every time his foot touched the concrete. He felt good, loved the air in his lungs, the body he was in, the beautiful morning.

The immense pain continued to break his head open, and he could almost the cold air flowing in to take up space in his skull. Icy fingers, sheathed in thin latex, gently lay themselves on his temples. They felt like sledgehammers, and he inhaled frigid air through clenched teeth, catching someone’s attention.

“Stevens, what are you doing?”

“Whoa, relax, man. I barely tapped him."

"Looks like the drugs have been doing their work. Knock you out for twelve hours, wake up with a hangover from hell."

The sun had moved up over the apartment buildings. Flexing stiff fingers, Richard grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, and, pulling them back, eased it off of his shoulders. He was sure that the shirt underneath was stained with last night’s excursions, with panicked sweat and blood, his and other’s, and fear. None of that mattered. He dropped the jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, letting the morning sunlight warm up his skin.

“Does this mean he’s awake?”

“Who knows? I saw his eyes open, but it’s highly unlikely that can see anything- this lamp must be like a floodlight to him”

Walking past a nightclub, Richard glanced into a car parked right in front. The wasted individual inside was just beginning to react to the newly risen sun beating down on his eyelids. Just before his steps had taken him too far, he saw the young man slump over, not enough energy in his body to turn his head away.

“You’re sure your ‘operation’ isn’t gonna kill the guy?”

“Are you doubting my abilities?”

“No.”

“I’m fairly sure.”

intermission- distraction

I tap my feet, trying to read my textbook, trying to understand exactly what Wernicke’s area of the brain has to do with not being able to speak properly. Because if it does, there is definitely something wrong with my Wernicke’s area. Keeping my eyes down, I run my tongue over my teeth, making sure it’s still there. There must be some reason I can’t talk.

Looking up, I inwardly curse and rejoice that she’s still there. A part of me whispers that maybe if I just sit back and stare, I’ll be able to muster up the courage to actually approach her, to bask in her presence, to talk to her. It’s crazy talk, all of it.

Sitting at a table near the reference section of the library, she’s taken the wiser path. To my right the easy chairs next to the magazine racks hold one student; head tilted back, mouth agape, textbook wide open on his lap. Hard uncomfortable wooden chairs are definitely the way to go for the serious scholar.

There has to be a way to get some studying done. And then it comes to me. I can read a page, and look up, through this technique get actual studying done. I’m thrilled with what my brilliant mind has come up with, and then stupidly decide to start it off with a glance.

And then a glance turns into a look. Before it can turn into a stare I drop my eyes to the page, and attempt to start reading again. How can she be so pretty? There are some things that I can’t wrap my mind around- and this is definitely one of them.

After a page of Psychology, I look up again. She’s still reading, eyes intent on the pages. Her eyes glance right to a notebook on the table, a slender hand pushes a strand of long, dark hair behind one ear, and she looks up, grey-blue eyes locking onto mine.

My heart stops.

Thousands and thousands of ideas run through my mind- anything to fix this, anything to make this all stop and have everything back to normal where I don’t even look up every page and where I’m just studying and she’s just studying and work gets done and everything is all right. Nothing comes up.

Her look turns from one of slight surprise to one of vaguely irritated curiosity.

I get up.

My feet are Judas incarnate, and they bring me to her table, standing directly across from her.

I open my mouth.

“Hey, I’m really sorry. Not even just a little sorry- really, really, really sorry. I mean, here you are, sitting here actually doing work and I’m over there staring and um... Not what I was trying to say... You know what? You’re pretty. And maybe people don’t tell you that or you don’t hear it often or whatever, but you are. And I’m sitting all the way over there and I can’t stop looking up. And- it’s just- distracting. I can’t get any work done, because you’re there, and you’re still looking like that. It’s not even that I’m into you, or that I think about you ever when I don’t see you, because I don’t. It’s just when you’re around. And- just- take the compliment... I’m going to go. Find somewhere I can actually work.”

Turning, I walk to the library doors, heart beating like I’ve just been running for my life. And walk out.

un: good morning

The sun peeked over the apartments on the other side of the street, its light bright and clean. Richard Gabourel stepped out of the imposing brick building, let the heavy fire doors swing behind him, and smiled at the sky. He could just picture the day outlining his torn, ragged suit, exposing the bruises and dried blood to the world.

Cool air, bright, vibrant existence, it was all so different from the nightmare that ended for good with the heavy click of the doors shutting. Not caring where he went, he began an easy, confident walk right. Flashes of memory would fill up his vision occasionally, as if his brain refused to let him forget it.

He woke up to the harsh, burning glare of a fluorescent bulb above him. It took him almost a minute to realize that he was lying down. Almost two more had elapsed before the realization that he was strapped down dawned on him.

“Is he awake?”

The voice scratched his ears, not because it was rough or grating, but because all of his senses were on edge. A pain so intense, so overwhelming split the top of his head that he thought he would pass out. He clenched his eyes tight and bit down hard, the muscles beneath his cheeks tightening with the pressure.

Walking past a coffee shop, Richard caught the curious and worried glances and stares from many of the patrons; eyes peering over newspapers or pupils leaning far left while the face stared straight ahead. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what he looked like- but he felt amazing.

A park appeared across the street to his left, and he watched as children clambered over the twisted green jungle gym, their high-pitched voices shrieking with joy. Parents both cautious and otherwise occupied sat on the benches on either side; some with their hands loosely clasped before them, never looking away from their offspring, and others chatting with friends, seemingly ignoring the fact that their children were hanging from the bars with their legs, trying to pick up their Hot Wheels cars in the sand.

one night.

It was a cold, dark night, typical of most in late October. The slight change that this night held was the monster under the bed, waiting.

Steven lay underneath the covers, body so rigid that the small of his back didn’t touch the mattress. The little matchstick boy stared at the ceiling, but really waited for something to appear in his peripheral. He pushed his head further back into the pillow, watching both sides of the bed.

While his eyes pretended to watch the ceiling, his ears strained to hear the slightest slither, the scrape of dry, inhuman skin on the floorboards. He barely breathed to keep it as silent as possible, but his heartbeat raced out of control and echoed in his ears like war drums.

Ten years old. At ten years old you knew better than to lose sleep over whatever figments your imagination was coming up with in the late hours of the night. But he knew there was something there.

In the corner of his room, leaning against the wall, was his hockey stick. He thanked God that he chose a hockey stick over a new bike last Christmas, and cursed himself for not asking for a baseball bat. It would be difficult to use a hockey stick- it would be unwieldy, and hard to swing.

That being thought, he knew what he had to do. The full realization of his next, and very likely last, action caused his eyes to open wide, and he sucked in a deep breath.

Something large and scaly dragged itself past the boxes underneath the bed.

It seemed like hours before he released that breath. When he did, it was slowly, so that he felt like a slowly deflating balloon.

The monster had gone towards the left side of the bed.

This was his chance. The hockey stick was on the other side of the room, in the right corner. It leaned against the wall with all the might of Excalibur, promising salvation, or at the very least the feel of something hard and heavy.

He closed his eyes, and hoped this wouldn’t be the last time.

Steven threw the covers back over the left side of the bed, and knew in his head that they had landed on something. The sound of tearing cloth reached his ears as soon as his feet touched the ground, and he very promptly wet himself. He ran so fast that his forehead collided with the darkened wall, but his fingers wrapped themselves tightly around the handle.

Now he could fight back.

The creature had slid back underneath the bed, and turning around he felt its hot, putrid breath pour over his feet, even though the bed was at least four feet away. Two bright, yellow eyes reflected the streetlights outside, and they looked right into his.

He raised his hands over his head, grit his teeth, and brought the stick down hard on the floorboards. They struck with a resounding CRACK. His hands were numb, and they hurt, but he knew what he had to do.

Steven screamed at the top of his lungs and brought it down again, harder, feeling the wooden shaft almost shatter. The jaundiced eyes widened, and a heavy breath washed over his feet and ankles, causing them to start sweating.

The rest of his body was ice, and he shook like a leaf. He knew that although his scream had echoed throughout the entire house, no one was coming. He was all alone.

He levelled his arms and brought the hockey stick out, straight in front of him like a lance. In his mind he knew that only one of them would be left alive once it was all over.

This would be his one night stand.

jffe.

Sitting on that streetcar, you wondered why it all went down the way it did.

You sit in the stained, maroon seat and take a deep breath, inhaling the cool air with its hint of cigarette smoke and car exhaust. It fills your lungs, cold and dirty.

It’s so different from the smell of Irish Spring, that light green soap that lay scattered in boxes all over his bedroom floor. You remember how he told you about his mother, and how she had bought it in bulk, after he had mentioned how much he loved it.

The next stop is yours, and you stand up to yank on the cord. As the streetcar screeches to a halt, you almost stumble, but catch yourself on a handrail. Stepping down off the stairs and into the night air, you start the eight minute walk back to your house.

As you walk past silent street by silent street, the first raindrops begin to fall. They tap on the shoulders of your jacket, and you pull your tuque down over your ears, wondering why, in winter, it’s liquid dropping out of the sky instead of beautiful, fragile snow.

You remember the last time you can remember it raining. Walking down Dundas, his baseball cap pulled down over your mess of hair, keeping you dry. Taking in breath after breath you can recall what his hat smelled like, sweat and boy and just a hint of Irish Spring.

Walking along in the rain, you hunched over, damp and miserable. Looking up, you saw him shaking his head and smiling that crooked smile. Deep in your chest that feeling grew just a little more, and you silently begged those above the clouds to change things- to give you just one day.

But the arm never came down around your shoulders, never held you against his chest and warmed you up from the inside out. The distance between the two of you never shortened, and his hat kept the rain off of your head but didn’t do a thing for the rest of you.

All of the walks, and the talks, and the listening, you stuck with it. On the living room wall of your head, right above the fireplace, you hung a picture of the two of you, together. But you were the best friend, and you were good at what you did.

That’s all you were. JFFE. Just Friends For Ever.

pt.4 as it freezes.

It might have been two days later when he stood up from the easy chair, thirsty. Opening the fridge, he saw a can of soda sitting on the top shelf. Next to the can lay the sandwich. It lay there, crushed. His eyes fell to the cool tiles, and on the way down caught on a carton of orange juice. Grabbing it, he strode back to the living room, swinging the door shut behind him.

It was a week after that when he opened the fridge, stared in, and shut it again. He knew he was hungry, but- not for something cold. Cupboards were opened and sifted through, and expiration dates were glanced at while quick mental calculations took place. Finally his fingers closed around a familiar shape, and he pulled out a box of cereal. It did the job- but he wished he had milk.

The end of the month was nearing when his stomach led him to the kitchen and his feet stopped him short from the doorway. He stared into the darkened room and watched the microwave lights blink the time, small, green numbers that lived and died over and over again. His feet twisted and turned his body away, turning him towards the phone. Confident hands picked up the receiver and dialled his favourite pizza parlour.

Summer had died long ago. Autumn was gaining momentum and swiftly making way for winter when he waited, standing outside the doorway to the apartment. The key hesitated before the lock, thought it over, and plunged in, twisting itself and opening the way in. A palm pressed against the door and pushed it forwards, letting it swing slowly inwards. The apartment was growing darker; the fading sunlight streaming in, working in vain to fill up the room with its brightness.

Eyes stared into the dark. A right hand returned, with key, to a pocket, and exchanged house keys for car keys. A body turned and legs strode down the hall.

pt.3 up and ready.

He blinked once, twice, three times. With each open and shut his eyes took in the barely furnished room and the lonely television set. He stretched his fingers, and noticed the soft warmth of the sun on his right. His back and shoulders ached, and with the dull pain that lay in them he remembered where he was- and why he was.

Far behind him was a bedroom, completing the holy trinity by joining the kitchen and living room. Sitting on a table next to a neatly made bed, a clock radio began its mechanical screeching. Beep beep beep, it went, step forward, step forward, step forward.

He pulled himself out of the easy chair and wiped his face with both hands. Work started in half an hour. Closing both eyes, he let out a deep breath, and shuffled down the hall, through the bedroom, and into the bathroom.

Seven minutes later he was out and dressed. Striding into the kitchen, he opened the fridge. The cool air escaped its sealed prison, and drifted past his face, creating cool waves through his still-damp hair. The light was both cold and warm. On the top shelf lay the sandwich.

He stared at it jaws clenching and unclenching, his teeth feeling like they would shatter in his mouth. His left hand reached around to his back pocket and felt the familiar shape of his wallet.

He would buy lunch today.