It was Wednesday, according to the Gregorian calendar, and Sunday, according to the Roman. The weather was perfect, according to the weatherman, though “perfect” is a subjective viewpoint. It was sunny, with clouds and a light breeze. The perfect day for Jill’s garden party. Large circular white tables sat at the top of a little hill in an enormously large garden. Heavy cutlery and neatly folded napkins sat by ornate China plates, cups, teapots. Jill wore a frilly dress; her dogs wore similar frilly outfits.

One of her dogs wandered around to the back of the house to a bush where, just a week ago, it has buried a bone. She hunted around for the exact spot, but found a snake instead. She growled at it. It hissed back and bit her. Three minutes later, after much hacking and spitting, and then whining and seizing, she was dead. Three steps from the bone.

Back at the party, several hundred guests were discussing the latest in politics, art, fashion, philosophy, and the top forty music charts. Jill was looking for Jack. She scanned, with her hands like binoculars, across the tables, through the band, through the food, and spied him feasting on hors d’œuvres. She crept up to him, heels noiseless on the grass.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he mumbled. “How do you do?”

“I’m great. How are you?”

“Great,” replied Jack, then searched for something else to say. “Great party.”

“I’ve got something to tell you.”

Jack swallowed. “I’ve got something to show you,” he said excitedly. He could hardly contain his excitement. From his jacket pocket, he produced a small box. It was brown with flecks of green. It smelled like roasted chestnuts.

Jack swallowed. “I’ve got something to show you,” he said excitedly. He could hardly contain his excitement. From his jacket pocket, he produced a small box. It was brown with flecks of green. It smelled like roasted chestnuts.

“I got this yesterday,” he said.

“What’s it do?”

“Oh it’s great. Look.” He opened it. It played Fur Elise in a music box kind of way. In the middle of the box sat a big red button. Jack grinned. “Isn’t it great?”

“What’s that do?” asked Jill.

“That’s the best part. That’s the apocalypse button,” said Jack.

“Brings about the apocalypse?”

“Yep,” he said and pushed it.

The heavenly chorus sang Ha-lle-lujah! The sky ripped in two. Cats into three. Satellites dropped from orbit, slamming down into Earth at terrible speeds. Television sets lost reception. Radios spat out sounds of mewing cats. Every volcano continuously spat out molten lava, covering everything and everyone for miles in burning liquid. The earth’s crust ruptured. The light breeze went from zero to sixty, ruining hairstyles all over the world. A green-skinned, bearded man began flailing the screaming masses left and right.

Garden tools sprang to life and began skewering guests. The band started playing Nearer, My God, to Thee. A man cried out, “The lord is upon us! Blessed is his holy name!” and was promptly perforated by flying forks and broken bits of a China teapot. Couples began having sex on the caviar. They muttered unintelligibly in their respective native tongues. A more conservative woman led a man away by the genitals into the house. Food reverted to their animal states. Bass emerged from a bassist. A violinist erupted in a shower of salmon which flopped around on stage. The instruments began playing the band, Yakety Sax.

Up above, pilots flew their planes into other planes in brave demonstrations of World War Two Japanese kamikaze attacks. Chickens spilled out of overhead compartments. Passengers began herding other passengers out of the planes, who jumped willingly. A tremendous display of cooperation.

Down below, children began singing It’s Raining Men. Hallelujah! sang the heavenly chorus. Buildings crumbled, sending wood, bricks, and steel girders flying in all directions. Birds fled in terror. Art lept off their canvasses and started sparring with their admirers in two-dimensional space. An old woman wandered around with a sword in one hand, a severed head in the other.

The snake under the bush behind Jill’s house found that he could speak again. It slid under Jill’s dead dog’s dress and coiled around it, hissing all the while.

Jack and Jill leaned against each other under a table.

“What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“I love you.”

“I’ve made a mess of things.”

“I know.”

“Do you still love me?”

“Yes.”

Then the planet lost gravity, zipping into the black of space, spilling buildings and salmon and chicken and caviar and people into the void.

I would cross the bridge every morning on the way to class. Often I’d look to the stream that ran underneath and stare at the ducks as they ate. But today I noticed something curious and unfamiliar. In a small cardboard box wedged between two rocks, was a stuffed animal. Peering out of the box, and directing it’s black, marble eyed gaze toward me, it waved. Confused, I carried on walking, and averted my glance to the sidewalk ahead.

The little thing was there again the next day, but more eager, leaning out of the box and waving. I chose not to look away this time, and instead met it’s black marbled eyes with mine. It continued to wave, and I continued to walk.

On the third day, it rained. When I crossed the bridge, I could see that the cardboard box was falling apart. The waving animal was absorbing water as well, and as the stream gained momentum and splashed into the box, it’s eager wave had been weighed down. I walked on and got to class, as an unsettling feeling started to absorb me.

On the way home I decided that I would help the little thing, and so, carefully, I walked down to the muddy bank to pick it up. It looked at me with it’s black marbled eyes, and though it remained expressionless, I could sense it’s gratitude. Gently, I squeezed the water out of it’s heavy body, opened my bag, and placed it inside. When the rain had cleared up, the animal climbed out. Affectionately it wrapped it’s little arms around the back of my neck, before laying it’s head down to rest, and for the remainder of my journey home, I wore a silly grin.

“Let’s imagine power as the ink in a pen,” he said.

Then, he asked, “Well, the power of greed makes you want to hoard your wealth, right?”

We all nod in agreement.

“So, then, you don’t write at all!” He cackled at his own genius.

“You hold so much power this way, and should you want to use your ink, you could, right?! You could feel safe in knowing you held your ink! Right?!”

We all smiled nervously, was he losing his grasp on reality?

He was supposed to be a professor.

“But we’re distorting reality! Don’t you see?” His smile was gone; he looked disappointed.

“By writing with your ink and pen, by letting go of what you thought you needed to hoard, you exhibit more power than you thought you could. You can even wield the power of the written word now!” He was almost shouting.

“When none could see your ink before, suddenly everyone and anyone can read what you write, and your words can be remembered forever.” His eyes were shiny and wet.

“Unlike the ink that sits in your pen, rotting away, your words go on to flourish in ways you never thought possible.” He was getting quiet now.

The students were humbled by his passion.

“Are you afraid to look me in the eyes, Clarisse?” Mr. Alex Rastenburg asked.

He was too close to the truth. Clarisse silently begged him to stop. She knew she would lose everything if she gave in to him.

“Well? Are you going to answer me?”

He didn’t sound mad. Then what? Curious? Amused? That was far worse. Clarisse couldn’t bear to be teased. Especially by him.

He could probably tell that she was nervous. What with her downcast head, fidgeting hands, and steady gaze on the cover of “Oliver Twist”. She remained silent, hoping he would get tired of her, and exasperatedly say, “Well Miss Gomez, maybe tomorrow you’ll be ready to talk.”

Mr. Rastenburg sighed. “Let me help you out. This is a conversation, and it involves two people sharing their opinions on a topic. I can’t know what you’re thinking unless you look at me and tell me what you’re thinking.”

Clarisse didn’t want to hurt him by being difficult. Who knew, she might be the end of a bad day for him? She swallowed, and slowly raised her head. Her grey eyes met his green ones. She could not look away; it was as if his eyes were magnets and forcing her eyes to stay on his.

She didn’t see the green colour of Alex’s eyes; she saw a blackness coming out of his eyes reaching into her head, searching the thoughts and feelings she kept to herself. A blackness that sucked her in limb by limb, thought by thought, off of the chair she was sitting in.

She had only guessed it would feel this way, and now she knew for sure. She could stay distant and self-reliant, but only if she didn’t have to look him in the eyes. Or she could please him and look at him when he talked to her. But one look in his eyes, and she knew she’d lost: she couldn’t lie to eyes that looked into her soul. Those eyes held a promise that both terrified and thrilled her: the potential of a life where she wouldn’t have to worry about being right or being strong. He would be her undoing.

Mr. Rastenburg smiled, “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Flakes of Tahiti Sunrise nail polish are stuck to the doll, miniscule orange shapes adorning the plastic locks. Late afternoon sunlight seeps through the blinds as Megan sits, playing with her favourite Barbie. Perfect blue eyes and a plump pink smile stare blankly, waiting for love. Dress me. Speak for me. Play with me.

Megan knows her thoughts and wants to play so badly, but guilt overwhelms the poor girl. So many options and so little time. Setting the doll down gently, Megan stands and admires her room; her toys and no one else’s. There is the ceramic ballerina she received from mother for her 4th birthday, the dress-up chest, the kitchen set. A beat up looking cardboard box tucked away in Megan’s closet that once carried a shipment of Always Tampons now warehouses the rejected, forgotten train set. The freight cars, being too small to hold any doll, instantly disappointed Megan. The toys will have to commute in Barbie’s old jeep- dreams of new travel dashed.

As always, Megan’s heart is set on the dolls. Perhaps they can hold a fashion show. Mother generously donated these items as a way of purging her closet of ill-received gifts and mementos from teenage years in what Megan has heard her call “The Eighties.”
Donning fake pearls, neon resin bangles and a broach the size of her fist, Megan begins speaking gently under her breath to Janice, her prized Barbie. Only half aware of the outside world, Megan drifts into her imagination.

“Oh you look just lovely today! I need a touch up, don’t you think?”

Rifling through the chest she retrieves a cracked plastic case so often admired. Cheap smelling blush particles rise into the air as she opens the lid. Eyeshades of teal, peach, pink, plum and green obediently wait in line above the miniature lipsticks. Crumbling from use and smelling faintly of talc, the lipsticks cry out to touch their owner’s lips. The air hangs heavily in Megan’s room with pieces of dust twinkling as it lazily floats higher and higher. The scent of a young girl’s childhood is in every empty space of Megan’s surroundings: in between curtain and wallpaper, among the china figurines lining the shelves, even on the train.

Sequined pumps, far too large for the girl’s tiny feet are the finishing touch. With the dolls and stuffed animals having found their seats, Megan begins her premier down the cat walk. Wild applause greets her as she rounds the end heading back for the first wardrobe check; the bears, the trolls, the Polly Pockets all boisterously cheering and clapping. But something catches Megan’s eye. Alone, on the edge of her bed sits Janice, rigid and unmoved by the performance. Her blank smiling face no longer begs for love, or attention of any kind.

She sits and stares through Megan, arms extended in a permanent “L” shape. Quiet surrounds her. Unable to comprehend this sudden change in attitude from her faithful companion, Megan stands, staring back into Janice’s eyes. A slightly downturned smile crosses the painted lips. Green eyelids change shape as Megan brings her eyebrows in closer, scrutinizing the moment.

Janice is blond. Megan has mousey, brownish hair. Janice has blue eyes and Megan, ordinary, dull, grey. Janice has lovely, straight shiny hair and an abundance of perfectly moulded, inoffensive cleavage. Megan has not yet began to grow into the lovely young lady figure her mother has assured her will come in time. Peering down to her chest, chin tucked in, Megan frowns.

She can feel the doll’s judgment and unwarranted criticism. Megan has been a good owner. She has never cut Janice’s hair or coloured a body part with marker or pen. She has never subjected Janice to a play date with the magnifying glass, or King Kong. She has never even decapitated Janice. So why the sudden change? Why the silent disapproval? The icy blue eyes penetrate Megan, silently exploring, studying and taking note.

The light has faded to a weak grey hue. She turns from Janice to the still-loving smiles and wide eyes of her other toys. There is a hesitance in the girl’s movements that wasn’t there before. Trolls throw their arms wide open, inviting Megan’s touch. The stuffed animals are less enthusiastic, slouching slightly, allowing the exhaustion from undivided attention get the better of them.

Megan’s mother calls from the kitchen telling the young girl to brush her teeth and get ready for bed. Meagan comes back in from wetting her toothbrush and hastily scrambles into her night clothes. She collects her dolls and unceremoniously dumps the glassy eyed creatures and plastic parted individuals onto her closet floor, shoving the door slightly against a bulging mass.

If Megan felt a moment of awkwardness, a slight stirring of contempt or pity from Janice’s glare, it is quickly forgotten. After the nightly routine of story reading and tucking in, Megan allows her mind to relax. Her breathing is deep; her pulse slows and concentrates on resting. Adrift in a sea of thoughtless wonder and imagined glory the girl falls asleep.

Something in the depths of Megan’s mind creeps forth, treading softly around the corners of her lobes; an electric pulse. It winds its way into her sleep, capturing her dream, molesting her peace. Megan’s eyes break open, her heart suddenly beating through to her throat and behind into her eyes. Mechanically, Megan rises from her bed, grabs a hold of Janice’s petite body crammed in between the mattress and headboard, and charges towards her door.

If one were to ask Megan why she hurled the doll into the hallway making Janice bounce off a small table holding displaced objects: a rubber band, a broken pair of glasses, she could not answer. If one asked the girl why she left her beloved Janice poised against a baseboard, legs scissor split, arms held out helplessly, she would not remember. Something from deep inside young Megan awoke that night, something as ancient as birth with the quiet strength of rebellion.

Megan woke before her mother. The radio was silent, and the percolating hiss and dark scent of coffee brewing was absent. Quietly positioning a kitchen chair, Megan reached above her head and withdrew the battered tampons box. With some difficulty she hoisted it down to the floor and slid it across the room. Megan began unpacking the cars, tracks, stop signs and bridges. Her delicate fingers worked with fervour and grace that suggested this game was well practiced; a plot she had rehearsed a million times before.

Soon Megan was cross legged, admiring her handiwork. A small grin brushed her lips. Megan turned, headed back to her treasure chest closet and rifled through.
Megan watched Janice. Poor Janice. She was lying on her back, skirt suggestively tossed to her chin, hair tangled and ratty. Makeup was whorishly smeared on her lips and around her eyes. She began binding the doll’s arms and legs, hog-tie style.

If only Janice had the foresight to calculate her actions of yester-night and redeem her good name. But it was too late.

Already past the railroad crossing, and closing in on the bridge, the train came barrelling down. Janice stared up into the ceiling in those last moments, her eyes devoid of emotion, blank with shock. A brave smile stretched across her face, slightly mad. While the rumbling closed in and heat from the engine engulfed Janice, her last vision was that of unbrushed hair and a devilish smirk.

She was dancing after work, carefree, and with the great majority of her health intact. Every time she took a step, in the spirit of dance or otherwise, her boot would slip until she was again centered by the next step; which also slipped, on the snow and ice alike. She slid, awkwardly flailing and happily into each step she took, with the majority of her health intact.

He pulled up in the parking lot, high beams screaming in blades through the snowfall, and parked next to her beside the curb. Disregarding the pile of slush under the passenger door, she climbed in. Her dancing ceased until it was otherwise convenient.

She became tired and silent, a watcher of fellow midnight traffic. He opened his mouth for his mind to pour out the thoughts he has nobody else to tell. She affirmed affectionately, occasionally; he continued with wide eyes. In her head, she danced, with the majority of her health intact.

The night continued with the tired wind-down of a closing restaurant. The driving stopped, the car parked, the door unlocked; she had a smoke by the garage and waited for something surreal to happen. He stood with her, unconcerned with anvils from heaven, and talked about things he understood. She glided on his tone; the sound, more than just paragraphs floating through space and cigarette smoke, lulling her into a calm acceptance. She flicked her cigarette into the frozen garden. He led them inside.
She fell asleep on his chest and the words of the television, her head swimming at the rise and fall of his breath. He lay there, filling his head, unconcerned with anvils from heaven.

She was up before him for once, dressed and out the door. She lit her first smoke and let it mix with her minty mouth. She took in the wind on her face like breakfast, the nourishment in the cold sparking her awake, filling her with the urge to move. So she walked down the driveway, her back to the garage, and started to school with the majority of her health intact.

The bottom of her boots were flat, smooth rubber; firm as a tire and slippery as a good liar. As she walked, she thought of homes far away. She twirled ideas she couldn’t manifest and facts she couldn’t change. She thought of all the things she wanted to say, and of her own voice; a shaky falsetto that cracked under stress and blew away with the winter winds.

Every time she took a step, her boot would slip until she was again centered by the next step. She felt like she was dancing. She danced up the sidewalk towards the stoplights, and across the road, captured in her own glee. She danced right into the path of a moving bus. Its wheels had slipped on icy roads it wasn’t prepared for; they were firm as a tire and slippery as a life.

He woke up and took a shower, unaware of anvils from heaven.

She woke up with a start, as the glare from a streetlamp suddenly illuminated her room. She saw him sitting in the same chair facing her window. The light from the lamp created an orange glow around his body, and the falling snowflakes cast shadows on his face. She sat up in bed, letting the silence lay over them, as she waited for him to give an explanation.

“You’re here later than usual,” she said.

He apologized, and told her that he had a good reason for it. He wouldn’t elaborate.

He continued to stare out at the street. Lights that shone from the apartments across the road lit up, and then dimmed, like a message sent in Morse code. Rubbing her eyes, she tried to rid herself of this powerful reoccurring memory. She stared at him in a stunned kind of stillness, while silently begging him to speak. She examined his face. To her, his eyes held immeasurable depth even from many feet away.

Without warning, he rose from his chair. He slowly walked towards her door and opened it, motioning with a slight nod of his head and a smirk for her to follow. As she rose out of bed, something inside was screaming at her to stay put. She dismissed the internal warnings, and slipped quietly out the door after him.

They stepped outside into the snow. The world was so silent that even her footsteps made no sound. She knew she should have felt cold all over, but it was only her toes and the tips of her fingertips that felt the bite of winter. The rest of her body reverberated warmth as she followed him into the darkness. Her footsteps became blended into the landscape, as the snow filled in the imprints within seconds.

They found her car wrapped around a tree the next morning. Her history of sleepwalking was to blame, but her body was never found.

…and one day you come across a man walking and choking. As he coughs continuously for 30 seconds, you can see a strip of tape wrapped around his neck and overlapping above his left shoulder. He coughs for another 30 seconds. And you wonder. You go up to him and your hands find the end of the tape and strip it off in one quick movement. You’re not pretending – your hands are not 7 inches away from his neck mimicking the act of tearing off a scarf. Immediately the man starts to deflate. As his flesh pulls itself in, you see what you did not notice before: a tiny hole at the front of the neck that the tape had been covering.

You wonder, how has this come to be?

Isn’t this similar to the text you read (The Adventure of the German Student by Washington Irving) in grade 10. Did Gottfried Wolfgang have a sneaking suspicion that his bride was too perfect to be a real woman? Did his skin crawl? Were his thoughts clouded by excess of emotion – a feeling of being both troubled and knowing with certainty that this moment will change everything? Did his eyes widen in disbelief? Did he go cold all over, letting the questions run through him like minnows in a pond of death? Or was it only when the Parisian police man unclasped the collar with diamonds and her head fell off that Wolfgang knew? You knew before he did that something queer was going on.

Sarah tried growing her hair out; flowing blonde locks glistening in the sun. But every time she did, the shafts would break off, leaving her with sandy inch-long fuzz. She tried fitting her breasts into the low cut dress she bought on a whim. But every time she did, her breasts would part, her nipples crawling toward her back. She tried to slide her legs into the sausage-casing hose she picked up to match the dress. But every time she attempted this, her kneecaps would clang together as her legs burned against the sun. She tried to fit into the mold of the heels, but every time she did, her ankles would spill over the sides. With each step, she pounded the weight of her body onto the loose flesh.

Sarah desperately tried all this so that they would stop looking at her curiously, laughing at her maniacally and teasing her relentlessly. She would watch them, their pretty smiles and smooth cuticles; how easy it all was. But it would be days, months and years before she learned that it was she who was to stop.

Does counting butterflies equal
work? I’ve been delighted by the reds
and purples, and awakened by a flick
upon my fingertips.

I’ve heard answers back
when I call to the birds. Is that not more than
you receive from your husband?
I find the silence less disturbing here than
in the cab of a Massey.
The purity of wetland air teases
the heron to tread on the river.

Pardon me, for being
Romantic. You see,
I’ve shoveled the dung and spread the hay,
called the dead stock, burned the dead cock,
hit my thumb more times than I can remember,
and I always remember where I put the gun.

They built a grain shed in 3 weeks,
but I was out picking orchids.
Sawed and nailed the frame,
but I was lifting rocks for milk snakes.
Steel shingles, 20 ft. high,
but I was – wasn’t there.

If I take notes and pictures, I’ll remember –
and pocket the feel of baby swallows and crayfish.

Sucking through the mud,
he found the world he was looking for
away from the stench of manure,
away from tireless hours in the combine
He found his soul.
He’d been hiding it since he left college in ’69.