Bad Art

Me and My Umbrella.

2010-06-19T03:42:00.002-04:00

Pale and sickly as a child, I had grown accustomed to carrying my plain, black umbrella no matter where I went. I would even keep my umbrella open indoors, to save my eyes from the windows and artificial lights. My mother took me aside one day and said, "put that thing away, you look like a fucking moron." I, of course, refused this advice. The sun would ruin my sight and my skin, and, moreover, I thought it was fashionable. Certainly no one else I knew was so daring as to carry an umbrella everywhere. One day, it caught a breeze, and I struggled to keep the implement in my hand, worried it might invert and break at any moment, when suddenly the breeze lifted the umbrella into the air, and carried me with it. I was alarmed at first, but as the days went on I began to try it on my own, taking a liking to it. I was the first of all my friends to learn to fly, as far as I knew. From then on, I practiced with my umbrella, soaring to new heights and astonishing the eyes of everyone who looked upon me and my umbrella. One day, I was flying home from school, when it started to rain and thunder. It gave me a fright and I flew as fast as I could, and luckily made it to my destination without being struck by lightning even once. When I opened the door, there was my mother, who said, "your clothes are fucking soaked." I was briefly confused, but finally came to an understanding. This was no ordinary umbrella, in fact it was hardly an umbrella at all; it couldn't even stop the rain. It was some device designed exclusively for flight. I, on the other hand, had no gift for such lofty endeavours; I was, in stark contrast, an ordinary boy who was rather sickly and pale.

The Diver.

2010-04-30T23:04:00.001-04:00

I slip down to the deep crevices which devour me, under the ruse of being a geologist investigating the matter; my credentials support me. The air is stifling and poisonous, and I gradually lose my sight. I am forced to use echolocation to find my way; I am screaming at the top of my lungs, and the surface becomes clear in my mind's eye. Someone from the surface calls down to see if I am all right, and I send him a way with a stern warning. For that moment my violent and aggressive nature become apparent, but I utter a fake laugh to ease my confederate, and he does the same, pacifying him until my next display. I happen upon a cave, and wander in. I quickly become lost among its winding passages. Again, I yell out until my ears ring, and everything is clear to me for a second, and then fades away. I trip on my shoelaces and fall against the rocks. I catch the scent of my blood, and feel wetness on the back of my head. Treating the wound will have to wait. I finally lose my voice, and am forced to sit down and wait. It does not come back for hours, and upon every attempt to escape before then I only lose myself more. Finally, I am able to shout my way back through the caves and climb above. I am disoriented from the experience, and the first thing my eyes begin to see is the sun, and it only brings the pain of my wound into my skull. I find my confederate when he yells out, "Jesus Christ; what happened to you?" I laugh it off.

A story about the power of food.

2010-01-25T05:12:00.000-05:00

From childhood I have been overweight. This is not a defining characteristic for most people; however, I have been blessed with a gracious appetite. I do not feel satiated; rather, my stomach begins to feel full to bursting long before I could possibly be finished. Indeed, many times I have eaten until I was sick. The prodigious volume and speed of my eating is a thing of pride for me; I do not know a single man that could eat more than me in a single sitting, or two men in two sittings. At one point I considered eating competitions; however, I soon realised that they were not to my taste. Eating is truly a personal, hedonic and holistic experience. It is an integral part of life and yet it is so much more.

I cannot say that my appetite nor my weight have led to any reduction in the quality of my life. In fact, I have become the CEO of a very successful company that produces medical supplies. I have a wife and kids, and we are very happy together. I am very large, but not large enough to be restricted in mobility; I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I also do not find myself judged on my corpulence; I am told that my charming and jovial looks give me a youthful and almost cherubic appearance.

With all of this in mind, one thing continues to frustrate and drive me. That is, my insatiability. I simply cannot eat enough; I am constantly hungry, and the pain my stomach causes me sometimes brings me to my knees. I have been to many doctors, and none of them can find anything physically wrong with me; in fact, besides my high body weight, I am at the peak of physical health. I have seen psychologists, who have attempted and failed to link my condition with any sort of underlying mental phenomenon. In desperation I have even seen dieticians and trainers; this, too, has been fruitless. This leads me to my most recent turn of events.

It was late at night, and I had been woken from my sleep again, by my gasps for air, my palpitating heart, my incredible hunger. I carefully crept downstairs, and succeeded without waking my wife or children; I have been told that I have an unusually light and graceful step for my size. Thus, I snuck to the kitchen, to prepare myself a meal.

Of course, for my taste in food I have become quite an adequate chef. At first I decided that I would prepare myself a full bird, home-made salad dressing, fresh bread, a bottle of vintage wine, a cheesecake. Normally I would have had no difficulty doing this, as I am one of the finest home cooks I know, and my family would not need to check on me since they are fully accustomed to my clanging around in the middle of the night in search of a meal. Moreover, I always keep the pantry stocked in case of such an emergency. However, today I struggled through it, for these were no ordinary pangs of hunger; It flooded my mind and made it impossible to concentrate. I immediately started on the cookies I had baked the night before, and neglected to finish. However, I finished them too quickly, and was still too hungry. I ordered five pizzas while cooking, each from a different store. While I was waiting for them to be delivered I uncovered the snack food I had hidden from my family, and proceeded to devour my entire cache of chips and candy. I finished the pizzas, and finally began to start on the ingredients of my meal. I ate all of my biscuits and cream cheese; then, the spring water dough that had only started to rise; then, I chugged the entire bottle of wine; and I got to to the raw bird. I had barely started to gnaw on it when I realised what had already begun to happen. I had become critically bloated, and my gut could not take any more food. I gagged violently, struggling to keep my meal all in one place.

In one last fit of desperation, I grabbed the nearest implement that I could find, a butter knife. I stared at my reflection in the blade, and saw my face that had been struck with illness, where there had been so much vitality before. I took the handle in both hands, pointed it towards my stomach, and jabbed it into my abdomen.

I felt a blinding flash of pain; I felt the implement in my body, and the warm wetness that soaked my hands and nightshirt. I barely kept myself from screaming, as I have excellent self-control. I ripped open my clothes to gaze at the wound; at first the redness of my shirt had led me to believe that the wound was severe, but in fact under closer inspection it was quite superficial. I was bleeding quite a bit, but it was not deep enough to penetrate anything but the most external layer of flesh. I realised that if I were to finally end my suffering, this was the only way. I took my shirt off and prepared myself for the next blow.

I gazed at the blade yet again; this time, it had been stained with blood and I could no longer see anything in it. The shine of steel had been replaced with the glistening of fluid. I took numerous, shallow breaths, to regain my composure and build the confidence I needed to strike again. Finally I grasped the blade before, and laid the tip where I had cut myself initially; it stung like alcohol, and I had to force myself to keep it in place. I pressed into myself. The weapon moved deeper into myself, and I gasped for air. Then, I pushed the blade down with all of my strength.

For how weak I had become, the wound was a success; I felt the extremes of agony running through my entire body, as if my self-infliction had become secondary to the condition that had spread throughout me. As I drew the knife out, shaking, I gazed down at my body; my bulbous gut was obviously open, however aside from that there was no change, nor any relief in my pain. I dropped the knife to the ground with a clatter, and felt at my body. This prodding seemed to do the trick, however; and my entrails spilt forward onto the floor, in plain sight. I gazed down at them, and tried to feel them; however, they had already been cut loose. I could not sense them in the least. They were no longer a part of me. Satisfied with this final conquest, I turned, back to the raw chicken that would now become a part of me. I ripped it apart and grabbed the bird in my arms, and held it to my teeth and tore it apart, bones and all.

I heard a voice behind me, calling my name. I turned around, and my wife was staring at me, and my wound, and the bloody raw chicken in my arms. Her expression changed from confusion to outright shock; she screamed, and fell to the ground and started shrieking and sobbing uncontrollably. The children would be down soon. I was about to run over to her, my first instinct was to comfort her in some way, and then I began to wonder if I could possibly ever be of any comfort to her, my organs lying on the floor, covered in blood, eating raw chicken in my hands, and fat as it gets. She could no longer even face me, looking anywhere else to avoid seeing this horror. I opened my mouth to speak, but my words were entirely silent. I took a step forward, in the vain hopes of doing anything, anything at all, that would ease her suffering and mine; at that moment, I slipped in the pile of blood and guts that my feet lay in. Uttering one last shout, my body tipped forward, and I landed right on my skull with all of my weight.

Alternate timeline.

2010-01-04T03:20:00.000-05:00

In an alternate history, there is a revolutionary movement in my hometown of Toronto dedicated to ousting our corrupt and omnipresent government. I have joined this movement, even though my comrades are made uneasy by how I believe in fighting. I am constantly terrified of accidentally mentioning the one thing that I must not mention, the thing I knew all along, that everyone suspects and fears of me; that the only reason I joined this stupid revolution was to learn how it felt to kill a man.

An uneasy morning.

2009-12-24T04:33:00.002-05:00

I woke to the sensation of being suspended in mid-air. Instinctively I struggled for the ground, and when I reached forward it occurred to me that I was upside-down, with my face toward the ground, as I clawed at the dirt and sharp stones in front of me. I tried to find my bearings, as I breathed in the thick, strange air; it was impossibly damp and filled with ash. Finally I became aware that my eyes were still closed, and I could not see. I opened them and it stung for a moment, but then I could see the stones that I had grabbed at, through the hazy air that seemed unnervingly thick and foggy. Thrusting my arms toward the ground, I attempted to right myself and stand, but I only spun in place to look at the sky, surrounded by treetops; the air was much cleaner here, although my breathing was still heavy and laboured. Finally I managed to stand on the ground that was behind me, with some difficulty, and realised that I was in the middle of a shallow river, and I had been lying face-first in its polluted water. I reflexively tried to cough up the fluid in my lungs but seemed to have no breathing trouble besides a certain heaviness. Gazing down, I saw that my abdomen had swollen in an unsightly manner; perhaps that was what kept me afloat. Maybe I was sick. I forced myself to climb the riverbank, and in reaching the top I found a nearby street.

I had no idea where to go now; in fact, not only could I not remember what I was doing in a river, I could not remember anything at all. I wandered through the streets aimlessly and watched as people gave me uneasy looks. I looked down; my hair had become filthy, and my clothes were tattered. Eventually someone approached me. I did not recognise his face, but he looked me in the eyes with an alert gaze, and said, "what are you doing here?" It was only at this moment that I realised that I had drowned.

The Bridge.

2009-12-24T04:33:00.001-05:00

I got off of the train, climbed the stairs, passed the turnstiles and left the station. The air was brisk. I walked to the street, looked down both ends, adjusted my hat, and started walking. It was not long until I reached the bridge.

It was a windy day, which might have meant a storm would arrive soon. Light debris was being scattered into the air. I began to walk over the bridge, where the wind began to grow in strength. A sudden gust blew my hat free, which began to tumble across to the other side of the bridge; I was about to run and grab it, but stopped myself. I couldn't reach it before it fell off, and even if I did then it wouldn't help me at all. My hair began to blow in my face. I pushed it out of the way in vain.
I stopped at the middle of the bridge, and looked to the north, over the railing. The valley below was a lush green, even on this cold spring day. Branches blew in the wind, cars drove by and a green river flowed past everything.

I stepped halfway up on the railing, and clenched the top of it with both hands. I peered down. It was tall enough, all right. I breathed deeply, and leaned over the railing. I stared at those green trees. I was not afraid.
Something pushed me.

I gasped and shouted in terror, though I have no idea if I even said anything. The ground rushed forward as my body moved over the railing. I was falling and the ground was speeding toward me. This was it. I panicked and screamed, and grabbed at the air with my hands, as if I could slow my fall and live instead. My hands caught something.
I clenched the railing again. I had barely moved; my feet had become caught in the railing. It was impossible for me to fall like this.

I took repeated breaths as I struggled for air. I was nearly hyperventilating. With some difficulty I eased my self down and reached the ground with my feet. I steadied myself, managed to let go of the railing and turned around.
There was no traffic and no one walking by. I looked down both ends of the bridge; no one was there at all, no strange figure running into the distance. The bridge was empty, except for me.

It must have been a gust of wind, although it didn't feel like one; at least, not in my memory. For how it struck me it felt as if someone had punched me with all of their strength. I looked again, and started to walk back, still gasping for air, still mortified that I had almost died. I walked all of the way back home, and didn't stop once, not to catch my breath, not to look back.

Castle Frank.

2009-12-24T04:31:00.001-05:00

There's a double-layered bridge at Castle-Frank, one layer for cars and pedestrians, and another for subway trains. I love to stand and admire the view into the landscape below; from this tiny vantage one can see valleys and rivers and roads and green trees, all below oneself, in a scale that looks like one could reach out and fit it in one's palm.

Now, when I was young, they installed some form of wire architecture all around the bridge, which blocked the view as well as any attempts of pedestrians to go over the bridge. Later I learned that this was the site of numerous suicides. It bothered me to see this abomination of utile art, disrupting my perfect view, but what disturbed me far more was the thought that people jumped to their premature deaths right into this beautiful scenery that I am so fond of. What puzzles me is this; what kind of person could see these images and not realise that they would need to stand there and admire the view for an entire moment after they began to fall?

A Christmas story.

2009-12-24T04:30:00.003-05:00

"I'm sure you know why I've called you here today, Mr. Duncan, I apologise for taking time out of your busy schedule but you are of course aware that your Uncle Luke recently passed on."

Duncan paused for a moment. "No," he said, "no one informed me." He remained unfazed by the matter, a dull, almost impatient look on his face.
"The police should have notified you. This must come as quite a shock, I'm sorry that I had to be the one to tell you this."
"Yes, it is."
Duncan was relatively certain that he had met some uncle or another no more than twice in his life, and could not remember the name of that uncle, either, most likely because no one had bothered to introduce him. If he knew more about his parents' families he might have been able to produce some statistic of the likelihood that he had met Uncle Luke, but he didn't even know what side of the family Uncle Luke was on. If it were not for weddings and funerals Duncan probably would have never met any of his relatives for that matter. As he understood they were not particularly close.
"Your Uncle Luke fell from the roof of his condominium one night. Very strange. We don't know if he fell off by accident or if it was something more sinister, if someone pushed him off... A neighbour told police that your Uncle Luke was known to go onto the roof frequently so no one thought twice about it. A damn shame."
No response from Duncan.
"This must come as quite a shock. But there is still the matter of business, unfortunately. You see, your Uncle Luke had no will, or perhaps it's simply disappeared somewhere along the line. All the same we have no record of it. And since it appears that all of your Uncle Luke's other relatives have passed on, you are the next of kin, and are the rightful claimant to your inheritance."
Duncan remained as stoic and motionless as before, though his uncle's lawyer noticed that his face had begun to look less impatient and more disinterested.
"Before we go over his possessions I will inform you that your Uncle Luke was in possession of a large sum of money. He was very wealthy, as you know he ran a large and successful business."
Duncan remembered his father saying something about some rich so-and-so in the family, so this must have been true, then, and Uncle Luke must have been the rich so-and-so.
Now Duncan appeared interested.
"Excuse me while I recover the information on his assets, I will be just a moment." And the lawyer left the room.

After leaving the office and proceeding down the street Duncan didn't know what to think. Sure enough he had inherited some money. Enough money, in fact, to quit his job and retire and life the rest of his life in luxury, if he so desired; his Uncle Luke was apparently extremely rich. Even so, Duncan became suspicious of the lawyer. The sum seemed short. Of course, Duncan had no way of knowing, he was not privy to his financial details prior to the meeting. "Of course you understand that there are some legal fees incurred for taking care of this business, your Uncle Luke would have been well aware of it, it's very clearly marked down here." Duncan wasn't used to reading these legal documents but the number seemed in order to him, he wasn't sure of how much a lawyer would normally accept but it seemed reasonable and it would hardly dent his newfound assets. Perhaps he overlooked something that would indicate a larger claim to Duncan's rightful wealth. Maybe he should hire his own lawyer, and ask him to check the numbers. Of course that lawyer would also likely be crooked, and accept his own fee, and it would become astronomical once the lawyer found out how much money Duncan now possessed. In a way, he had lost. The complete opposite of a Pyrrhic Victory.
It began to snow.
Slowly, at first, but it started to gather speed and soon the ground was covered. The streets were slippery and Duncan's bus arrived late and moved slowly, it took him an hour to reach his apartment. He didn't have anywhere else to go today; he didn't have much money, his inheritance wouldn't move until tomorrow (though Duncan thought that this was exceptionally rapid), he didn't know anyone he could visit with so little notice, and he had taken the next two weeks off for the holidays. He did not normally take a vacation yet in a moment suddenly called up his boss and announced his intentions, he did not even know what they were before the words left his mouth, and his office was quick to agree to it since he had taken almost no time off since he began working there. At first he thought it was a moment of some sort of weakness or illness that led him to this course of action, but he decided eventually that he deserved it, and he may even enjoy it. So he went home and, exhausted from his journey, fell asleep on his couch without even undressing.

The next morning Duncan received a phone call, from the lawyer again. "It's taking longer than I expected to clear everything," he said. "There's a police investigation, which means some of the assets, stocks, his condo, personal possessions, et cetera, none of it will likely pass to you for a couple of months.
"I've spoken with your Uncle Luke's former accountant, who says that everything adds up fine. And I've spoken with the police, and apparently you're not suspected in any way since you do not appear to have been in contact with your Uncle Luke for at least a decade, it seems. So you have nothing to worry about, and you will definitely receive your entire inheritance." Duncan was quick to note that the lawyer made some special emphasis on 'entire', causing him to become suspicious once again, but he managed to remain silent on the matter.
"Luckily for you, much of the money cleared without a problem, and it has been transferred to your bank account without fault.
"I'm sorry we had to meet under these unpleasant circumstances."
Duncan showered, changed clothes and made himself breakfast. Then he immediately went to his bank. The snow had piled up overnight and covered much of the cityscape, however ploughs had cleaned the streets and sidewalks and things were running smoother than the day before; the snow was now reduced to a few small flakes still falling and they would be cleaned before they amounted to anything. When he checked his account, he discovered that the sum was even shorter than before, and realised that he would, no doubt, have to take matters into his own hands and hire his own lawyer. Even so, his personal savings from before were diminutive in comparison to the astronomical windfall that he had just received; even if he received nothing more from the lawyer, he was guaranteed to live in some comfort for the rest of his life, and could still conceivably retire immediately. He took out some small bills (or what was now small), put them in his wallet, and left the bank. He had to set priorities now; he had no idea how to spend that kind of money when he had never had anything like it. Ultimately, he figured that he would need a new suit, and should probably consider a car and a house. He wasn't prepared to quit working yet but he was already seriously considering it.
He had hardly stepped out of the bank when he was confronted by, of all his misfortunes, a man.

The man was grim and imposing, certainly he stood much taller than Duncan however his back had become so hunched and twisted that they were nearly level. His clothes were of high quality, however his suit and coat were wrinkled and dirty. His hat hung over his face, making it difficult to make out his features, however it did reveal greying hair and a dirty, stubbled chin, he had not shaven in a couple of days. He was definitely an older gentleman, much older than Duncan.
"Mr. Duncan, I presume."
"Excuse me, sir, but I have no time to spend for a stranger who accosts me on the street and knows me by name already. I will be leaving now, do not follow me or I will call the police."
Duncan did not move before the man continued talking. "That money is mine, you know. It belongs to me."
This remark seemed to disarm Duncan in some fashion, though he could not clearly say why, and neglected to move away as he had insisted that he would. "How does it belong to you?"
"I knew your Uncle Luke. We worked together. He owed me this money, he promised it to me. You have nothing to do with this, and you should hand it over to me immediately."
Duncan scoffed. "I don't know who you are, and this is definitely my money. I don't know what you're talking about and I don't care. Good day." With that, he walked away and did not look back, if he had he knew that the strange man would be still there, watching him until he was out of sight.

Duncan did buy a suit and a watch and a new wallet. However, all through these trips as well as Duncan's various diversions over his holiday, he continued to run into the man, often showing up in random places. Sometimes he would be on the street, or waiting for him inside of a store, Duncan never saw where he came from, he always appeared out of what seemed to be nowhere; Duncan could turn around and there the man would stand, staring at him. Despite the man's strange appearance and physical stature and strength, however, he did not seem threatening, and Duncan decided to refrain from calling the police yet, always telling himself that he would call the next time he saw the man. The man always seemed a step behind intimidation or threats, and his idiosyncratic behaviours and speech betrayed some intention that he apparently was otherwise reluctant to indicate or act upon.
Over time, Duncan learned some things from the man; his name was Isidor Bouchard, and was a high-ranking employee and personal friend of his Uncle Luke. He did not mention his particular claim to the wealth, except to note that it had previously been indicated by his Uncle Luke that he would certainly receive the money eventually. If his Uncle Luke had lived longer or written a will, Bouchard would have already received the money, according to his own way of seeing things. Still, Duncan did not trust him, his instincts told him that the man was lying, while he was not confident that this man was the thug he appeared to be, he certainly could not have good intentions and was probably simply trying to earn a quick buck now that his Uncle Luke was dead. Duncan thought that perhaps the lawyer was onto something, and it could have been Bouchard that murdered Uncle Luke; even so, Duncan remained aware that it did not at all look like his Uncle Luke was murdered.
Duncan didn't know what to do with his vacation. The first week passed quickly. He bought books, went to coffee shops, watched movies, whatever he could think of, however he remained bored; money is not interesting if there is nothing to spend it on. He was also uncomfortable flashing his money around; he was careful with his wallet, but during a lapse of judgement he went as far as to pay for his suit in cash. He chastised himself, for using the money, for carrying it around, and never did so again; even so, that did not take back his actions, surprising the salesman and earning a dirty look from a clearly less fortunate fellow (though by no means poor, at this point most people were less fortunate) in the store. Luckily neither one harmed him.
Duncan continued to run through anything he could think of, spending on anything that came up that might occupy him. And Bouchard at first saw him once or twice a day, but by the start of the next week it felt like he was omnipresent, ready to suggest the possibility of a threat of a violent assault and robbery at any moment.
Luckily Bouchard did not follow Duncan into his apartment. One day, he and Bouchard had gone through the lobby, up the elevator, down the hall to his apartment, and he saw a package in front of his door. He picked it up and took it inside. Bouchard waited outside, and Duncan had begun to wonder if he even planned on going home or sleeping. Duncan had not seen Bouchard eat anything in an entire week, and even went as far as to offer him food through the door, which Bouchard refused.
Soon after entering, Duncan received a phone call, inevitably from his lawyer, the only person to call him since he went on vacation. "I hope that package has found you all right," he said, "I've managed to clear some personal items, some clothes, letters, things like that, I thought I would send them as soon as possible. I hope you appreciate this, again I'm sorry that we had to meet under these unpleasant circumstances." Duncan had hardly spoken before the lawyer had hung up, and it occurred to him that he had hardly spoken to this man and had not seen him personally since meeting him. He opened the package. Nothing very interesting, there was a handcrafted watch that he exchanged for his new one, a gold-plated lighter, all very nice and expensive but nothing groundbreaking, as if some man named Uncle Luke possessed such things. Duncan had become irritated at this long-lost dead relative who had invited some uncomfortable spectre or phantom into his daily life. Soon, though, he came across letters. He decided to quickly look through them, and as he had assumed, one would be from an Isidor, someone known enough to his Uncle Luke that formalities were unnecessary and neither of their last names would need to enter any conversation.

The details of the letter are of course unimportant and not very interesting, the gist of which is, hello Duncan's Uncle Luke, how are you doing, thank you for your help, so on, so on, and, as is inevitable, thank you for the help you have promised, I can never thank you enough, you have my gratitude, the money will help me and my family so much, so on, so on. The letter appeared supernaturally, as if divinely ordained simply to support Bouchard's story. Of course, it could still be a setup; after all, Bouchard did not appear until the lawyer had delivered the money to Duncan, and the lawyer even made the effort to note the presence of letters in the package. He would have to think the matter over. First, though, he should confront Bouchard about the letter. He stepped outside, to an empty hallway.

As inappropriately timed as his arrival was, Bouchard disappeared at the exact moment that Duncan wanted to see him. This was probably not the plan of the insidious lawyer; if Duncan had read the letter as soon as possible, Bouchard would have likely stayed in the hall, waiting for a response, as if he had personally delivered it. Still, that was not enough to make Bouchard seem innocent; there was definitely something about him. Duncan went about his personal business again; random diversions, again nothing to keep him occupied for very much time at once. He started looking at some ritzy open houses on the Upper Class side of the city. He spoke to some sellers but made no promises, he was unwilling to make such a commitment yet, especially if he had Bouchard's money. Through all of this time Bouchard would not show up, no matter how long Duncan spent out. For a short time he considered repeatedly going in and out of a building as if to provoke his presence, and Bouchard would simply appear, out of nowhere, as usual, but then he dismissed this notion as insane. It stopped snowing. Bouchard did not appear until Sunday, the last day of Duncan's vacation.

There was snow still on the ground, the air had not heated up at all to melt it away. It was evening, and Duncan was walking toward the station to get home. He had been looking at houses in a quiet, residential area, and still quite wealthy. Thankfully he had the new suit, or he would have attracted unnecessary attention, someone may have called the police and have him arrested as a burglar. Unfortunately, unfamiliar with the area, he had become lost. He wandered around aimlessly, deciding that it would be rude to knock on someone's door to ask for directions at this hour. There was no one on the street.
In the end he wandered into a strange area, something that resembled a town square. There were no roads for cars, just open area, like sidewalk. There were a few snow-covered benches, and a tall fountain that had frozen over, the shape of a bulging snow-covered statue above it. Duncan had seen photos of places just like this, though never anywhere in person; they may have only existed in books, or television, or Europe, or Canada, or wherever. Duncan walked to the fountain. There was a small plaque, covered in snow, and Duncan brushed it with his hand. It read, "FOUNTAIN SQUARE 1884". "Creative," thought Duncan. He turned around and there, sitting on the bench next to the statue, was Bouchard.
The man looked ahead, and he may not have even noticed Duncan. He had no hat on, the first time that Duncan had seem him like this, and it revealed a large bald spot, over an oddly shaped skull; nothing to make you frown or stare, but it was still unexpected. His back was hunched, as usual. Duncan walked over to him and said, "Bouchard."
Bouchard looked up. He said, "oh, it's you," and then went back to staring outward, only barely acknowledging Duncan's presence. In his odd, hatless state, he seemed at least twice as old and frail as before. Duncan had seen this bench already and was almost certain that it was empty. He looked at the ground near Bouchard. Of course, he had left footprints. Duncan mentally reprimanded himself for thinking such a thing.
"What are you doing here?" Asked Duncan.
"Sorry, I live around here. I like to come here and think once in a while. I've been thinking a lot, lately." He sighed. "Excuse me for following you around like that, I had become desperate. You see, I wasn't very good at my job, but, you know, your Uncle Luke always stood up for me and kept me in my job. My house has a huge mortgage, you can't believe how much he put as a down payment to convince a bank to give me it. But now, your Uncle Luke's dead. Control of the company has passed on, and, this new guy, you see, he's an asshole. Doesn't know anything about people. So, they booted me pretty quickly, and here I am now."
"I'm sorry to hear that," replied Duncan to the monologue. "I wish I could help you but I can't. I don't know you. At all. You could easily be telling me some sob story so that you can bilk me out of all of my inheritance. Excuse me for saying this, but I don't believe you; it's too suspicious." He paused. "What do you need the money for, anyway? You could sell your house and move somewhere cheaper. My old apartment wasn't bad, and it wasn't even that expensive; I could give you that one."
"Thank you, Mr. Duncan," he said, "but it's not much help. I'm not just in danger of losing my house. My mother has cancer; her medical bills would be paid by your Uncle Luke, but he's no longer with us. I can't sell the house and pay for her bills because I hardly even own the house. And my savings will dry up pretty quickly." He paused. "My wife can't work, she is handicapped, and her disability cheque is essentially nil. My son is also mentally disabled, and no school around here will take him, so he has to go to a special school. That costs money, too. I also have problems with some neer-do-wells, unfortunately; I regret my dealings with them but that was the only way to help my family, and now they're expecting something back, that I don't have. Your Uncle Luke promised to help me with all of these things; now, he's gone. Funny how that works."
Bouchard stopped. Duncan remained speechless, looking at Bouchard. Then the man looked up at Duncan, the first time Duncan had seen Bouchard's eyes, and Bouchard burst into laughter. "Yes, that's right; I am the unluckiest man in the world. Or at least in the entire neighbourhood. I'm sorry for wasting your time. I don't even know what I'm saying, that's how men get when they're desperate. But you don't believe a word. I'll be off, it was a pleasure to meet you." He then stood, dusted his hat off, wore it once more, and walked off, no longer even glancing at Duncan.
He was nearly out of the square when Duncan called out, "wait!" He had not intended to do this, it was beyond his control. But he had no choice, and he had spoken the word long before he realised what he was about to do. But he felt compelled, as if by a spirit of sorts.
Bouchard turned around.
Duncan walked up to him and asked. "How much money do you need? For everything."
Bouchard told him.
Duncan grabbed the chequebook from his inside jacket pocket, and wrote something on its front page, and tore the page from the book, and handed it to Bouchard. Bouchard stared at the cheque for a moment. "Mr. Duncan; this is too much."
Duncan shook his head. "I don't need this money. I don't want it. Mind you, that's not everything--" Duncan had left a paltry sum for himself, that would allow him to move to a better apartment and start a better life; "but I'll do what I can. That's all I can do. I'm sorry."
Bouchard stared at the cheque for some time before looking up at Duncan, and a single tear rolled down his face. "God bless you, sir," he said, "for what you've done for my family. If you need anything at all, or even want anything, you will have to ask me for it. No question about it. Any favour at all, just ask. I cannot thank you enough." Bouchard looked as if he was about to hug Duncan, and then thought better of it, preferring a handshake. Duncan obliged. Bouchard continued to walk away, then. Duncan thought to himself, "why could I have possibly done that? That was nearly everything. I must be crazy." Bouchard was almost too far away to hear when he turned back, and shouted, "oh yes, Merry Christmas, sir!" And proceeded to run off, not quickly, but as fast as his crippled back could allow.
Duncan stood dumbfounded. He had forgotten what day it was, why he had even bothered with a vacation. Too caught up in his money. Maybe his lawyer would eventually give Duncan the rest of the money, and he could be rich like Bouchard. He couldn't care less about the money, though. In fact, he felt happy, that he could help the man, happier than he could remember being. He thought to himself, "perhaps that's what I'm supposed to be doing, helping people, not buying suits."
He stood there for quite some time, lost in thought, still staring out onto the street that Bouchard had long disappeared from. He had finally realised that Bouchard was speaking the truth, only after he had left. And he had said, "Merry Christmas"; "How long has it been since someone said that to me?" Of course it had been a year, someone always says "Merry Christmas" to you by the end of it, at least one person. This year it had been Bouchard.
Suddenly he heard a man call out. "That's him! Get him!" He turned around to catch a glimpse of someone running. Before he could get a better look, someone had stabbed him in the back; once, then repeatedly, and Duncan had already begun to fall to the ground, his vision blurring. The muggers grabbed his Uncle Luke's watch, his new wallet, his shoes, he knew that there were at least two of them but felt as if there were thousands, like an army of angry locusts, all ripping and devouring all of his material possesions from his body. They had the dignity at least to leave his clothes, and Duncan had the dignity to remain with them. Soon after they had fled, and Duncan could barely make out the sound of one of them yelling angrily. Something like, "damn, he didn't have any money!" But he knew that he was imagining it, no one would say such a thing. He also imagined, too, that he recognised the man, possibly the man who saw him pay for his suit; but that can't have been, he wouldn't know where he was, he couldn't fathom at this point who could possibly have known that he had money. Of course, nothing was left; he had given it to Bouchard. He imagined that, if he had not given Bouchard the money, if Bouchard had not said, "Merry Christmas", perhaps he would have left in time, escaped his death in time, free to spend the money as he wished for the rest of his life; of course, the man had seen him, he could never have escaped this fate, and he resigned himself to it. He lay there in the snow, blood flowing from his body, dying the snow red. He could barely see at this point, or move, but he looked up and saw that there were snowflakes falling from the sky again, the first time in a week. He let his head fall back to the ground. He said, "dear God," his eyes closed, he mumbled something incomprehensibly, and he passed out.

John the vagrant.

2009-11-22T00:32:00.001-05:00

John, the vagrant devil, he had been sent straight to hell after his life, he had resigned himself to random slayings and rape and robbery, he was vain, he was thrifty, and he never did meet anyone that was willing to excuse his actions whatsoever. Unfortunately John took hell in spirit, he enjoyed every punishment, every flaying of the flesh, burning of the skin, skewering, whipping, crucifixion, was exactly what he was looking for. Struck at a loss for ideas, great Lucifer sent him to Heaven, so that his brother Gabriel could find something that would work. John was then submitted to the bliss of Heaven, and unsurprisingly he found this enjoyable still. Both brothers were at a loss, and they contacted The Father. The Father had the only true solution; he called John forward, who eagerly awaited whatever "punishment" could be given to him, and he explained to John that he would be wiped clean. He would have never existed and he would never exist again, not on Earth, in Hell, in Heaven. He would not even think again, not even be there to experience his own haunting nonexistence. And John pleaded with The Father, to let him be free, that he would do anything asked of him; and with a few choice words, The Father explained that there was nothing to be done. Moments later, Lucifer stepped forward and asked, "why did I come here, again?"

The flood.

2009-11-17T00:46:00.003-05:00

After the flood began, I struggled to keep afloat, moving from rooftop to island to mountaintop, in the hopes of a moment of respite. In the end, my only thought was survival. Years I have lived my life out this way, and no one had bothered to tell me the truth; the flood was an illusion all along, and even the highest peaks had been submerged since the dawn of man, so deep below the surface that it was impossible to see any light. So from the very beginning I was doomed to drown, never to suffer immortality. Before I even expire everything would have been swept away from me.

A dream.

2009-11-06T02:20:00.003-05:00

Today I had a dream that I died, and strangers divided up my voice among themselves like scavengers.