Mornings

mind          fal       t           er       ing

                      st                                      i

                                 u                   l                 n

                                         mb                                       g 

                   awake?

like a d^re_am

                     i exist

          foggy

     numb

      inc...ohere...nce       reigns

                        _{instinct controls}

unknowingly,              unwittingly

                       preparing

mind smoothly

                        forcefully

            awake

         now

            driving

            making

            causing

                        to move

willingly preparing

                       for the sun

(soulfully preparing

                        for the son)

mindfully preparing

             for the field

                        Awake

                 the mind moves

Mornings

mind          fal       t           er       ing

                      st                                      i

                                 u                   l                 n

                                         mb                                       g 

                   awake?

like a d^re_am

                     i exist

          foggy

     numb

      inc...ohere...nce       reigns

                        _{instinct controls}

unknowingly,              unwittingly

                       preparing

mind smoothly

                        forcefully

            awake

         now

            driving

            making

            causing

                        to move

willingly preparing

                       for the sun

(soulfully preparing

                        for the son)

mindfully preparing

             for the field

                        Awake

                 the mind moves

Mondays

Mondays, man, Mondays. I’d say that they’re the bitch of the week, but that’s not PC anymore. This whole politically correct thing has really toned down what I can call things. I don’t know…

            Monday! Mondays suck righteous balls. Now, I know everyone “hates” Mondays, and that a fat cat in the 70s made it cool to do so, but come on. Are Mondays really that bad?

            Yes. Unequivocally yes.

            “But James,” you say, “why are Mondays so bad? Wouldn’t any other day be just as bad?” Now, this is a really odd thing to say, especially since my name isn’t James. It’s Todd. How fricking hard is that? Is fricking PC? Can I say that? Oh well.

            But since you asked so politely, even though you called me James, I will answer the question with a story. Not a short concise answer, you guys are jerks so you get a story.

            It was seven years ago, on this very day—ok, ok, so it wasn’t exactly seven years ago, this is for dramatic effect ya knobs—that I, Todd Matheson esq., experienced the worst Monday in human history since the one where Joan of Arc decided to take a walk outside. Don’t ask, again it’s for dramatic effect. I, Todd Matheson esq., was at school.

            My school was a dreary place full of squares trying to be circles, if you catch my drift. There were the rich hippies on one side, and the poor snobs on the other. And the stoners. Every school ever has the stoners who just don’t give a single flying flip. And since the stoners don’t care, this is the last time I’m going to mention them. Heh, stoners. Wait. I wasn’t supposed to mention them again. I lied to you, and for that I am truly sorry.

            My school was mega lame, that’s what I’m getting at. And this particular Monday was even lamer than the all the others.

            This was the Monday that I died.

            Man that would be a terrible Monday. Obviously I’m not dead. But damn, that sounded hella cool.

            Anyways, this Monday started off as a normal, boring Monday. I got off the bus, breathed in the fresh, yet slightly toxic from decades of pollution, air, and promptly fell on my face. The juniors literally walked on me to get off the bus. To top it off, my crush, the babeilicious Jeannette, saw everything.

            I walked into the school, my appearance and soul sullied and humbled from my tumble. Rhymes are cool. Crestfallen, I, Todd Matheson esq., put my things into my locker and continued on with my day.

            I’m not going to bore you with the deets of my morning, ya’ll aren’t that big of jerks, so let’s skip ahead to lunch.

            Mexican Mondays, not to be confused with Taco Tuesdays and Taquito Thursdays, was a cafeteria favourite. There was a build your own fajita stand (wrap, lettuce, cheese, mystery meat, questionable salsa, and three week old peppers), and chili with rice. I made my favourite Monday meal, a fajita with cheese and chili, and headed to my table full of other like-minded denizens of the school. We were the nerds, alright. Just be cool. God. As I travelled through the perilous and fragrant hippie controlled lands, something dreadful happened. Truly dreadful. I was full of dread. Or the dirty hippie who tripped me was. Ha. Oh. I should explain. The guy had dreads. Which led me to making that dreadful pun. I’ll let myself out.

            I tripped over his foot like Paula Deen tripping over her mouth. I flew forward. But in a slightly downward trajectory. I landed face first on my chili fajita. Meat and beans flew out, splattering all near me. If anything, it improved their smell, and they should’ve thanked me. Instead they literally tossed me out the door.

            I spent the rest of the day, covered in dried chili. With every gulp of air, all I got was chili. Every breeze gently wafting past me held the dubious honour of smelling like chili.

            And then the literally worst thing to ever happen, happened. Like. This was an extinction level event. The babeilicious Jeanette came up to and told me that she felt bad for me. And then. Oh boy. Oooooh booooyy. And then she kissed me. Right on the old mouth hole. That sounds weird. She kissed me right on the lips. And as she pulled away, she gave me a little smile and said, “I’ve always liked chili.” She winked and walked away.

            My first kiss, and I was coated in beans.

            And this is why Mondays are the absolute worst of all time.

            What do you mean that’s a stupid reason?  

The Story of Me

I always get the strangest urge to write the story of my life. I have no idea why, who would want to read about my life? It’s nothing incredible or even out of the ordinary. And yet the urges persist in tormenting me when I could be doing something else. So it goes, I guess, the story of me.

I don’t remember terribly much about my birth I am ashamed to say, but I suppose no one really does. It was in February, it was snowing, the dangerous and wet kind that the people living by oceans know and love, and it was in the morning. All this I know from people telling me. I should never have been born, and that sounds really depressing, but medically speaking I should not be here. Doctors told my mother she was incapable of having children, and nine months later I was an emergency caesarean. I started my life by almost dying. I wasn’t as well versed in etiquette as I am now and had no clue that dying at one’s own birth was frowned upon. As I said I don’t recall much from those early years. Snippets of a half-forgotten memory, a snapshot of a snapshot. I remember the wooden floors of our house in Nanaimo, the Disney wallpaper in my room, spinning around in circles until I would almost collapse. The sun. The grass. Oddly enough I don’t remember the rain. You would think that would figure prominently in the memories of one from the Island, but not until I was older. I remember my mother, and the neighbour girl.

Ahh the neighbour girl. My first love, my first kiss. All at the tender age of three or four. We spent almost every day together in the eternal sunshine of childhood. Eternity lasted until I was four and we moved away from her. I did not see her again for fourteen years.  The memories I had of her stayed in the back of my mind, forgotten, all those years only to spring forward when we got back in touch. The mind remembers more than we know. We may remember the sting of a thorn, but the mind always remembers the smell of the rose. 

I had a friend who burnt his feet on a pile of coals that someone had carelessly left on the beach. I can barely remember his face, I can’t remember the sound of his voice, but I can remember his poor feet. He had to wear moccasins for the longest time afterwards. He was my best friend back then, and I can’t even remember his voice or what we would play. I remember his feet. The mind is cruel. It torments us with half memories and half people. And burnt feet.

I had another friend, a girl with long, wavy brown hair, whose mom used to bake me cookies. She used to write me love letters. I have this vague memory of her face and this profound feeling of beauty. All I can actually remember is her hair. And, strangely, her kitchen. I spent time there, not a lot, but it stuck with me. All of a sudden I miss her. There is a strong ache in my heart where she used to be. In this time of upheaval and responsibility, I just want something simple. Something like a forgotten girl with beautiful hair on an island in the ocean.

Out of all of my experiences in British Columbia, a discussion about roads is the thing that stand out the most and has the greatest effect on my life. I was at the local Kid’s Club, mainly because one of my friends got an amazing stuffed bear from it, where I heard a talk about roads. The pastor stood up in front of us and began to tell us about the two different roads that were open to us. He said there was our way, which led to hell and damnation, and God’s way, which lead to the opposite. This simple statement has stayed with me stronger than anything else. Those words have shaped my entire existence. Everything I have done and am, hinged on this statement. Why? Why did a simple statement have such a deep meaning for me? “There are two roads you can take in life: your way, or God’s way!” For my entire life I have dealt in absolutes. Right and wrong. No grey areas, no middle ground. You’re in the right or you’re wrong. You can’t grow up believing that. It seriously messes you up inside. I’m still messed up from it. My best friend is gay and in my mind I still believe that she is going to burn in hell for something that she has no control over. Black and white. Only thing is though, those don’t exist in real life.

We moved again. This time we moved far away from my ocean, my islands, and my mountains. I never imagined a place could exist where I could not see the mountains. So to educate me on my fallacies of thought my parents moved me to Saskatchewan. My bright blue and green oceans were replaced by seas of wheat, my mountains replaced by the combines on the horizons at harvest. My friends were replaced with ignorant strangers who thought I was an American only because I was not from around their “parts”. I didn’t have many friends that first year. I was picked on because I was a stranger, bullied even. I started to gain weight from the stress and the hurt, which only led to more bullying. Little children are vicious bastards, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

I’m done. Writing all this in chronological order? Who actually remembers things in order? I sure don’t. So, stream of consciousness.

I remember a white sports car in our backyard in Nanaimo with my dad getting in and my mom saying that it was his girlfriend when he left. To this day I have no idea of the truth of the matter. I think that may have started my distrust of fathers. Not just mine, all fathers. I have no idea how old I was when this occurred, but it stands out vividly in my mind. The stark whiteness of the strange car in the greenness of my backyard. The casual way my mother said that it was his girlfriend, probably certain that I would never remember this exchange. This is the only time I recall an event like this, so I have no idea why it would stick out so much. A child’s mind I suppose. I think I magnified the situation to be something that it wasn’t, but isn’t that to be expected? You tell a child who doesn’t understood sarcasm or dishonesty that his father is leaving on a date, wouldn’t you expect that child to believe you? I’m pretty sure that it was a lie, but there will always be a nagging suspicion in the back of my mind. Leading me to mistrust my father. I can’t blame that all on my mother though. I’d like to, but that would be too easy.

Spinning around. The hard wood floor flashing around me. A childlike smile of glee plastered to my little face. The world tottering around my little body, the floor getting closer and closer with each revolution. Of course reality came crashing down when I did the same. I have vague memories of getting in trouble for this, and I’ve never enjoyed the feeling of being dizzy since then.  

The First Time

She sat at her usual spot in class. Close enough that she could see him, but not close enough for him to notice her. His hair was cropped close and carefully done in the way that made it look careless. He was the captain of the football team and every girl in the grade was in absolute love with him. His name was James Waterford, but everyone called him Jimmy.

She was an average girl, wore glasses, and played the minimum amount of sports. She wore long sweaters and baggy jeans. She wore the long clothing to hide her disappointing body. She could always feel the eyes of her peers on her in gym class, the one time she wore shorts in front of other people. She excelled in mathematics and other lame things. Her name was Jenny Prince.

He sat just far enough away from her so his friends wouldn’t think anything. He had loved Jenny since the day she moved to Crossfield. He loved the way she dressed, in those cute little sweaters. Her awkward way of running in gym class like she was scared of people noticing how beautiful she was. Her smile was all he could think of during the night; her eyes preoccupied every football practice. Coach had gotten mad at him five times last practice for bungling simple plays. He had to talk to her! Just say hello! If only she would look at him maybe he would have the courage to speak to her. But his heart would probably melt away.

The school year was half over and Jenny had only stammered out “hello” to Jimmy a handful of times. He barely acknowledged her existence. Whenever he looked at her he would just look away. Like she was dirt, not even worth his notice. The halfway dance was in two weeks and all she wanted was to be asked by him. But of course he wouldn’t ask her. Why would he? Every cheerleader wanted him and they weren’t leaving him alone. They were always leaning by his locker in their tight clothing, playing with their hair, touching his arm. She was so jealous of their bravado.

He was running out of time.  The dance was in two weeks and he hadn’t even spoken to her yet. Every time she talked to him he looked away, too scared to even say hello. His friends were teasing him about his lack of a date, but he didn’t care. His only worry was that someone else would ask her before he had the courage to do it himself.

The dance was today, she didn’t have a date. Her dress hung in her closest unused. She swore to herself that she wouldn’t go. That she wouldn’t disappoint herself.

The dance was in a few hours. He still hadn’t talked to her. He sat on his bed; head in hands, a cold sweat leaking into his palms. His tux was resting on a chair, fresh from the cleaners. He swore he wouldn’t go.

Maybe he would be there. Maybe he would ask her to dance. She was wearing her dress now.  A beautiful violet dress that flowed her body in a wave. She actually felt beautiful for once. Her glasses sat on her dresser as she put her seldom used contacts in.

He was going, hoping that she would be there. He would ask her to dance. They would laugh. It would be perfect! He had his tux on and was straightening his black silk bowtie, absently staring into his mirror. Worry creased his forehead. He would ask her. He would.

The gym was packed. Streamers hung from every corner and Christmas lights were crisscrossing the ceiling. Everyone was dressed to the nines. She felt so out of place. A slow song started playing. She felt a tap on her shoulder. He was standing there looking magnificent in a black tux. His mouth was slightly open as he stared at her in amazement. He mutely held out his dance; a silent offering to dance. She took his hand.

As they danced, not a word passed between them. They simply stared into each other’s eyes. The song ended and they continued to dance. Eventually they stopped. He held her in an embrace and looked down at her.

“Hello,” he finally said. 

A Man Walks into a Bar

A man walks into a bar. Sounds terribly clichéd, but bear with this. A man walks into a bar. A big bull of a man, the kind of shoulders that made football coaches excited, and the kind of muscles that made people question his intelligence. This man walks into a bar. Now, if this was his usual watering hole there wouldn’t have been any notice, maybe a hello, but this wasn’t his usual watering hole. This man wasn’t from around these parts and his entrance caused quite a stir. A lot of suspicious glances were thrown his way as he slowly ambled up to the bar and ordered a drink.

                “What’s your best scotch?” The man who walked into the bar asked.

                The bartender looked thrown for a moment, this was a beer town and not many people even knew what scotch was. “Uh, um. Well, I think I gots a bottle a Grant’s down here. That’s bout all I gots.”

                The man who walked into the bar stared hard into the bartender’s eye, a hard glint dulling the rest of his eyes. “Grant’s? Damn. I’ll have…” He paused when he noticed the lack of draft. “I’ll have a Corona. I guess. With extra lime.” The man who walked into the bar swiveled on his stool until he was facing the main floor, he leaned his shoulders comfortably on the bar and took a quick smell of the place. The bar was sparsely populated for a Friday night; a group of friends playing at one of the three tables, some sorority girls getting drunk to forget their fathers, and some middle aged men dressed way too young, forgetting their age. A typical bar filled with the typical people. All of whom continued to force causal looks at the man who walked into the bar.

                A cough. “Um, pardon, we’re outta limes, so I put some lemon slices inta yer beer instead. Hope that’s alright.” The bartender left the now soiled beer on the bar and walked away.

                The man who walked into the bar turned and stared at his ruined beer, bright flashes of yellow floating in amongst the amber, mocking him. He hefted it and forced a swallow. Tasted like beer. Good enough. “Hey, son, what’s the story of this town? Where is everybody?” When the bartender looked at him in confusion he continued, “yeah, you. This place should be crawling, or at least have some half decent scotch. What’s the story?”

                The bartender, who looked barely old enough to be drinking, came back. “Sir, yer not from around here, so I’m guessin’ ya don’t know what’s been happenin’. There’s been what the police are callin’ a spree of murders. Twelve people been killed this past month here. The police been draggin’ us all in ta ask us questions and stuff. The entire towns been asked the same things. And we all been ruled out as what ya call suspects. Kinda hard ta have good times when ya don’t know where the killer is. Or who.”

                The man who walked into the bar was watching the universe be born, die, and be reborn, as he looked into his beer. “Guess that would explain all the glances folks been giving me. Just my luck, ride into a town in the midst of a terror. How long since the last murder?”

The bartender looked around nervously, as if afraid that answering would jinx everything, “Been three days, sir. That’s been the pattern. Three days in between killin’s. Yes sir, the looks are probably because you ain’t from here. We all know we ain’t the killer, but we don’t know you.”

The man who walked into the bar downed the last of his beer. “That is true. You don’t know me. Got no reason to trust me, as well you shouldn’t. Damn shame about the lack of a crowd tonight. Didn’t think my brothers would’ve all came through the same town.”

The bartender began hiccupping, a sure sign of his nervousness. “What are you trynna say here? You the killer?”

The man who walked into the bar smiled, “No, no, my good man. My brothers have been the killers here, I’ve only just arrived. Really a shame about your scotch collection. Put me a right terrible mood.” The man who walked into a bar reached up and casually killed the bartender. And then, equally as casual, killed the rest of people in the building.

A man walks into a bar.