Only fascists wouldn't consider participating in this clash of carefully chosen words in the comments, because fascists don't know how to have fun.
There were things lurking underneath the bed. Dark things. Terrible things. Maggie tried the old ‘put the sheets over your head’ trick, but she knew it only delayed the inevitable crunch of her bones.
This is where axes come in handy. She had much to explain to her parents, though.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Things in History You Should Know: Sir Matthew Baillie Begbie
A 'Thor is My Drinking Buddy' original! Are you feeling privileged yet?
Back in the early days of British Columbia – ‘early’ in this case being defined as after it became a colony and before it became a province – justice was a tricky thing to administer. Tensions, both racial and national, flared. The amount of land to cover wasn’t exactly compact, nor was it easy to traverse, what with all the mountains in the way. And people, being people, refused to stop committing crimes to make things easier for a poor, beleaguered law man.
Enter Matthew Baillie Begbie, the so-called Hanging Judge. Born at sea in 1819 to Scottish parents, he frittered away his first four decades in Great Britain – attending Cambridge, being a lawyer, and that sort of thing. He must have made a decent account of himself in that field, for when the Colony of British Columbia was formed in 1858, it was decided that he should definitely go be a judge there. (Fun fact: the man who introduced the bill in the British Parliament to make BC happen was none other than Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, of ‘it was a dark and stormy night’ fame. A robust literary career was no bar to politics in those days.)
It wasn’t a cozy desk job like he had back in London and it’s not certain why he accepted it. Most likely, he was the type of person to whom travelling hundreds of miles on horseback to hear a case sounded romantic. He rode about in his circuits, always holding court in full costume and often in his tent. And yes, there was some hanging involved, but not as much as you might think.
At the time, hanging was the only possible sentence for murder. Fifty-two murder trials were conducted during the colonial part of his stint, with thirty-eight convictions and twenty-seven actual hangings. (Begbie had asked for and got clemency for the remaining eleven convicts.) Nevertheless, the soubriquet stuck. Not that he didn’t take advantage of its intimidation factor, which was probably aided by his giant stature.
It also seems like he made it a personal policy not to be an asshole towards the locals, which was always a fine plan when they outnumbered the British in the area ten to one. He still insisted on having his trials be as British as possible, of course, but he made allowances such as switching out the oath on the Bible with something that would actually mean something to them and conducting the proceedings in their language. Did he use an interpreter? No. They were for the weak. He learned those languages, man.
Furthermore, those eleven convicts that he got clemency for were all natives and he could and did convict white men for crimes against natives using evidence from natives. This made him more progressive than approximately 95% of the English-speaking world of the time, give or take.
Now, how did Begbie get along with James Douglas, the governor of BC? It’s complicated. It seems as though most of the time, he dealt with the cranky old bastard quite well. He spoke up for a friend who wished to marry one of Douglas’ daughters and did not immediately get thrown out of the house. He served as a pallbearer at his funeral.
But Begbie made his true feelings be known at Douglas retirement party in 1864. Not only did he have the unmitigated audacity to plonk down beside the soon-to-be ex-governor whilst smoking a pipe – this was considered to be as rude as all hell even back then – he proceeded to give a speech about how he had hated every one of Douglas’ policies and he wasn’t the only one to think so. This didn’t go over well and he was booed into silence.
After BC joined up with the rest of Canada in 1871, Begbie was named its first chief justice of its supreme court. But four years later, during his first vacation in a very long time, Queen Victoria knighted him by surprise and he became Sir Matthew Baillie Begbie. Once he came back, he still rode his circuits and participated in what passed for progressive politics at the time (“I’ve got an idea, everyone! Let’s not be complete jerks towards the minorities and the poor!”). While he charmed the socks off of all the ladies, he never married. Perhaps he never met anyone who was so into horseback riding.
He died in Victoria in 1894 of cancer and buried at Ross Bay Cemetery. It is said that if you visit his grave on the night of the full moon, nothing much will happen. Maybe you’ll get rained on.
Back in the early days of British Columbia – ‘early’ in this case being defined as after it became a colony and before it became a province – justice was a tricky thing to administer. Tensions, both racial and national, flared. The amount of land to cover wasn’t exactly compact, nor was it easy to traverse, what with all the mountains in the way. And people, being people, refused to stop committing crimes to make things easier for a poor, beleaguered law man.
Enter Matthew Baillie Begbie, the so-called Hanging Judge. Born at sea in 1819 to Scottish parents, he frittered away his first four decades in Great Britain – attending Cambridge, being a lawyer, and that sort of thing. He must have made a decent account of himself in that field, for when the Colony of British Columbia was formed in 1858, it was decided that he should definitely go be a judge there. (Fun fact: the man who introduced the bill in the British Parliament to make BC happen was none other than Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, of ‘it was a dark and stormy night’ fame. A robust literary career was no bar to politics in those days.)
It wasn’t a cozy desk job like he had back in London and it’s not certain why he accepted it. Most likely, he was the type of person to whom travelling hundreds of miles on horseback to hear a case sounded romantic. He rode about in his circuits, always holding court in full costume and often in his tent. And yes, there was some hanging involved, but not as much as you might think.
At the time, hanging was the only possible sentence for murder. Fifty-two murder trials were conducted during the colonial part of his stint, with thirty-eight convictions and twenty-seven actual hangings. (Begbie had asked for and got clemency for the remaining eleven convicts.) Nevertheless, the soubriquet stuck. Not that he didn’t take advantage of its intimidation factor, which was probably aided by his giant stature.
It also seems like he made it a personal policy not to be an asshole towards the locals, which was always a fine plan when they outnumbered the British in the area ten to one. He still insisted on having his trials be as British as possible, of course, but he made allowances such as switching out the oath on the Bible with something that would actually mean something to them and conducting the proceedings in their language. Did he use an interpreter? No. They were for the weak. He learned those languages, man.
Furthermore, those eleven convicts that he got clemency for were all natives and he could and did convict white men for crimes against natives using evidence from natives. This made him more progressive than approximately 95% of the English-speaking world of the time, give or take.
Now, how did Begbie get along with James Douglas, the governor of BC? It’s complicated. It seems as though most of the time, he dealt with the cranky old bastard quite well. He spoke up for a friend who wished to marry one of Douglas’ daughters and did not immediately get thrown out of the house. He served as a pallbearer at his funeral.
But Begbie made his true feelings be known at Douglas retirement party in 1864. Not only did he have the unmitigated audacity to plonk down beside the soon-to-be ex-governor whilst smoking a pipe – this was considered to be as rude as all hell even back then – he proceeded to give a speech about how he had hated every one of Douglas’ policies and he wasn’t the only one to think so. This didn’t go over well and he was booed into silence.
After BC joined up with the rest of Canada in 1871, Begbie was named its first chief justice of its supreme court. But four years later, during his first vacation in a very long time, Queen Victoria knighted him by surprise and he became Sir Matthew Baillie Begbie. Once he came back, he still rode his circuits and participated in what passed for progressive politics at the time (“I’ve got an idea, everyone! Let’s not be complete jerks towards the minorities and the poor!”). While he charmed the socks off of all the ladies, he never married. Perhaps he never met anyone who was so into horseback riding.
He died in Victoria in 1894 of cancer and buried at Ross Bay Cemetery. It is said that if you visit his grave on the night of the full moon, nothing much will happen. Maybe you’ll get rained on.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Jobless Bum Blues
It's hard to keep motivated when you're unemployed and inexplicably keep failing to be hired and money is running low. I am trying, but the discouragement gets to me and that affects the movement of fingers on keyboard.
But I did write today. It's not very good and I won't post it, but it's what I had to do. I felt better for it. I'll do better tomorrow.
However, if you feel like offering encouragement or advice or high fives... I don't think you comprehend how much that would mean to me right now and that's taking into account how smart I know the people who read this blog are.
I think I must rest now. Good luck and goodnight.
But I did write today. It's not very good and I won't post it, but it's what I had to do. I felt better for it. I'll do better tomorrow.
However, if you feel like offering encouragement or advice or high fives... I don't think you comprehend how much that would mean to me right now and that's taking into account how smart I know the people who read this blog are.
I think I must rest now. Good luck and goodnight.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Things in History You Should Know: Pierre Trudeau
Today is the tenth anniversary of Trudeau's death. At the time, I'm not sure if I cared overmuch. Class was in session when the news broke and the option was given for those students overwhelmed by it all to go home and think about this great democracy. There may have been some genuine feeling among those who took advantage of it, but it was largely understood as an officially-sanctioned excuse to play hooky. I think I stayed at school.
I grew up and learned. I learned that history didn't have to occur more than a century ago to be interesting and that I damned well better know and understand the more recent stuff if ever I were to have a perspective beyond the previous week. I learned just how recently the national character of Canada consisted of reactionaries who seemingly longed for the heyday of the British Empire even as they struggled for a visible place on the world stage. Unless they were Francophones. Then they were just reactionaries. Don't ask about the First Nations.
That's not to say that all of Canada consisted of bigots and reactionaries. It's just that if you weren't, you were obviously a communist. Yes, I'm exaggerating, but not as much as I'd like.
Come the fifties, a sea change became apparent. First, you have Diefenbaker who was otherwise insane with his humble Bill of Rights. Second, you have Pearson with his bow tie and his student loans and social security and all sorts of other goodness. (Not to mention the bow tie. Bow ties are cool.) Third, you have... Trudeau, who among other things, made being Canadian something genuinely cool.
To think on this again makes me long for a Prime Minister with a sense of vision - someone who understands that we can go to so many wonderful places from here. Right now, we have a fellow who combines the worst worlds of fiscal irresponsibility and reactionary politics that seem like a throwback to the bad old days. We can do better and we will do better.
This article was originally published on December 9, 2009 in the University of Lethbridge student newspaper, the Meliorist. I was a week shy of graduating and being done with Alberta forever - hence my bitter tone towards the province. To be fair, anyone would feel like that after hearing Stelmach speak.
So read on. Toast to Trudeau afterwards if you're so inclined and hope that one day, I'll write a more fitting tribute to him.
~
Screw it. For what’s very probably my last article for this esteemed chronicle of news – hurrah for imminent graduation! – I’m going to piss off as many Albertans as possible. Because I will move away, and you will not find me.
That’s right. It’s Pierre Trudeau time. And I will start off by saying this: he was a better than average prime minister. If you wish to argue with me on this point, attempt to name a Tory PM that was better than him. Mulroney? Harper? Thor forbid, Diefenbaker? Sorry, Macdonald and Borden were the only awesome ones. So what did this chap do, in his multitude of years in office (1968-1979, 1980-1984, apologies to Joe Clark) to merit my relatively high opinion of him? Dude, I will tell you.
He made the world give two shits who the Canadian prime minister was. This was likely aided by Richard Nixon being the US president during a respectable chunk of his tenure, an ugly sort of man in every possible way. But even if Nixon had been a worthwhile human being, Trudeau had him bang to rights on the charm and wit front. Which is why John Lennon chose to hang out with him. (Nixon did get to talk football with Hunter S. Thompson, though.)
He rocked as Minister of Justice, which was what Lester Pearson, our nicest PM, made him in 1967. What on earth did he do in that position? Well, I’ll tell you! He legalized contraception and homosexuality, and shoved a foot in the door for the eventual legalization of abortion by making it legal to perform the act if the mother’s life was in danger. Oh, and he made it illegal for you to drive if you had one too many. All of this came from the massive Bill C-150, which also placed restrictions on harassing phone calls, gun ownership, and animal cruelty. Separate from all this, he further enabled one to leave one’s loveless sham of a marriage, should one please.
He was kind of bad ass. This was a man who just sat there calmly while separatists chucked bottles and rocks at him on the very eve of his first election as Prime Minister and leader of the Liberal Party, while everyone went and hid like thesensible people children that they were. His successors in the party tended to exercise this trait as well, with Turner saving Diefenbaker from drowning and Chretien’s development of the Shawinigan Shake. Ignatieff must learn from these exalted examples if he is ever to become PM.
He introduced official bilingualism. Yes, this is a virtue. Whether we like to admit it or not, historically speaking, French language rights in this country – not just in Quebec, mind you – have been kicked repeatedly in the teeth. Frankly, having that bit of extra text on your cereal box or having that additional bit of a requirement if you intend to enter certain sectors of the federal bureaucracy is not an overwhelming sacrifice to redress this.
He engineered the patriation of the Constitution. It is a rather ridiculous thing that for 165 years after Confederation, we did not have the ability to tinker with our own constitution. Nay, we had to go all the way to the British Parliament and ask nicely, perhaps bringing along a tasteful gift basket with a nice selection of tea and biscuits. Regardless of the political circus that surrounded the process (Night of the Long Knives, anyone?), it was something that needed to be done if we were ever going to become independent from Britain on paper as well as in fact.
His newfangled constitution included the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Diefenbaker’s Bill of Rights of 1960, while well-intentioned, was toothless. True, it caused the dawn of judicial activism in Canada, bringing forth such terrible thing as full abortion rights and same-sex marriage and Native land claims. (Note: the word ‘terrible’ in the last sentence is sarcastic. I can hear your hands wringing, campus Right to Lifers.) Plus, it has been argued that such activism limits democracy in this fair country. However, I would argue that human rights should not be subject to the whims of the electorate because if history has shown us anything, it’s that the electorate haven’t been too great on that count. Pity about that notwithstanding clause, though.
Oh yes, National Energy Program – the implementation of this is a legitimate gripe, no matter how well-meaning it was, although it may have sheltered Canada as a whole from the worst effects of the global recession that was all the rage at the time. And there was the whole ‘invoking the War Measure Act’ thing with the FLQ Crisis. Still, my filthy lefty self can’t help but appreciate Trudeau, ginormous faults and all.
And as a final, I’d like to say this: the brands of small ‘c’ and big ‘c’ conservatism to be found in this province are rubbish, the tar sands are rubbish too, ‘feminism’ is not a cuss word, and your wind is far too apt to cause shenanigans (such as making me feel like frickin’ Shackleton whilst out walking last weekend). But what the hell, Alberta beef is still delicious.
Farewell, all! I head now for hillier climes.
I grew up and learned. I learned that history didn't have to occur more than a century ago to be interesting and that I damned well better know and understand the more recent stuff if ever I were to have a perspective beyond the previous week. I learned just how recently the national character of Canada consisted of reactionaries who seemingly longed for the heyday of the British Empire even as they struggled for a visible place on the world stage. Unless they were Francophones. Then they were just reactionaries. Don't ask about the First Nations.
That's not to say that all of Canada consisted of bigots and reactionaries. It's just that if you weren't, you were obviously a communist. Yes, I'm exaggerating, but not as much as I'd like.
Come the fifties, a sea change became apparent. First, you have Diefenbaker who was otherwise insane with his humble Bill of Rights. Second, you have Pearson with his bow tie and his student loans and social security and all sorts of other goodness. (Not to mention the bow tie. Bow ties are cool.) Third, you have... Trudeau, who among other things, made being Canadian something genuinely cool.
To think on this again makes me long for a Prime Minister with a sense of vision - someone who understands that we can go to so many wonderful places from here. Right now, we have a fellow who combines the worst worlds of fiscal irresponsibility and reactionary politics that seem like a throwback to the bad old days. We can do better and we will do better.
This article was originally published on December 9, 2009 in the University of Lethbridge student newspaper, the Meliorist. I was a week shy of graduating and being done with Alberta forever - hence my bitter tone towards the province. To be fair, anyone would feel like that after hearing Stelmach speak.
So read on. Toast to Trudeau afterwards if you're so inclined and hope that one day, I'll write a more fitting tribute to him.
~
Screw it. For what’s very probably my last article for this esteemed chronicle of news – hurrah for imminent graduation! – I’m going to piss off as many Albertans as possible. Because I will move away, and you will not find me.
That’s right. It’s Pierre Trudeau time. And I will start off by saying this: he was a better than average prime minister. If you wish to argue with me on this point, attempt to name a Tory PM that was better than him. Mulroney? Harper? Thor forbid, Diefenbaker? Sorry, Macdonald and Borden were the only awesome ones. So what did this chap do, in his multitude of years in office (1968-1979, 1980-1984, apologies to Joe Clark) to merit my relatively high opinion of him? Dude, I will tell you.
He made the world give two shits who the Canadian prime minister was. This was likely aided by Richard Nixon being the US president during a respectable chunk of his tenure, an ugly sort of man in every possible way. But even if Nixon had been a worthwhile human being, Trudeau had him bang to rights on the charm and wit front. Which is why John Lennon chose to hang out with him. (Nixon did get to talk football with Hunter S. Thompson, though.)
He rocked as Minister of Justice, which was what Lester Pearson, our nicest PM, made him in 1967. What on earth did he do in that position? Well, I’ll tell you! He legalized contraception and homosexuality, and shoved a foot in the door for the eventual legalization of abortion by making it legal to perform the act if the mother’s life was in danger. Oh, and he made it illegal for you to drive if you had one too many. All of this came from the massive Bill C-150, which also placed restrictions on harassing phone calls, gun ownership, and animal cruelty. Separate from all this, he further enabled one to leave one’s loveless sham of a marriage, should one please.
He was kind of bad ass. This was a man who just sat there calmly while separatists chucked bottles and rocks at him on the very eve of his first election as Prime Minister and leader of the Liberal Party, while everyone went and hid like the
He introduced official bilingualism. Yes, this is a virtue. Whether we like to admit it or not, historically speaking, French language rights in this country – not just in Quebec, mind you – have been kicked repeatedly in the teeth. Frankly, having that bit of extra text on your cereal box or having that additional bit of a requirement if you intend to enter certain sectors of the federal bureaucracy is not an overwhelming sacrifice to redress this.
He engineered the patriation of the Constitution. It is a rather ridiculous thing that for 165 years after Confederation, we did not have the ability to tinker with our own constitution. Nay, we had to go all the way to the British Parliament and ask nicely, perhaps bringing along a tasteful gift basket with a nice selection of tea and biscuits. Regardless of the political circus that surrounded the process (Night of the Long Knives, anyone?), it was something that needed to be done if we were ever going to become independent from Britain on paper as well as in fact.
His newfangled constitution included the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Diefenbaker’s Bill of Rights of 1960, while well-intentioned, was toothless. True, it caused the dawn of judicial activism in Canada, bringing forth such terrible thing as full abortion rights and same-sex marriage and Native land claims. (Note: the word ‘terrible’ in the last sentence is sarcastic. I can hear your hands wringing, campus Right to Lifers.) Plus, it has been argued that such activism limits democracy in this fair country. However, I would argue that human rights should not be subject to the whims of the electorate because if history has shown us anything, it’s that the electorate haven’t been too great on that count. Pity about that notwithstanding clause, though.
Oh yes, National Energy Program – the implementation of this is a legitimate gripe, no matter how well-meaning it was, although it may have sheltered Canada as a whole from the worst effects of the global recession that was all the rage at the time. And there was the whole ‘invoking the War Measure Act’ thing with the FLQ Crisis. Still, my filthy lefty self can’t help but appreciate Trudeau, ginormous faults and all.
And as a final, I’d like to say this: the brands of small ‘c’ and big ‘c’ conservatism to be found in this province are rubbish, the tar sands are rubbish too, ‘feminism’ is not a cuss word, and your wind is far too apt to cause shenanigans (such as making me feel like frickin’ Shackleton whilst out walking last weekend). But what the hell, Alberta beef is still delicious.
Farewell, all! I head now for hillier climes.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Ogre
Another story set in the same universe as Strike. Please you enjoy. If you do, consider regarding the 'donate' button to the side or telling your likeminded friends about this site.
There was an ogre underneath the bridge.
This wasn't a normal concern for Losa. All the children in the mining village whispered about it, true, but the bridge in question was so out of the way from any place anyone would want to go that she little feared it gnawing on her young bones.
That was how the case remained until she fell in love with a handsome boy of the advanced age of fourteen. All that he required to prove her love was the steal a rock from underneath the bridge, where the ogre dwelled.
She agreed. Infatuation had that effect.
The next morning, during the false dawn while her mother and father still slept, Losa crept out of the cabin. Over her shoulders, she slung her pack, filled with sensible things such as an extra set of clothes, a firestarter, and two days' worth of meals, should matters get chancy for her. Attached to her belt was a sheath and in the sheath was her knife. She did not think it would do much against an ogre, but then she was not at all sure that the ogre even existed.
The children of the village had a rhyme: "Follow the spine up the mountain tall / There the ogre your bones will maul." There were other verses, each progressively nastier, but they were not much use so far as directions were concerned. So Losa cast them from her mind, or at least tried to.
The journey did indeed devour most of the day, with the sun rising – up, up, up, until it was directly overhead, before taking a decided westward direction. A hungry journey, it was too. She ate her ‘rations’ of biscuits and jerky with an unseemly relish and wondered whether she would have enough should her journey was an extended one after all.
The wonderings ceased when the river bended, revealing a bridge so ancient it must have been built by the grandparents of the grandparents of the grandparents of the three tribes that sometimes ventured up the mountain in alternating years. Underneath it, the bank dipped precipitously down to the water, although the bridge must have been flush with the river when the snow melted.
Losa relaxed and smiled. No ogre, no problems. Her scepticism had been proven correct and now the only dilemma that existed for her was whether to tell the truth of the matter to the other youth. So it was that she strode confidently up to the bridge, knelt down to pick out the handsomest and most distinguished of the pebbles she could find, and nearly dropped dead with fear when a leathery hand five times the size of a man’s fell upon her shoulder. That hand lifted her up, turned her about, and tossed her bodily into the weeds. Her feet scrambled for purchase and failed and she fell onto her ass. She ignored the pain from the burrs’ scratches and her bleeding calves and looked up.
The ogre was a hairy, overgrown creature that looked much like the tales she had heard from the more well-travelled adults in the village of 'apes' and 'gorillas' and 'chimpanzees' dwelling on the impossibly far-off continent of Kiloses. Its fur was damp and matted, twigs and leaves and mud generously coating much of it. Perhaps 'it' was the wrong term - the maleness of the creature was much in evidence. He had very large teeth and a smile that looked like a bear's. The knife remained in its sheath. It was unlikely that it could even penetrate his fur.
Losa did not think he could read minds, but he must have been able to tell plainly what was going on in hers by reading every bit of her body’s language. "I do not eat children," said the ogre. "The forest and river provide enough food for me; why should I bother with humans and their spawn and bring down their wrath? Answer me that, child."
Losa confessed that she did not know.
“Now what have you come to steal from my humble home?”
“A pebble… sir. From underneath your bridge. Someone asked for one as a gift.” As calm as she tried to keep herself, she could not keep the tremble from her voice or the increase from her heartbeat. “I won’t ask for your food or anything else. Just a pebble. Then I’ll go. I won’t even come back.”
The ogre put his head back and laughed, a booming, gravelly sort of laugh. “Oh, I haven’t any doubt of that! Ha! Every generation or so, one of your kind comes along to bother me about pebbles or somesuch. Proving yourself for the one you lust! So romantic! So mundane, to brave an ogre over the leavings of the mountain! Don’t you want something more exciting than that? Something more worth wasting your day over?”
Losa considered this. She did not think now that the ogre thought to consume her, unless his character was akin to a cat’s. But even still, even still…
"If you come closer, I can show you your future. And I shall give to you your pebble." He leaned in close to her face and opened his mouth with all its fine, large teeth. Before Losa could even think of backing away, even in instinct, he breathed in. He breathed out. It smelled of rot and she blacked out.
But did she?
Ever slowly, her vision cleared, as though she were waking up after a nap in the noon sun. Spots danced across and coloured her sight; she blinked rapidly to banish them. And then she saw.
Not herself. It quickly became evident that her own body was not in the picture, as she could not see her hands or feet or arms or torso, or even the tops of her cheeks and sides of her nose like she would normally. She could not feel her limbs at all, no matter how much she tried to move them about, and it was not as though they were numb. Rather, it felt like they did not exist, like the only things to her name were her mind and eyes and… ears and nose. She could hear the call of birds in the distance and the buzzing and chirps of summer insects. She could smell the fir and wildgrass and crisp mountain air, so much fresher than that of the town’s and with less of the underlying aroma of horse apples.
She could see the graveyard, but it was wrong. There should only have been five markers, for the stillborn Fonger twins, for her elder sister, for Mr. Ephraim and Ms. Challenger, as it was preferred to lay the dead to rest down in town in almost every circumstance. But here there were three dozen wooden markers, spaced at regular intervals in an overgrown clearing, rectangular patches of grass slightly elevated directly in front of each.
Losa read the names and dates etched on every single marker. All but the original five proclaimed the same year of death. The year was not far. Not far at all. And she knew that they could not have represented all of the dead, for surely the town’s graveyard grew more crowded that same year.
The graveyard faded, to be replaced by ogre. That was enough; Losa wept.
"What becomes of me?" she asked when she grew tired of the ogre’s smug countenance, enough so that it slowed her sobs and brought her back to coherence.
"Sweet child, that has always been up to you." He stalked back to the bridge and bent double over the bank. He hemmed and hawed for half an eternity before picking a lumpy grey pebble of no particular distinction and he forced it into Losa’s shaking hand. “There you are. Off with you. I’ve had enough entertainment for one day.” The ogre did not have to repeat the request. Losa turned and ran in the space of a breath, never looking back in case he had been fibbing about not eating humans.
Night fell over the village before Losa returned. No one was out; the glow of lamps flickered in the cracks of the cabins’ shutters. But before she crossed the threshold of her own home and endured her inevitable punishment, there was another home to which she had to call on first. She went and knocked quietly on one of its shutters, the one above the boy’s bed. Then she stood by it and waited.
He appeared soon afterwards, slipping out through the doorway and tiptoeing over to her. “You’ve come back,” he said. Losa pulled his hand over to her and forced the pebble into it.
He regarded the pebble with a speculative expression, rubbing it between his fingers and catching the available light off of it in all different directions. "This is it?" he said. "You're not kidding me, are you? It'd be a bit of poor play for you to get the whole village up in an uproar over a fake." The boy must have caught her own expression and adjusted his. “It is it, isn’t it?”
He smiled at her and she smiled back and forced herself to blush. The only thing she could think of when he kissed that pebble and placed it with exaggerated care into his leather pouch was the wooden marker in the lonely clearing, with its name clear as the ogre's river. And then she thought, if her own destiny was up to her, surely it was so with others? Surely the vision could not have been set?
"Have you ever thought of going to the coast? To Englin?" she blurted.
The boy looked at her crossways. Not even a word - just a furrowed brow and a corner of a mouth that could not decide whether to go up or down.
“There’s work there,” she continued, even though she knew that her cause became more hopeless by the second. “Moreso than here or in town. We wouldn’t have to be trappers like our mothers and fathers. Wouldn’t that be good?”
But the boy shook his head. “You can do what you want, but I like it here. Thanks for the gift, Losa. I’ve got to go back in now, so goodnight.” He ruffled her hair like her elder sister did and departed back into the cabin, shutting the door behind him.
Her destiny was up to her and so it was with others, but she could never force their minds.
And then she left.
It does not matter how or when she did so, just that happened before that year came bearing down upon her. She kissed her mother and father goodbye, invited them to come and see her once she was settled, and set her feet down and down the mountain. Whether she would see them again, she did not know yet. With any luck, they would take her hint.
There was an ogre underneath the bridge.
This wasn't a normal concern for Losa. All the children in the mining village whispered about it, true, but the bridge in question was so out of the way from any place anyone would want to go that she little feared it gnawing on her young bones.
That was how the case remained until she fell in love with a handsome boy of the advanced age of fourteen. All that he required to prove her love was the steal a rock from underneath the bridge, where the ogre dwelled.
She agreed. Infatuation had that effect.
The next morning, during the false dawn while her mother and father still slept, Losa crept out of the cabin. Over her shoulders, she slung her pack, filled with sensible things such as an extra set of clothes, a firestarter, and two days' worth of meals, should matters get chancy for her. Attached to her belt was a sheath and in the sheath was her knife. She did not think it would do much against an ogre, but then she was not at all sure that the ogre even existed.
The children of the village had a rhyme: "Follow the spine up the mountain tall / There the ogre your bones will maul." There were other verses, each progressively nastier, but they were not much use so far as directions were concerned. So Losa cast them from her mind, or at least tried to.
The journey did indeed devour most of the day, with the sun rising – up, up, up, until it was directly overhead, before taking a decided westward direction. A hungry journey, it was too. She ate her ‘rations’ of biscuits and jerky with an unseemly relish and wondered whether she would have enough should her journey was an extended one after all.
The wonderings ceased when the river bended, revealing a bridge so ancient it must have been built by the grandparents of the grandparents of the grandparents of the three tribes that sometimes ventured up the mountain in alternating years. Underneath it, the bank dipped precipitously down to the water, although the bridge must have been flush with the river when the snow melted.
Losa relaxed and smiled. No ogre, no problems. Her scepticism had been proven correct and now the only dilemma that existed for her was whether to tell the truth of the matter to the other youth. So it was that she strode confidently up to the bridge, knelt down to pick out the handsomest and most distinguished of the pebbles she could find, and nearly dropped dead with fear when a leathery hand five times the size of a man’s fell upon her shoulder. That hand lifted her up, turned her about, and tossed her bodily into the weeds. Her feet scrambled for purchase and failed and she fell onto her ass. She ignored the pain from the burrs’ scratches and her bleeding calves and looked up.
The ogre was a hairy, overgrown creature that looked much like the tales she had heard from the more well-travelled adults in the village of 'apes' and 'gorillas' and 'chimpanzees' dwelling on the impossibly far-off continent of Kiloses. Its fur was damp and matted, twigs and leaves and mud generously coating much of it. Perhaps 'it' was the wrong term - the maleness of the creature was much in evidence. He had very large teeth and a smile that looked like a bear's. The knife remained in its sheath. It was unlikely that it could even penetrate his fur.
Losa did not think he could read minds, but he must have been able to tell plainly what was going on in hers by reading every bit of her body’s language. "I do not eat children," said the ogre. "The forest and river provide enough food for me; why should I bother with humans and their spawn and bring down their wrath? Answer me that, child."
Losa confessed that she did not know.
“Now what have you come to steal from my humble home?”
“A pebble… sir. From underneath your bridge. Someone asked for one as a gift.” As calm as she tried to keep herself, she could not keep the tremble from her voice or the increase from her heartbeat. “I won’t ask for your food or anything else. Just a pebble. Then I’ll go. I won’t even come back.”
The ogre put his head back and laughed, a booming, gravelly sort of laugh. “Oh, I haven’t any doubt of that! Ha! Every generation or so, one of your kind comes along to bother me about pebbles or somesuch. Proving yourself for the one you lust! So romantic! So mundane, to brave an ogre over the leavings of the mountain! Don’t you want something more exciting than that? Something more worth wasting your day over?”
Losa considered this. She did not think now that the ogre thought to consume her, unless his character was akin to a cat’s. But even still, even still…
"If you come closer, I can show you your future. And I shall give to you your pebble." He leaned in close to her face and opened his mouth with all its fine, large teeth. Before Losa could even think of backing away, even in instinct, he breathed in. He breathed out. It smelled of rot and she blacked out.
But did she?
Ever slowly, her vision cleared, as though she were waking up after a nap in the noon sun. Spots danced across and coloured her sight; she blinked rapidly to banish them. And then she saw.
Not herself. It quickly became evident that her own body was not in the picture, as she could not see her hands or feet or arms or torso, or even the tops of her cheeks and sides of her nose like she would normally. She could not feel her limbs at all, no matter how much she tried to move them about, and it was not as though they were numb. Rather, it felt like they did not exist, like the only things to her name were her mind and eyes and… ears and nose. She could hear the call of birds in the distance and the buzzing and chirps of summer insects. She could smell the fir and wildgrass and crisp mountain air, so much fresher than that of the town’s and with less of the underlying aroma of horse apples.
She could see the graveyard, but it was wrong. There should only have been five markers, for the stillborn Fonger twins, for her elder sister, for Mr. Ephraim and Ms. Challenger, as it was preferred to lay the dead to rest down in town in almost every circumstance. But here there were three dozen wooden markers, spaced at regular intervals in an overgrown clearing, rectangular patches of grass slightly elevated directly in front of each.
Losa read the names and dates etched on every single marker. All but the original five proclaimed the same year of death. The year was not far. Not far at all. And she knew that they could not have represented all of the dead, for surely the town’s graveyard grew more crowded that same year.
The graveyard faded, to be replaced by ogre. That was enough; Losa wept.
"What becomes of me?" she asked when she grew tired of the ogre’s smug countenance, enough so that it slowed her sobs and brought her back to coherence.
"Sweet child, that has always been up to you." He stalked back to the bridge and bent double over the bank. He hemmed and hawed for half an eternity before picking a lumpy grey pebble of no particular distinction and he forced it into Losa’s shaking hand. “There you are. Off with you. I’ve had enough entertainment for one day.” The ogre did not have to repeat the request. Losa turned and ran in the space of a breath, never looking back in case he had been fibbing about not eating humans.
Night fell over the village before Losa returned. No one was out; the glow of lamps flickered in the cracks of the cabins’ shutters. But before she crossed the threshold of her own home and endured her inevitable punishment, there was another home to which she had to call on first. She went and knocked quietly on one of its shutters, the one above the boy’s bed. Then she stood by it and waited.
He appeared soon afterwards, slipping out through the doorway and tiptoeing over to her. “You’ve come back,” he said. Losa pulled his hand over to her and forced the pebble into it.
He regarded the pebble with a speculative expression, rubbing it between his fingers and catching the available light off of it in all different directions. "This is it?" he said. "You're not kidding me, are you? It'd be a bit of poor play for you to get the whole village up in an uproar over a fake." The boy must have caught her own expression and adjusted his. “It is it, isn’t it?”
He smiled at her and she smiled back and forced herself to blush. The only thing she could think of when he kissed that pebble and placed it with exaggerated care into his leather pouch was the wooden marker in the lonely clearing, with its name clear as the ogre's river. And then she thought, if her own destiny was up to her, surely it was so with others? Surely the vision could not have been set?
"Have you ever thought of going to the coast? To Englin?" she blurted.
The boy looked at her crossways. Not even a word - just a furrowed brow and a corner of a mouth that could not decide whether to go up or down.
“There’s work there,” she continued, even though she knew that her cause became more hopeless by the second. “Moreso than here or in town. We wouldn’t have to be trappers like our mothers and fathers. Wouldn’t that be good?”
But the boy shook his head. “You can do what you want, but I like it here. Thanks for the gift, Losa. I’ve got to go back in now, so goodnight.” He ruffled her hair like her elder sister did and departed back into the cabin, shutting the door behind him.
Her destiny was up to her and so it was with others, but she could never force their minds.
And then she left.
It does not matter how or when she did so, just that happened before that year came bearing down upon her. She kissed her mother and father goodbye, invited them to come and see her once she was settled, and set her feet down and down the mountain. Whether she would see them again, she did not know yet. With any luck, they would take her hint.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
50-Word Short Story #3
Aw yeah, everyone. It's Go Time. Everyone is welcome to make their own contributions in the comments and I shall respond in kind!
There were fast times at Fort Whoop-up and the American purveyors of illegal spirits were in a fine mood. They were well on their way to meeting their unofficial corporate goal of having the entire population of the prairies stinking drunk.
Until the Mounties spoiled everything. Just like the Man.
There were fast times at Fort Whoop-up and the American purveyors of illegal spirits were in a fine mood. They were well on their way to meeting their unofficial corporate goal of having the entire population of the prairies stinking drunk.
Until the Mounties spoiled everything. Just like the Man.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Exhumed
Brief, silly thing I wrote a bit ago. The concept could probably make a decent novella if I worked at it.
Ten years ago, a man died. They placed his body in a coffin, they buried his coffin in the soil. A lovely, shady spot that overlooked the river, to the right of a child that had succumbed to any one of a number of diseases back in 1896. Over the course of this decade, bugs and maggots made their way into the coffin, stripping the man of his clothes and flesh and guts. Except the brain. The brain was still there.
The reason I knew this was simple: we were drunk, it was grad, and there was nothing to do in town except drink more and egg cows. Someone in the group - I forget who now, it might have been Jesse - suggested we go boo around at the cemetery with our booze. We all agreed. Someone else dared Rick to pee on a headstone. That, of course, was done. And it just kept going and going, until...
"Dare you to dig up Principal Baker," said Heather. Okay, maybe a bit more slurred than that. Naturally, we all agreed. We scrounged some shovels from the groundskeeper's shed and went to work. I can't tell you how long it took, because the work was constantly interrupted by giggling, laughing, shushing, beer breaks, pee breaks, and general horsing around. Someone dug their shovel into my foot. It hurt.
Finally - it had to have been past midnight, maybe even closer to two - we uncovered the coffin. This was a ritual accompanied by many cries of, "Aw, dude, wicked!" and similar. Principal Baker lay there in all his glory, illuminated by flashlight. He was pretty much just a pile of bones by this point, except...
"Guys, look at this," I said, pointing my flashlight right where his eyes ought to be. They looked. They recoiled. A greyish-pink mound could be seen inside the cavities and it pulsed.
A strange, wheezing sort of sound came from the open jaw. It sounded something like this: "Oh, hello. Have the Canucks won yet?"
~
Naturally, having made such a miraculous discovery, we decided to bury Principal Baker right back up again and never speak of it ever again. We did have a good conversation with the poor man first. We weren't monsters, after all.
Grad finished. Summer happened. Half of our ten were leaving come September, so we decided to make the most of it. By 'most of it', I mean dirt biking, drinking beers on a mountainside, and tubing down one of the rivers. It was good times. Except until July 30th.
That was the day Rick drowned. We'd been tubing. And kissing. He and I were lounging on two inner tubes and he leaned over to either do more kissing or to grope me or both and... he slipped. And got sucked underneath. We couldn't save him. We just weren't good enough.
I was inconsolable for precisely one week. On the seventh day, his body was found. And here's the strange thing: the guy who found him? He said Rick tried to speak with him. "Did someone tape True Blood for me?" was Rick's plaintive cry, his skin bloated and grey.
Naturally, our town being what it is, everyone heard about it in an hour, along with some doctor confirming the brain was pink and a hundred percent intact. It also got out that he wanted to speak with me. What could I do? Of course, I went to do so.
I stood shivering in the cold, sterile room, clad in my tank top and shorts. Rick lay on the gurney, much uglier than he used to be. My feet shuffled the rest of me over to him.
"Rick?" I said, trying hard not to retch. Skeletons are easier to deal with.
In a quiet voice, he said, "Closer..." I leaned over him. "Closer..." I leaned further. "Wanna make out?" I leaned back so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
~
He lived with his parents for many years afterward, I heard. Worked his way through a degree, distance-style, before becoming a professional spam artist. Even got himself a girlfriend. It takes all types.
~
Rick was the first - okay, maybe Principal Baker was the first - but he wasn't the last. People simply ceased to die properly. Don't mistake me, they didn't become ravenous zombies or anything like that. They just stuck around, lounging like lumps, chattering on about inanities.
It happened to the seniors. It happened to the random heart attack or cancer victim. It spread outside of town, to Kelowna and Spokane and Nelson and Trail and all the little places along the way we don't like to talk about. From there, it spread to Vancouver and Seattle, to farthest Nova Scotia and Florida. The dead lived and would not shut up about hockey.
Borders were shut down. It didn't help.
Hurricanes, earthquakes, disasters of all sorts unleashed themselves upon the world. They left behind masses of corpses, complaining about the weather. "Can someone at least bring me a cup of tea?" they cried, as the living struggled to drag them back in from the ruined streets.
The nations of the world decided, as one, to resume the space race in order to colonise a world in which they could have elbow room that was not clogged up with the dead. Our neighbours to the south got flung into a constitutional crisis when President Khan was assassinated and insisted on serving out the rest of his term.
Now there's me. I died five minutes ago, on a planet far from home. It was due to natural causes, so don't get too weepy.
My daughter certainly isn't. She held my hand during the last seconds, yes, but now she's busy with paperwork. "Mom, do you really need the deluxe holopad? Only the regular version's almost as good and half the price and we could really use the money to redo the kitchen."
"No and no," said I. "The deluxe has the Titanic adventure. The regular doesn't. End of story."
The dead must maintain some dignity.
Ten years ago, a man died. They placed his body in a coffin, they buried his coffin in the soil. A lovely, shady spot that overlooked the river, to the right of a child that had succumbed to any one of a number of diseases back in 1896. Over the course of this decade, bugs and maggots made their way into the coffin, stripping the man of his clothes and flesh and guts. Except the brain. The brain was still there.
The reason I knew this was simple: we were drunk, it was grad, and there was nothing to do in town except drink more and egg cows. Someone in the group - I forget who now, it might have been Jesse - suggested we go boo around at the cemetery with our booze. We all agreed. Someone else dared Rick to pee on a headstone. That, of course, was done. And it just kept going and going, until...
"Dare you to dig up Principal Baker," said Heather. Okay, maybe a bit more slurred than that. Naturally, we all agreed. We scrounged some shovels from the groundskeeper's shed and went to work. I can't tell you how long it took, because the work was constantly interrupted by giggling, laughing, shushing, beer breaks, pee breaks, and general horsing around. Someone dug their shovel into my foot. It hurt.
Finally - it had to have been past midnight, maybe even closer to two - we uncovered the coffin. This was a ritual accompanied by many cries of, "Aw, dude, wicked!" and similar. Principal Baker lay there in all his glory, illuminated by flashlight. He was pretty much just a pile of bones by this point, except...
"Guys, look at this," I said, pointing my flashlight right where his eyes ought to be. They looked. They recoiled. A greyish-pink mound could be seen inside the cavities and it pulsed.
A strange, wheezing sort of sound came from the open jaw. It sounded something like this: "Oh, hello. Have the Canucks won yet?"
~
Naturally, having made such a miraculous discovery, we decided to bury Principal Baker right back up again and never speak of it ever again. We did have a good conversation with the poor man first. We weren't monsters, after all.
Grad finished. Summer happened. Half of our ten were leaving come September, so we decided to make the most of it. By 'most of it', I mean dirt biking, drinking beers on a mountainside, and tubing down one of the rivers. It was good times. Except until July 30th.
That was the day Rick drowned. We'd been tubing. And kissing. He and I were lounging on two inner tubes and he leaned over to either do more kissing or to grope me or both and... he slipped. And got sucked underneath. We couldn't save him. We just weren't good enough.
I was inconsolable for precisely one week. On the seventh day, his body was found. And here's the strange thing: the guy who found him? He said Rick tried to speak with him. "Did someone tape True Blood for me?" was Rick's plaintive cry, his skin bloated and grey.
Naturally, our town being what it is, everyone heard about it in an hour, along with some doctor confirming the brain was pink and a hundred percent intact. It also got out that he wanted to speak with me. What could I do? Of course, I went to do so.
I stood shivering in the cold, sterile room, clad in my tank top and shorts. Rick lay on the gurney, much uglier than he used to be. My feet shuffled the rest of me over to him.
"Rick?" I said, trying hard not to retch. Skeletons are easier to deal with.
In a quiet voice, he said, "Closer..." I leaned over him. "Closer..." I leaned further. "Wanna make out?" I leaned back so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
~
He lived with his parents for many years afterward, I heard. Worked his way through a degree, distance-style, before becoming a professional spam artist. Even got himself a girlfriend. It takes all types.
~
Rick was the first - okay, maybe Principal Baker was the first - but he wasn't the last. People simply ceased to die properly. Don't mistake me, they didn't become ravenous zombies or anything like that. They just stuck around, lounging like lumps, chattering on about inanities.
It happened to the seniors. It happened to the random heart attack or cancer victim. It spread outside of town, to Kelowna and Spokane and Nelson and Trail and all the little places along the way we don't like to talk about. From there, it spread to Vancouver and Seattle, to farthest Nova Scotia and Florida. The dead lived and would not shut up about hockey.
Borders were shut down. It didn't help.
Hurricanes, earthquakes, disasters of all sorts unleashed themselves upon the world. They left behind masses of corpses, complaining about the weather. "Can someone at least bring me a cup of tea?" they cried, as the living struggled to drag them back in from the ruined streets.
The nations of the world decided, as one, to resume the space race in order to colonise a world in which they could have elbow room that was not clogged up with the dead. Our neighbours to the south got flung into a constitutional crisis when President Khan was assassinated and insisted on serving out the rest of his term.
Now there's me. I died five minutes ago, on a planet far from home. It was due to natural causes, so don't get too weepy.
My daughter certainly isn't. She held my hand during the last seconds, yes, but now she's busy with paperwork. "Mom, do you really need the deluxe holopad? Only the regular version's almost as good and half the price and we could really use the money to redo the kitchen."
"No and no," said I. "The deluxe has the Titanic adventure. The regular doesn't. End of story."
The dead must maintain some dignity.
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