The Purge

“There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they’ll take you.” (Beatrix Potter, English writer)

            Writing comes naturally to me. Since I was a very young boy, I found the written word made it easy to express myself. As I grew, any training I received in school only helped to strengthen my relationship with print media. My entire post-secondary experience was to further my command of the written word. I was educated as a journalist. I studied television and radio broadcasting to expand my reach. I worked in many forms of media but I always returned to my first love, writing. As the internet formed, I could access venues unavailable to me before. I began blogging almost immediately after my Mother’s death in 2010. I had maintained profiles on Facebook and other social media, but I failed to use them efficiently. Little by little, my blog grew from the ashes. What started out as weak, and intentionally simple, soon began to find a sense of form and structure as I played and developed. For almost a decade, I have diligently posted. I do not write my blog because I am looking for money. You will never see my work monetized. I have created my own biography, in a sense. Anyone can go back through my history, at least what I have documented over the last 10 years. There is little I have not discussed in one manner or another. Writing is, for me, a daily exercise, a cathartic workout anytime my fingers pound the keys. You can almost feel the cleansing as each letter finds its place. As far back as I can remember, print (in one form or another) was my passion, even if I didn’t know it at the time. Like God and comic books, the connection has never failed. I am, after all, a writer.

“If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.” (Émile Zola, French playwright)

            Strathroy District Collegiate Institute (SDCI) sucked the life out of me for almost 5 years. I suppose high school will do that. Of all the people I knew and all the activities I took part in, there are few fond memories held by either. I realize now that I was pretty much like any other teenager. I struggled with my identity, I struggled with the social game. I had no idea my world functioned through the eyes of bipolar disorder. This is completely beside the point. Although I played sports like any good breeder would, and participated in heterosexual rites of passage, for the most part I really just wanted to be left alone. My disability often ravaged me, even though it would be more than a decade before I received proper treatment. I tried my best to function and that usually meant projects I could do by myself. It’s not that I’m not a team player, I just find people very noisy and distracting. I function so much better in the silence. It has always been this way for me. I did all the normal things someone my age did in high school. I joined the band, standing at the back of each rehearsal with a string bass in one hand and solitude in the other. I gave football and volleyball and badminton a good try. I did the theatre arts scene, performing in several productions before graduation. I loved and hated English class. The study of writing and style were my favourite lessons. Shakespeare was my friend. I impressed my English teacher with my interest. Although this instructor was a bitch, I excelled in this area, so much so that she introduced me to the librarian and my journey began. Writing always just seemed to fit me, even when I was a kid. I won poetry contests and flourished as an amateur journalist. I dabbled just to see and working on the school newspaper just made sense to me.

            I joined the staff of the SDCEye approaching mid-term in my freshman year.  The monthly newsletter/newspaper was basic and somewhat redundant, but the idea of being involved in its publication activated something within me. I had been constantly exploring this medium and this venue seemed like a good place to start evolving my craft. At first, I was assigned the sports page, responsible for interviews and such but eventually I was offered something even more exciting for me. My tenure as publisher and editor started with my sophomore year. I was put in charge of almost everything involving the formation of the publication. I not only shaped the essence of the paper but was also responsible for the printing and distribution. I was assignment editor, reporter and publisher all in one very committed young man. I was trained in layout, design and consistency, always under the watchful eye of the editor-in-chief, Mr. Bahnmiller. I instantly fell in love with the process and like a sponge, I absorbed as much information and its application as I possibly could. The few years in which I practiced my art may have been simplistic and rather amateurish, yet I still discovered something wonderful in the midst of it all. Like stepping out on the yellow brick road, I had to follow where that road would lead me. I carried my new sense of purpose in the words that were written and the form they had taken. Like a harbinger, it pointed to my future and I finally realized who and what I wanted to be.

            As I progressed in my studies, opportunity tried to lead me away. I expanded my base, formally studying journalism for print, in radio and on television. I even branched out in later years and worked exclusively in radio for a time. I had the voice and the looks for it. No matter what the field was, my writing ability always seemed to point me in that direction. I excelled at writing copy and advertising seemed a natural fit, but only to others it would seem. I always kept writing even when my view shifted. Over the decades, I published in religious magazines, in local newspapers and major publications. It’s strange, when my first partner died in 1995, I stopped writing altogether but when my Mother died in 2010, it inspired me to start again. For the length of those 15 years of silence, I rarely created anything outside of my head. I think holding it all in affected my ability to express myself in terms beyond grief and futility. My ability to write did not pass away but it certainly went into hibernation. I always managed to find a way to not create, to not be inspired. All the pain was all that remained. Rather than using my command of the English language, I fell quiet. For years, it really seemed like there was nothing left for this teller of tales. I still floated in the otherland but I just couldn’t find a way to write about it.

            I posted my first blog, “Lemon Cupcakes with Icing Sugar Sprinkles” (http://simplekel.blogspot.ca/2010/05/may-28th-2010.html), on May 28^th, 2010.

I touched on music and memories and the way things used to be. I didn’t know it at the time but the grief I felt over my Mother’s death reactivated something within me. As I reached out to my world for sanity, I dove head first into what would turn out to be my pure pleasure. Rather than simply posting once in awhile, I had to post 4 or 5 or 6 times each week. I managed to do this for exactly one year. Borrowed Knowledge did not find an agonizing death, rather it ended with the transformation into a blog much more reasonable to handle. Posting every day interfered too much with work and my home life but I didn’t burn out. I excelled and picked up speed.  The first year of my blogging really changed the way I viewed media delivery. I suppose that while many would not consider me old school journalism, I most certainly was brought up in that line of thinking. Blogging became a vehicle, a mechanism with its own reward. After 5 more years of blogging, Surviving God, ran out of steam for me. The confines of the thesis restricted my ability to fully express myself. On January 1^st, 2017, I began a new blog, unrestricted by anything but my imagination. This far in and it remains a delight to write on a weekly basis. Writing can often be an escape, so Otherland seemed like the perfect tag to write under. Day after day, I never grow tired of putting my thoughts onto paper (so to speak). It is still all that it ever has been, cathartic, structured and relevant. I rely on the purge to make it through my day, every day.

“Everywhere I go I’m asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. There’s many a best-seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher.” (Flannery O'Connor, American essayist)

            Sometimes the path we are to follow in life is hidden, we are unable to find the direction we are supposed to take. Sometimes the path is clear and focused, leaving little room to wonder or question if you are going the right way. For most of us, setting out on the correct course is a mundane experience, usually determined by circumstance rather than some unique event or school of thought. In no way am I trying to convey that God comes down and makes the decision for us, pushing us through supernatural means to follow His path versus our own. I guess I still believe that the way we travel is irrelevant, it is the lessons we are to learn as we move forward that should resonate the most. Everyone’s path looks different but all the things we are supposed to absorb are usually the same. It’s not the highway that keeps you going, it’s the scenery.

            I never questioned what I was supposed to be. I just didn’t know it when I came across it. It was there all along, I suppose. For both my educational and professional life, I have followed a few paths at the same time. I specialized in media rather than focusing on my writing. I think in high school I understood my calling. As I was later inundated with higher learning, I drifted away from my natural proclivity. I spent years, decades, paying attention to what would make me more money and I forgot about what really makes me happy. There is nothing more satisfying (including sex) than when I open myself to the flow. All the words just come to me these days. I don’t have to think about anything but starting, the rest exudes, sometimes as a dribble and sometimes like a heavy stream. It always takes me away. In a sense, putting “pen to paper” is always a trip to my otherland. Sometimes the visit is quick and sometimes it lasts, but either way it most certainly is a destination I never should have left to begin with. No matter the topic and no matter the style, it all makes sense to me now. It may be a little late, but I should have stayed the course, and followed the path well knowing, every river, every highway teaches something new.

“Your profession is not what brings home your weekly pay check, your profession is what you’re put here on earth to do, with such passion and such intensity that it becomes spiritual in calling.” (Vincent van Gogh, Dutch painter)

            This blog is the last post under the heading Otherland. The topic has evaporated into the rest of my work. My writing will remain but under a new directive, a new blog title. Kelifornication will launch come late spring 2020. I could use a fresh start. I recently had a severe bought of illness, which disabled me for over 2 weeks. Let’s just say I spent more time with my face in a toilet bowl than I did sculpting and reporting my state to the world. During its reign, I had a significant amount of time to just lie thinking. It is therein that I found myself going forward with a new directive. Apparently, I have been targeting the wrong demographic. Instead of trying to teach the lessons my life has put before me to younger, less evolved creatures, it might be interesting to explore a new venue. As my 60^th birthday rapidly approaches, I am reminded that it is out there waiting (although it is not as close as it would seem). I remain young at heart, despite the breaking and cracking and abuse this life has thrown on me. Perhaps instead of merely looking back, it might be productive to look forward as well. A maturity has found me wanting. Aging and the tenants of that place, was always just beyond my scope and outside my terrain. I see it now. Clarity is supposed to come with the act of growing older, like a parasite, it hangs there, quite often unseen. Unleash the hounds. 

Photos

http://www.hughhowey.com/writing-insights-part-one-becoming-a-writer/

Sources

https://findotherland.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-river-and-highway.html

The Wild Blue Yonder

            The moment I became aware, I knew that I was in heaven. The clouds all around me were a dead giveaway. Everything looked so clean. Dropping dead on the streets of New York was a messy experience, from what I can remember. I know I landed in a pool of something far beyond the definition of puddle. This was all so white and so fluffy. For as far as the eye could see, it was all I could see. Where was the welcome wagon and St. Peter? Where were the embracing hands and greetings from my loved ones? Where was Jiffy, the Poodle I had as a boy? High into heaven, even more clouds hung from a ceiling, a ceiling of more clouds and then more clouds. As above, so below.  Somehow I could walk on them, run on them. They were barely even there but I stood firm and safe on a mat of puffy white. I was alone and I soon realized that I had no idea what to do. Which way is the right way to go when all ways are the same?

            I half expected the Pearly Gates to pop up out of nowhere, but they didn't. I waited and waited for a guide or an angel or even a direction sign to tell me where I was supposed to go. Eventually, although I had no physical need, I sat down on a patch of heavy cirriform clouds and I began to ponder the situation. If this was heaven, was I the only one that was ever allowed in? Where was Jesus? What about Cookie Roberts? I even looked around for Vladimir Putin, but I guess he hadn't arrived yet. He was really the only person I desired to see in this state, but I suppose he belonged someplace else. It gets boring sitting on the side of the clouds with nothing to do but think. I asked myself so many questions, I ruminated with much speculation, but there was nothing but marshmallow after marshmallow staring me in the face. Although I was sure I no longer needed to eat, I didn't even have a match for roasting. I concluded that heaven looked like the Stay Puff marshmallow man had dropped a few pounds all over the place. As I waited, my thinking process corrupted itself.

            It was stark and grim to linger. I even wondered if I was in Limbo or Abraham's bosom. I was uncomfortable with the idea. To be forced to spend eternity surrounded by fluff was almost as bad as having to watch an episode of The Bachelor. As what I thought was time passed, I realized how screwed I really was. Fortunately, certain more mammalian traits had been left behind. I didn't need to go to the bathroom. I tried to sleep several times, but I guessed that this was something I had also discarded. I was never hungry or thirsty even though I really could have used a drink. I'm unsure whether my ability to procreate had been affected as I decided not to look. All the primal, all the tactile experiences of being human had become irrelevant. There were no mirrors to confirm it, but I could tell even I looked different. I hadn't had that much hair on my head since public school. The major scar on my foot had just disappeared. As I pointed out, I neglected to examine my centre square, but I suddenly felt au naturel. Slowly, I could feel myself lightening. I seeped like a balloon would, but you couldn't smell anything. It was as if the wind within was released in tiny breaths. The longer I sat, the more I returned to my life on earth. It was like reading from a book that flipped page after page in my noggin. My life passed before my eyes and I never once had to take a pee break.  

            It's strange the things you remember when memory is all you have left as a form of entertainment. You remember both the good and the bad, the happy and the sad. You also see things clearly, without the emotional attachments one had as a human being. It started as vision from when I was a lad. I saw the death of my Great-Grandfather and the moment that vicious dog attacked me. It was like I relived falling down that flight of stairs with my new 450 pound metal friend.  I saw the entire time I was in high school, rehashing every mistake I made, every error in judgment. I saw the blood flow and the pills consumed and I saw myself wake up every time. I witnessed my days at college and university. I met my wife all over again, for the very first time. I watched her die again, for the very last time. I had to stop myself from reeling only to notice even now she was nowhere to be found. I could see my second wedding and have much hope that you will be alright. I saw such awful, despicable things that I did but I also saw the wonderful, lovely moments that I knew. The beauty of a sunset over Sandbanks beach and the pristine climate for a sunrise at the Big Sur. My first memory of my mother and my last memory of my father. I heard all the laughter, the joy I often took for granted in my mortal form. I saw the pain, the confusion, the knowing I was not good enough in God's eyes. I remembered telling myself that I was somehow beyond forgiveness.

            I always thought of dying as a trip into the wild blue yonder. There was no blue here, not a speckle of color, only all the white. I started to consider that hell may be painted over in oyster or chalk. The sky had never been and the ground below was gone, if it was ever there at all. I was left all alone in an endless weave of only me and these tufts of rain yet to be. The isolation, the desperation all painted over any sense of joy that came with me. At one point, everything started to twist in my head. The flashes started to speed up, each zipping past my mind's eye like a Madonna video. I became sad at all I had left behind. I was more concerned that there seemed nothing else ahead. I stood frozen as the pictures moved faster and faster right in front of my face. These were not only the grand moments, in fact they were things not even worth the mention on an ordinary day. Every mundane experience raced together to fill in all the spaces. The time I spent sleeping, or going to the bathroom, or watching television, were strung together without a musical bed. At one point, I had seen more than enough and I tried to turn it off. I couldn't turn it off, it just went on and on in a constant motion. When it finally did cease to play, I was met with a sense of completion. Every part of me had been exposed.

            At times it was like dancing on the clouds. At times it was hollow, depressing and uncomfortable. I wasn't sure how long the journey was which had been cast upon me. I wasn't even sure that time applied in this place. All I know is that I saw it all. Everything was clear and concise. In a way, it became more like watching one very long movie than flipping through pages in a book. It was like a puzzle coming together, each piece seemed to find its proper place. The best part was there were no commercial breaks. The worst part was there were no commercial breaks. From the day I tried to join my first wife to the day my second wife walked off that train and into my life, I finally understood the path I had lived. I had spent the latter part of that life examining me, but I never was able to really see. Now I stood before myself. I was wicked and careful and kind. I was cursed and I was blessed and I just was. Somehow, some way, I still was. I still existed. Nothing had been able to take that away from me.   

            I don't know what eternity feels like but I sure have a good idea. The process to re-examine my life seemed to take longer than my actual life did. Most of it was rather boring, a feat I always failed to achieve during my humanity. The longer I sat waiting, the more benign I began to feel. My shell hung on me, I experienced it, it was heavy and harsh. I was overcome with such grand emotions. It was bittersweet to have to say goodbye. There were no voices to usher me forward but I swear I could hear them. Somewhere in the everlasting white came a sense of pulling, a draining of everything I ever was or should have been. For the first time in my existence I was whole, every part of me ready to face this new day. At this point, I started to disappear.

            Softly the clouds appeared to draw towards me. Gently they whipped around my frame, caressing me, touching me and calling me. I looked down and my feet began to melt into white. My flesh turned into gossamer which began to circle my calves and then my knees. I did not collapse under my weight as there was little weight left of me. My waist, my hands then my chest morphed into cotton balls of heavenly bliss. Each stretched out and blended with the others. I became one with the swirl until I swirled about myself. Soon, there was nothing left of my human remains, nothing but the mind that speaks to you now. My last effort was to reach out and try to help you understand. My last thoughts are of you. I pray that somehow this reaches you.

            The last thing I can tell you, the very last thing I have to share, is not from a tale of woe ending badly. Underneath this blanket of snow, there is love and beauty in all I have seen. This is the voice and I now follow. I am floating here, drifting on by. Remember, we are clouds and on the other side, the blue.  

Photo

https://www.flickr.com/photos/36338508@N00/66640633/

She'ol

            I couldn't take it anymore. The screaming, the fighting, it was more than I could handle. I left the same way that I always fought back. I was loud, I was furious and so was the message that I did not fail to convey. I was so angry I wanted to hit someone, to hurt someone, it wouldn't matter who it was and whether they deserved it or not. I brutally slammed the front door shut behind me, ran down the front steps and I didn't even turn around, not once. I considered not going, but the rage within me had to be withdrawn. I needed to be withdrawn. The only way to effectively do so was to remove myself from the situation and flee the scene. I left our row house in the dust and sprinted towards the subway station on the next corner. I could ride it all day if need be. I could have space and time alone. Hate seethed within me as I quickened my pace towards freedom. Instant gratification would not be quick enough. I cursed under my breath. I knew it was time that I went for a ride as far away as I could possibly get. I knew there was no other way to escape what I was feeling.

            One city block stood in the way of my emancipation. I covered the distance in leaps and bounds. I thundered down the entrance way, through the turnstile and onto the platform meant for waiting. I remained agitated, panicky and quite bemused. This was not the first time we had come to blows. This was not the first time I walked out, ran out any exit seeking relief. I swore I would not return. This was not the first time I had made myself such a promise. This was not the only time I said it was so. I lingered, pacing, praying that the train would soon arrive. As I pondered my fate, as I recognized my disposition, I even considered tossing myself on the tracks below. I questioned if the silence would ever be worth the cost. Would the gain be worth the loss? I was breathless and a moment seemed to take forever. I leaned over the track course and peered down the tunnel, spying for a single bright light that would carry me away from it all. I tried as I may to hold to some hope in my departure but it was impossible for me to find peace when my mind was at war. I couldn't think straight, I could barely form a rational thought. I heard it coming from around the bend.

            The platform was almost empty when I arrived. Only a handful of people came forward at the sound of the beast. I looked down, glaring at the subway tracks. I meant to jump. Suddenly, like a red and steel rocket, the train pulled into the station, came to its stop and rested. I had chickened out once again. The doors opened with their normal noise but with little commotion. This time was apparently the best time to take a ride alone. A few rushed commuters came and went, a few remained seated, and I shuffled aboard. The door call sounded, the doors shut and I grabbed a support rail as the metal mole moved deep into the next tunnel. The car was almost empty. Two Asian girls sat up near the door to the next cab, both were lost to their smartphones, oblivious to the world around them. An elderly African American gentleman sat almost dead middle. He glanced at me when I started to move to the back of the car. I took my place in private, huddled against a window in the very last seat to be found. I would have crawled under it if not for the space and the fear of being tossed off the metro. The next stop bid farewell to the old man, and two stops more rid me of those silly girls. I found myself alone, staring at the walls of the tunnel system as they passed at twenty miles per hour. One stop after another and the space remained vacuous. Even my rage dissolved and found its way off of the craft. My pulse stopped racing and my breathing improved. The throbbing headache I had carried ceased existence and I found myself comfortable. This process  had always worked in the past. I looked out into the darkness and then closed my eyes to rest. I didn't need to dream.

            I woke up choking. My face, my eyelids, my mouth were covered in some dry form of silt. I leaned forward and shook my head like a dog would after a bath. I opened my eyes slowly, in case something dared to remain in its place. The world had become dust, dust and grey and frozen. I was sitting on the same train, in the same spot, but the entire subway car was covered in filth. I could not believe my stinging eyes. From front to back, from side to side, the cab was captured by inches of  detritus, layer upon layer of soot. It appeared to be very fine ash. The car was not moving. Apart from the obvious, something was definitely wrong with the scene. The doors near the head of the train sat wide open but those quite near to me had been closed up tight. When I stood, it felt like rain was falling from my fingertips. A cloud of the same rubble floated off my body. I wagged the dog one more time. I shook in tremors, from head to toe and then back again. The debris left me and lingered like a fog of something foreign, a haze I could not identify. A mist had fallen and rested all over the world.

            I tried to wipe it all off as best as I could. I used the tails of my shirt to clean off my features and clear off my skin. Any remnants would have to do. It looked like I had been tumbled in a vacuum cleaner. I walked slowly past each seat and headed towards the open doors. Everything was covered in a fine but dense layer of sandy gloom. The floor was buried, the walls had been painted with touches of chalk. Each vacant seat was a testament, each stratum of the strange deposit a message that something had happened to life as I slept. At first, the windows seemed smoky. A quick investigation revealed they were also bathed in this residue. For a moment, I thought I was in a science fiction movie and, like Charlton Heston, had discovered New York City somewhere Beneath the Planet of the Apes. I moved with caution towards the exit. I peered outside, hoping someone would greet me and explain the reason for all this mess. I heard no one. I saw no one. I was clearly alone with no idea what had happened. As I stepped out onto the platform, the glassy lint below forced me down rather quickly. I landed hard on a bed of concrete and dust. I just sat there, trying to fan away particles of something intent on invading my orifices. I covered my nose and mouth and rose to the occasion. I was stunned. It was like existence had ended in a cloud of smoke and ash. 

            The subway station was dark and empty but for the distant glow of nearby entrances and exits. Everything appeared to be covered in the very same icing of doom. I was more than a little frightened. I was also very hesitant to leave the artificial safety of rapid transit. I was almost crippled by the fear. I was careful not to take a deep breath and I walked out into the shadows. One foot in front of the other led me into the unknown.  I had no idea who or what was out in the muck but I was drawn to the light as it crawled inside from a better place. This world was silent. There were no sounds from travelling trains, no shuffle or bustle of people coming to and fro. The air was still and very stale. Breathing seemed more like drinking soup, a quagmire made up from one billion tiny pieces of somber. I edged forward, scanning from side to side. I reached the outer wall and began to skulk along it, as quiet as a mouse. When I reached the vestibule on the platform, I literally slid over the turnstile and lowered each leg down to the ground. I played dead but just for a moment. There was nothing to startle me or cause me to react. There was nothing at all. There was nothing about. There was only more desert, more dirt and more confusion on my part. I kept to the wall and rounded the way to the light. The tunnel was clear of man or beast, or so it seemed to be. Only dust led the way, dust that had clearly not been disturbed for some time. It was a glaze, unbroken by footprints or tracks of any kind. I ran up the steep and jumped into the bright.

            I must be dreaming. This could not be real. From the tallest tower to the lowest street grate, everything had been covered in a blanket of grey snow. Every car had been embraced. Every tree had been smothered. There was no sight and no scene that had not met this dingy fate. The silence was mortifying. This must be the End. I scanned the sea of dull for any hue or color, any sign of man. It was the strangest thing that I noticed. Each building was intact. Each relic undisturbed. The world outside was frozen in the spot that I had left it, but it was put to sleep, put to bed with some form of fallout. I called out for any survivor. The landscape of dust was so dense that it failed to even echo a return. The sky was dark. I could not find the sun. A cloud of nuclear winter filled the air but from the condition of the things on earth, I knew no bomb had met my city, no war had found this land. It was just covered, an endless wasteland shrouded as if by sprinkles of almost night. I was paralyzed by this new reality. I could not believe my eyes. I stood there, whimpering, staring at the ground, then the street and then the sky. Everything was exactly the same but it had been painted over with great stokes of hopelessness. It was then that I recognized a street sign, then another, each was dusted, painted over with the same rain of junk. I ran over to each and shoveled away the dirt with a hand. I spun in panic, rushing over to the subway stop indicator. I closed my eyes and cleared the remnants of whatever storm had come this way. I peeked through my lids, both wanting but not wanting to know. I had to look for some answers. There it was. It was my stop, the place I had come from. This was my home, my neighbourhood, my world.

            I flashed down the block and up the soot-layered stairs of my once beautiful home. Somehow, I just knew that the door would not be locked. I checked it regardless, hoping someone had sealed themselves inside. The foyer was as empty as the street. The same dust storm had entered here too, coating my life inside with the same damn rubble that had met me outside. Nothing had gone untouched by the swarm. I ran out back calling hello. I ran upstairs begging if anyone was there. There was more silence and stirred dust settling and an eerie hollowness from all things lost to me. In the main hallway, I stopped to clean off a picture. It made me smile a little, in spite of myself. I was so broken, so defeated. I didn't know how to feel or what to think. I just stood there in my dirty clothes, in my dirty house, in my dirty life. What had happened to the world? Why was I the only one left to deal with all the caked-on mud that had swallowed my existence? How did this happen? Was this really the End?

            I took that sweet picture frame with me as I walked out the front door and back into the murky light. The sky kept churning above me and the dust kept stirring as I walked along the street. I started to feel quite cheated by it all. I didn't understand why I had been left as a witness to this calamity. It did not seem fair that I should be the only one. I wondered if I was being punished or if I had been spared. Regardless, I screamed out for someone to hear me. Over and over I called for release. It was the weight of my tears that buckled me onto myself. My legs let go and I fell to my knees in the soot. In the center of the road I gave in. In that moment, in that heartbeat, I think I started to pray. I wasn't sure what I was praying to. I barely understood what I was praying for.  I kicked my feet from under me and flopped down on my butt. I started rocking. I started weeping. My tears mixed with my dusty face and tiny puddles of goo melted onto each cheek. I collapsed onto the pavement and laid there waiting to die.

            I have no idea how much time passed before I finally got up and collected myself. One would imagine that for all the times I had considered tossing myself, it would be easy to abandon it all. The truth is, I could not. I could not give in to the desolation around me. I could not just finish myself in despair. I rose as I found the strength in me. I dusted myself off, looked all around and I started walking. Surely someone else had been left behind. Out in the world there could be many searching, just the same. The further I traveled, the more confident I became. If I kept going, I would discover hope somewhere along the way. I wandered through neighbourhoods, past landmarks and over bridges great and small. All I knew to do was just keep walking. I had to just keep going. There would be no other choice. All my notions got left in a cloud of dust.       

            "Do you really think he did it?" she whispered to her friend.

            "They say he fell," the friend replied.

            "I can't believe she cremated him,"  the first woman added.

            "Where is she going to have him buried?" the second woman questioned.

            "Not in the Jewish cemetery, that's for sure," she concluded.

            The room quieted as the Rabbi took his place at the podium. The quaint space was filled with weeping ladies and scornful men. As the teacher spoke about the randomness of life, the mourners tossed and turned in their places. All the while, he sat hidden in an urn of bronze, placed for all to see with prominence. It was a tribute to the life he had once lived. It was beautiful in a simple way. Any prohibitions found in the Halachah were irrelevant anyway. There wasn't much left of him to bury. When all the words had been said, when all the goodbyes were done, the Rabbi handed her the container and  hugged her softly. She found her way home like most grievers do. She took off her shoes, laid her purse on the chair and she walked softly into the main hallway. Next to a picture of the two of them together, she placed what once was next to what used to be and she started to cry again. She tried to imagine him with her. She wanted to see his face, to feel his touch one more time. All she could think of were the words she left behind her, of "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust."

Photo

http://www.capjournal.com/community/dusting-off-the-dust-bowl/article_489071c4-4b3f-11e2-98b7-001a4bcf887a.html?mode=image&photo=

Food of the Dogs

            Richard Robertson had previously killed six other women when he joined Jessica Smith as she walked home on a late June evening. Having left the bar just around the corner, she was a little drunk and oblivious to the world around her. He stepped out of his grey Honda Civic and slowly followed behind. He kept back so as not to alarm her. She casually roamed, unaware of the predator skulking in the shadows. She crossed over Richmond  Street, against the light, and made her way into Victoria Park. For 1:48 AM, on an early Tuesday morning, the park seemed dense with people. She laughed when she spotted a couple copulating on one of the benches. She avoided the group of young men congregating against the War Memorial in the centre of the park. An elderly couple smiled at her as she breezed past them on the well-lit path. There was enough commotion that she did not notice the figure all dressed in black, lurking just out of her reach. When she stopped to light a cigarette, he leaned against a tree in the dark. She proceeded on her way, having chucked the pack and lighter back into her purse, unaware that the danger from behind her had disappeared into nothingness. She crossed the park, flicked her smoke onto the street ahead and once again she cut across the light.

            It had been twenty-two months since the first girl had been reported missing. Jessica would be the seventh victim. Each had simply disappeared while walking home in the wee hours of the morning. They vanished without a trace, as if they were plucked up into heaven during some rapture. Not even a hint of them could be found. There were significant commonalities between each young woman. They all worked in a bar and they were heading home after a long shift at work. Each travelled by foot, not car, bus or taxi. Some were drunk, like Jessica. All were more shapely girls, "meaty" if you want to put it that way. They were short and therefore visibly overweight. There is no correlation between the establishments. Each girl was taken from a different community. Robertson randomly picked a place far away from the rest and then once inside, he picked the girl. If no one met his requirements, he would then abandon his intentions for another evening with the hope he would fare better. Often it took weeks, even months, before he discovered someone suitable. If he did find a dupe, he would spend the night at the end of that bar pretending to drink scotch and water. Beneath the bar he would soak up the mix with napkins he had brought with him, hiding the wet mess in the pocket of his dark jacket. He would cleverly discard them on his trips to the bathroom. For the evening, he was a silent but familiar face at the end of the counter. Richard listened carefully to every word his prey would utter. At last call, he would artificially stumble out the door like a drunken fool. This part of the chase was much fun for him.

            Running ahead only helped to locate the perfect spot for him to take her. In her inebraited state, she had led his way. Tonight two buildings would shield him. The three foot crawlspace between them held no special light. He could hide right in front of her face. He was a master of illusion, deflecting his presence. As Jessica approached his web, a red rubber ball bounced from out of nowhere and rolled across the road. It was pure instinct that shifted her attention to the dog toy as it passed. The slight noise and action drew her around to study the event. She stopped and took a look. The sack flew over her head and he pulled her quickly into the darkness. There was enough chloroform laced in the lining to knock her out in less than fifteen seconds. It didn't matter if it killed her. The hood he had sown together from cubicle insulation fabric effectively soundproofed any vocal reaction until the drug kicked in. Making sure she was out cold, and that the coast was clear, he grabbed the rubber toy and headed back towards his automobile. Just like every other girl, he simply pulled up beside her hidden place, struggled getting her upright and then laid her in the back seat. Although it had never happened, he was well prepared for the illusion of propping up his very drunk girlfriend in an attempt to get her home. He had never been caught in the act. With the ball in one pocket, and the hood removed from her head, he took the most direct route outside of the city. He didn't give anyone a reason to notice him. He didn't speed. He obeyed every law. By the time he reached his home, as with each encounter, he had disappeared into obscurity. 

            The old farm reeked of decline. Its distance from civilization and any urban sprawl made it the perfect accessory to his crimes. The lot laid in ill-repair, quite visibly abandoned to nature. He pulled onto the beaten path that ran from the road into a dense but small forest of heavy and ancient trees. In the daylight, it was almost picturesque. A quaint country lane, passing through the wooded spot, was overrun with vegetation. Any field had lost its purpose to long grasses and weeds and unending fallow. After the camouflage, the strip of dirt diverged. Malingering in silence, off to his right, well beyond the house, was the barn. It had collapsed upon itself years before, the victim of a wild windstorm and a disregarded structure. He pulled left, crept up to in front of a rather ugly carport and stopped. Several very old oak trees littered the yard. Abandoned farm equipment sat rusting out in the back acre. The house was nothing to speak of. It too had been left to the whims of a natural world and a disinterested caretaker. Richard's parents had lived here and they both died here. One could assume that the property and edifices met the same fate. After the storm which destroyed the barn, there was little interest on Richard's part to maintain anything other than what laid inside. The garage fared better than the building it sat beside. Richard got out of his car, walked over and unlocked it. The door raised open and revealed a great empty space. Having returned to the car, he peeked at his captive, still out cold on the back seat, and pulled her inside. He quickly disengaged, left her in trust, and closed it up behind him.

            The dogs had started barking the second he pulled past the trees. Each bark was muffled, sent from a distance, hidden somewhere secret and inside. The large enclosed port was a relic from a different time. It had once housed horses and wagons, Early in the 20^th century, a large Amish family had lived on the property. Remnants of their  lifestyle lingered, some had been well maintained while others fell into poor condition. The garage doors and walls had been added by Richard's father in the 1970s, to shield any automobile from the heavy snowstorms that come with Canadian living. The house and port were joined by a makeshift alley, tin pieces sewn together to block the view. He crossed the channel, unbolted the way, and silently slipped into his sanctuary. The barking increased. Inside the place was eerie, like some abandoned nightmare of clutter and ambivalence. The last time it had been sorted or cared for, his mother had done the deed. She died in bed on the second floor, just feet from where his father had passed. With both his limitations deceased, he was free to pursue his inclinations. On weekdays, he journeyed to and from the butcher shop his folks had left him, serving the public with a smile. He was a good employer, a friendly chap, a careful facade to hide his ways. Each weekend, he left business behind him and hunted for the perfect prey. It was a long process, an exact method, and he took his time to ensure completion. Once he was back on his property, he felt safe. He slipped through the dark kitchen, stopped just beneath the stairs and unlocked the basement door, freeing his only friends.  

            The three Dobermans ran past him, eager to release. He followed behind them, eventually opening a back door which led to an enclosed yard. The fence was an unnecessary barrier, all the dogs were well trained. It acted more as insurance rather than prevention. Each dog was faithful to a fault. Caesar, the oldest, never strayed. Nero, the bravest, followed Caesar's lead. Caligula, the youngest, was just glad to get outside. Richard pulled the door closed, leaving his army to run in the dark. Their reward always kept them in line. Their want was a deterrent to bad behaviour or the need to flee. Each knew what was to come. Every time he found them was mere foreplay, a dance just before a feeding. They were safe at play while he worked his ways. Richard headed back towards his victim. Once in the carport, he opened the driver's side rear door and reached in for Jessica. He pulled her out using her armpits, her feet slapping on the dirt floor upon exit. He dragged her through the side door, past the tin wall and into his den. It was one motion for him by this time. Six others had revealed his errors. He was precise, succinct and ready for any incident that might interfere with his duty. At the top of the basement, he let go of one of her arms for but a moment, then switched on the light. The space was close and dank and full of shadow. The light from the room below did little to change the descent. Down thirteen stairs he dragged her. Like a burlap bag of potatoes, her ankles met each step.  Small pieces fell from the limestone walls, each bump, each bang, producing a fair amount of dust and crumble. She was still out cold and she didn't bother to protest this trip. Her dead weight had already been determined. There was no struggle left in her. Richard could not have cared less.

            The large room was sparse. The walls were limestone just like in the stairwell. The place was clean and in order. In the far right corner, the furnace and water tank sat on a concrete square. The floor was hard dirt otherwise. In the opposing corner, a stack of boxes and crates had been placed with care and in specific position. Along one wall was a feeding station. Three bowls for water met three even larger, each empty from the dog's time alone. Across a great space, a fair sized iron and chain link kennel ran ten feet along the length of the room. There are no windows to be found. There were no remnants from three dogs and a day inside. He dragged the damsel across the dirt floor and laid her down just to the side of the kennel door. He clipped it open with a hook, reached back for the girl and forced her into it. At its end, he placed her on the wooden planks and reached up in secret. He pushed against the wall, returned to the girl and like the predator he is, he carted her body into his limestone shop of horror. The light was not engaged. He simply turned and left Jessica on the floor of his dungeon.  He pulled the door closed by a ridge in the wall and he sauntered slowly out of his hole. The best part was yet to come so he headed outside to bring in the dogs.

            When the lights were on, you could tell his abattoir was pristine. A long slab of surgical steel divided it in two. Against the hundred year old outer wall, a large freezer and shelves laced with equipment, gloves and cleaning supplies almost overflowed in their organized state. An old outdoor water pump and catch basin had been joined together for his convenience and sat there in a corner. On the inner side of the flat top rested another large table to the right. It was covered with the tools of the trade.  An open box of latex gloves, some aprons and a minimal amount of sterile gauze could be accessed with only a reach. Numerous knifes, pliers and steel mallets sat waiting. Rib spreaders and a bone saw almost finished the plate. A fairly new meat trimmer sat at the end, plugged into the cord coming out from the wall. To his left, an oversized meat grinder fit snug into the niche while three well-used meat hooks rested downward, hanging there like doom. Oddly enough, a child's small Mr. Turtle swimming pool rested beneath them. This private slaughterhouse was no processing plant. It looked more like any butcher shop would. An enormous roll of plastic wrap hid under the second table. The room sparkled in a polish. Other than the dangling fasteners and fragile walls, it looked like it had never been used. Nothing could be further from the truth. Even as a child, Richard Robertson had brought animals into this death trap. He not only experimented on them, he cut them into pieces, analyzing each organ and body part. His father had discovered the ancient cold cellar back when the additions to the garage were made. Over time, the current state of the room was established as a training centre for our villain to practice his trade. It became his easel and each act his art form, in the most lasting sense of the word. When the basement door opened, the dogs pummeled down the stairs causing a miniature earthquake. Each leap and bound produced a cloud of limestone and the occasional chunk of the stone for good measure. Richard waved it off, then he set each dog in their rightful place and proceeded into the meat works.

            It was like he dressed for the occasion. He carefully draped an apron around his neck, over his black short sleeve shirt, then tied it with little to no trouble. He had done this all before. He slid on the latex gloves with precision. The rubber smacked back when he checked it was snug.  The process was methodical in his mind. He ran through his checklist, pointing to this and that as he went along. When he was ready, he stepped over Jessica and reached down to lift her. The hardest part was getting each girl up onto a hook. Number two and three woke up during the process so from then on he made sure to put back on the laced hood and use one of the hooks to sever the spine. He took his time then rested once each had found a place. Removing the mask, he then slit the throat from side to side, cut both ankles open wide, and then he let them empty into the kiddie pool below. Nothing went to waste. With a few snips here and a few snips there, a very dead Jessica Smith was left naked and hanging like some stuck pig would be. He shined up his equipment and waited for her to drain. She left the world that night quite vacuous and chopped into twenty-four pieces.

            The food from one body lasted around four to six weeks; It could be stretched to two months if the need be. The dogs would eat nothing else. Richard dissected the girl into pieces, in order for a cleaner grind. He would trim off each piece of flesh like he was filleting a young calf or large salmon. He studied every chunk. In the grinder, her humanity was crushed and turned into a chunky texture and the bloodied mess began to take form. When all the meat had been ground, he clipped on the bone shredding attachment. Larger pieces, like the halves of the emptied skull, had to be broken down during this process. Every bone went into the mix. The entire skeleton was almost dust by the time he had finished. He detached the large stainless steel bowl from its hinge, rolled it out and away from the equipment, and with great effort lifted it up onto one end of the silver slab. He submerged both hands into what was left of the girl. He learned quickly to always wear only a short sleeve shirt with his apron, sinking both arms deep past the elbow for a better blend. He had considered using chicken eggs to help bind the marrow with the flesh but he discovered that a fair amount of blood would do the same thing. To this end, the yield looked more like regular hamburger than minced me.

            The sink was old and small but efficient. He washed each arm meticulously, removing each glove as if it was a shrine to his measures. From beneath the second slab he pulled out the finishing touches. Behind the extremely large roll of cellophane, which he thudded down onto the main table, he also retrieved a butcher's scale and a box of Styrofoam plates.  He switched his tools from above with the tools down below and placed each piece on top creating an assembly line of sorts. In one pound portions, the meat went on the scale to which the meat went on a plate. Each plate was set behind him on the centre table to be wrapped all at once. When each pack had found its space in the cold unit, the room was polished once again. The pool was wiped out. He took three individual portions that he had left unwrapped, and he closed up his shop for the night. Before Jessica, the freezer had been empty. A dry spell while searching out perfection. With the box now full, he concentrated on his three companions in the outer room. Tonight the beasts would dine on fresh not frozen.  

            Each of the largest bowls was filled as the dogs sat waiting. He filled the water bowls next. They salivated in puddles on the hard damp floor. He had discovered their joy with the first victim. When a piece fell onto the slaughterhouse floor, the dogs fought over the scrap. It was easier to dispose of the meat this way. The ultimate act of turning everything into shit. He gave up the idea of sprinkling the mix out in the fields for the wildlife to consume. This way kept it controlled, and cleaner. The dogs seemed easier to maintain with such a promise of reward. He thought he was clever. Hiding the remains in the remains was not only a stroke of genius but gave him ample time to study the pieces before grinding. He could take his time, well knowing the proof was easily disposed of. Turning each girl into chow mix was a pursuit much like the chase. It had to be done.

            He was careful, studious and precise. Even the police had difficulty determining anything beyond the obvious. Warning the public, after victim number two, seemed to only inspire the culprit more. Richard knew to be fully aware. He parked away from each bar. He learned names and personal information throughout the night as he hunted. He was always surprised at just how much information a person will give out in the presence of strangers. If he stayed long enough, and pretended to be drunk enough, he was bound to discover the path they took home. Sometimes even an address might be revealed. The girls who fit all the criteria, and who led him with direction, were the chosen few. At last call, he would leave and scout out her way home. He would carefully park his car and wait for the staff to leave. Everything had to be perfect. Everything must be just right. He would call the whole thing off otherwise. Without knowing it, Jessica Smith had given him everything he wanted. She gave him her name and address, a way to catch her, and her body weight in pounds of flesh.

            He abandoned his quest when the storm set in. He needed a girl but he didn't trust that the weather would find him safely home. The last thing he wanted was to be stranded with a captive on the back seat. He left this city and headed out on the long drive that eventually returned him to the farm. The wind and the rain were so vicious that he wished he had chosen to stay in rather than deal with this gale. When the tornado warning came over the radio, he drove much faster than he usually would. When he finally arrived, the storm had grown with intensity. He parked and sheltered his Civic and went immediately into the house.  The rain fell so heavy that the length of the tin wall allowed enough time to soak him from head to toe. He locked the door behind him and went upstairs to change. Caesar, Nero and Caligula all whined from their prison.

            He had gone down into the basement to feed them when the twister hit. Richard was passing out the last potions of Jessica Smith when the stairwell started to crumble. Like the barn before it, the house caved in on itself. The strong winds had blown over a very large but almost dead oak tree that sat twenty feet from the kitchen. It landed squarely on the rear end of the building, the top of the tree crushed through the roof and landed on the basement staircase. A large thud vibrated the room. It was like dominoes after that. The stairwell gave in, then the ceiling started to collapse, and eventually the entire back area, including the kennel, broke apart and tumbled. Richard pulled the dogs into the far corner and rested against the crates and boxes. A consuming cloud of dust filled the space. It was almost an hour before it settled.  Richard rubbed his eyes and peered through the settling detritus. The door to the slaughterhouse was blocked by enormous blocks of limestone. The kennel was matchsticks. The exit up and out was lost to the storm. Richard sat trapped, sealed in his own little shop of horrors. It did not take him long to realize the predicament before him.

            He gathered all the water that the dogs had yet to consume and pooled it in one of the now empty food bowls. The dogs had just been fed so he had some time to figure out his escape. With no windows, no exit and nothing but the useless contents of the room, he could only hope that someone came looking for him. He knew instantly that he was damned if they did and damned if they didn't. The evidence was frozen in the freezer. The way out was buried with him. At first, he tried to move some of the wreckage that was once the stairs. If he moved something, it might clear a crawlspace. He struggled as the hours went by, trying to excavate a path to outside or even into the slaughterhouse. The dogs grew aggravated and anxious. Eventually, they all relieved themselves near the furnace.  Not half a day had passed and Richard gave up the fight. He pulled old blankets out from the crates and resolved himself to his fate. He did not fear. He was not filled with guilt or regret. He didn't panic. He had always known that eventually something had to give. He placed a comforter on the ground for each dog, then took a few for himself and sat against the wall near the boxes.

           

             On Monday, the legitimate abattoir opened up again for business. Three days later, five days after the tornado, the staff at the butcher shop called the police. It was out of character for Richard not to show up for work. He didn't answer his phone. When the police investigated their concerns, they found the entire back end of his house in collapse. Initially, the only sign of Richard Robertson they found was his grey Honda Civic in the car port, untouched by the tree which landed a mere six feet from it. There were no signs of life. When one of the police officers called out, a faint rumble rose from the demolished structure. You could almost hear dogs barking.

            The closer the removal got to the basement, the louder the beasts within called out. It was over a day before the heaviest slabs of limestone could be cleared away. When a way was finally accomplished, and the final barrier removed, three very feral monsters leapt out of their graves and attacked. The cops had heeded the savage barking and shot  each dead. Caesar, Nero and Caligula should not have departed any other way. With an investigation of the cellar, the truth came in bits and pieces. With scarce amounts of flesh to go by, one could assume it only took a few days for the animals to turn on the butcher. They didn't even wait until he fell asleep.

            They fed, ripping him from limb to limb. It took some time for him to bleed out and he suffered in the most ironic of ways. Little by little, forensics gathered him together. There really wasn't much left to speak of. His bones had been chewed clean, just like the dogs had been taught to do. Someone had been saving an ear which the team found hidden behind the water tank. The bones of his fingers and toes were visibly absent. Other than the broken skeleton, the only part of him that remained was a patchwork of his epidermis, a few chewed on pieces from his head and face. The dogs were working their way up when the first outside noises began. They tore through him, and fed for days. He was fresh meat.

            The secrets men bury will always bury them. Richard Robertson learned this lesson in scrapes and bites. The world was shocked when the truth was discovered. It was easy to determine the victim in the freezer. She was also hidden in the shit. There was no evidence that the six other girls had ever been there. A few weeks into the investigation and the Robertson farm was demolished due to safety concerns. When the rubble was removed, not a trace of the horror was left. The actual butcher shop eventually closed. No one has ever considered purchasing the land on which the Robertson farm once sat. There are tales of things which haunt you . Of howling beasts and grinding meat and three monsters that hunt in the night. They say he roams there too, looking for scraps of his littered flesh, flesh that long ago became food of the dogs.

Photos

http://artbygino.blogspot.ca/2012/10/butcher-shop-sign-for-new-tjs-by.html