Mornings

    Golden prison bars cage my bed in their heat; I’m sweating under the sheet now. Venetian in their namesake, the blinds are the crux of my being. I roll myself off the bed and onto the floor which is thankfully still bathed in shadow. My breathing is quick and shallow from preforming that singular feat, an obvious sign of the cigarettes last night, though I needed no telling as my swollen tongue could taste. I wipe the sweat from my brow as the carpet rubs my nude back, my eyes stay shut as I wonder what happened last night. I creep my hand along the carpet, a hermit crab combing the beach for solace, hearing the circling squawks overhead, feeling the sun beat down on it. My hand finds solace. I twist the cap off and take a sip.

      It’s making late payments on bills, payments just touching the minimum, drowning in debt as I still place the bottle to my lips for a drink. The jingling quarters in my pocket are the rhythm section behind the automated ding accompanying the liquor store door. The rhythm section marches with me leaving the other pieces behind, this parade route swings by the gin shelves because it’s early in the month and the bills don’t have to be paid yet. The lady at the first cash served me three days ago; I head to the second line. On the way out I hold the door for an entering customer around my age; I can hear his pocket jingling. I don’t make eye contact.

    Once home I place the new bottle beside the empty one on my desk (kitchen table) and open my word processor (booklet of paper). This, not drinking cheap alcohol or smoking bummed cigarettes, is the true struggle. I don’t drink because life is unfair; I drink because my main character keeps being a fucking dick when he’s supposed to be the “Hero”. How can I not pull a cigarette from the battered pack I stole last night when my female lead sleeps with her best friend’s man behind her husband’s back? What about when my twenty year old protagonist drinks his way out of university? That must deserve a drink. I’ll fight with them, yell at them, tell them about the damage they’re doing, show them their reflections, add soliloquys, but it never does any good. I’ll keep trying to write them in the right way while the sun falls and the bottle empties. I’ll fight until the phone rings, and my friend invites me to the pub. He’ll tell me not to fuck up like I did last night, and I’ll laugh and apologize as I gather my coat promising to be there in 15 minutes. On the way out the door I’ll stop by the kitchen table and look over the unfinished stories and the stubborn characters, they’ll look back at me and without an ounce of guilt ask:

“Can I bum a smoke?”

Turnover

Talons grasp tree’s armour

Tenderly; the first weeks of Spring

Winter's door, closing tight

Snow has moved out, green moved in

Now Sparrow’s time for flight

Bourne on high he tastes rebirth

Budding whites, braches outstretch

Life awakes from frozen rest

The Sparrow, above, the waking Earth

Soaring on change, the guest of Spring

Who adds new cries to the skies

And adds more soles on the knolls

The guest’s stay is brief though

Its room is bare as the boughs

When fiery leaves grace the floor

 And as the air grows cold

Now old, Sparrow knows

That Winter’s door is open once more  

The 5th Bedroom (Initial Draft)

I recently began my second year of university. And, as is second year custom, I moved out of residence and rented a house in town with some friends. We should have thought it was weird when we saw the price of rent, it was cheap. Dirt cheap. Though, as most university students know, money is tight and we were all pretty ecstatic about having our own place and our own wallets. The house was perfect for 4 guys; 5 bedrooms, big lot backing right onto the river, no neighbours to dampen the party. Needless to say we were all pretty excited.

All of us are from different places from all over Ontario so we all moved in at different times. The friend closest to the house, Matt, is the guy who found the place for us. He took tours of the places and sent us all pictures, but ultimately we all decided on this house. Oddly enough, on move in day I was the first one at the house. I had expected Matt to be there but really didn’t think anything of it. My brother and I moved my stuff in to my room. We finished the move in and sat in the kitchen for a while, having a beer and chatting. During a break in conversation my brother, Andrew, pointed out how quiet the house was. I took a swig of beer and mulled it over. The house was quiet, though a busy road and a river ran by the house you couldn’t hear a single sound from outside.

I could tell that Andrew was creeped out so I grabbed him another beer and asked him if he wanted to see the whole house. He agreed and we started the tour. I had only seen the house through pictures but I managed to give a pretty comprehensive tour, though, when we had seen every room Andrew asked about the unused bedroom. Matt had told us about it but I had never seen the pictures so Andrew and I decided to check it out. At the top of the second floor stairs was the bedroom. We both tried to open it but it seemed, not locked but, jammed or stuck. Just as I put my ear to the door, the front door crashed open and a yell came from the foyer. Kirk, Craig and Matt were here. Andrew and I looked at each other, rattled, and laughed.

First Night: Andrew left shortly after the guys got here. He looked relieved. On his way out he gave me a long, lingering hug and made a point to say’ “I love you.” We finished the move in then grabbed some beers and started our 4 man-move in party. After some heated drinking games we corrugated at the kitchen table laughing and carrying on until a silence befell the group, just like with Andrew. This time it was Craig who broke the silence, “Damn it’s quiet eh?” Heads nodded in reply but no one seemed ready to talk. The flame of a new house and good times had been suddenly and insidiously extinguished. “Anyone want to go out for a smoke?” I proposed cautiously. No nods this time as the guys all pushed out their chairs and made a speedy procession out the front door.  Once out of the house there seemed to be a collective sigh as we stood in the front yard and gazed up at the house finally, for the first time all night, hearing the hum of vehicles and flowing of the river. We stayed outside until our eyes couldn’t stay open.

We all got ready for bed in the single washroom and then stood in our door ways saying good night. Craig’s furthest from mine, Kirks beside his, then the bathroom, followed by the 5^th bedroom across from the stairs, then Matt’s room. We all lingered for as long as we could but eventually we shut our doors and went to sleep. I peeked out of my room once more and looked into the hall, every door on the second floor was closed and for some reason I felt isolated. I closed my, hopped into bed and turned out my light. The long day took its toll and with the help of the beer I felt myself drifting off. Just as I closed my eyes I heard the river, then a splash followed by a sound that I will never forget. It was a sound of pure horror, a scream so piercing and pleading, a cold hand gripping my heart. The 4 of us burst from our rooms and met at the top of the stairs we looked back and forth at each other, and I really can’t tell you who noticed first but it might have been Kirk, all I heard was a gasp a we turned to see a row of neat wet footprints into the gapping doorway, the open mouth, that was the 5^th bedroom.         

Fear

Limbs, Bodies, Men

Hearts, Promises, Families

Monuments, Records

Broken.

Shattered.

Splintered and Snapped.

The eternal substratum

Humanity's definition

The reason for living,

To rise up and remain

whole.

Strong.

Complete and Exhaustive.

Flirt with the taunting earth

Its cold clutches grasp fruitlessly

The line thins, blood pumps

Heart hammers, drowns out the sound

Seconds, Minutes, Hours

As meaningless as their names

No bonds, no chains

Freedom's only opposition

You.

Connection

It sits before me, gleaming

It mocks, taunts, laughs

Waiting, enjoying my pain

I reach for it, draw back

Explosive pain engulfs my chest

Searing and slicing, a hot blade

Its coolness adds insult

As it watches.

Sweat slicks my body

Its still sits,

Reflects me, my opposite

Unfeeling, Unafraid

An image flashes in my mind

Time is short.

I grasp it now

The pain is unimaginable

Enveloping, crippling

I push forward though

Push its buttons

I place it against my head

It whispers poison in my ear

I endure it all

Because I know,

You are on the other line

The Itsy Bitsy Spider (Rhyme turned Poem)

"Doth protest not," the spider thought

As he climbed the metal drain

Blackened skies, no silver lines

Signaled only pain

Fervor, haste, a quickened pace

Alas, it was in vain

Droplets high, throughout the sky

The end, it came with rain

Though sun poked through from heavens high

The spider was not slain

Droplets returned, back to high

So spider could climb again

Money

The end goal

We work for it

We can’t eat it

We can’t drink it

Yet we need it

It makes the world go ‘round

Yet it’s different in every country

Those who don’t have it want it

Those who do have it want more

It causes wars

Yet it makes children happy

We go through years of school for it

Yet it teaches us nothing

It isn’t remotely human

Yet it can be dirty

It can be blood

It can be fake

Its name is Money

Its the end goal