A sabayon-yellow sun dangles low in the bleached-blue sky as we push through waves of goldenrod and yarrow, down onto the secluded stretch of beach. Tank top, camisole, flip-flops and espadrilles scatter on the slope of pebble and scrub brush behind us. Theo, tugging at my cut-offs while I fumble with his cargos. We lie with abandon — pleasuring, laughing, and remembering — until the shifting sun sails on through the west, leaving us to cool in the shade of the cathedral grove of giant Douglas Fir. Not since teenagers, did we savour one another in this ancient traditional territory. The tide slips back to reveal tiny fragments of petal-pink shell, black sea fan, and lace coral; forgotten secrets where sea meets sand. We don discarded clothing and wander on exploring the bedazzled, winding coastline. Stepping over intertidal pools teeming with microscopic creatures, mussels, periwinkles, urchin, and clams, and taking care to not disturb sessile purple sea stars and burrowing hermit crabs, we hold hands cherishing this spur-of-the-moment tryst. Twenty meters out from shore, two shiny black heads bob, eyes wide, whiskers-thick, displaying the distinctive v-shaped nostrils of young harbour seals. Their playful caterpillar-like hitching movements in and out of the surf; enchanting and absorbing. Reminding us of who we once were. Theo glances at me, wistful, sweet. We pause for a while to watch the pups, our backs leaning against a lattice of driftwood and timber, the assembly balancing like a Calder mobile. The moment elastic and dreamy. And then we hear it — an explosive whoosh; a huffing — the release of a burden. Then nothing. Before we dismiss the intrusion as an obscure anomaly, there is another unsettling rush. The sound echoing from west to east. We look for a lightning fissure. But the sky remains clear. Again, the sound knifes the air. Our fingers intertwine, clutch tight. And now we see it. A plume of spray discharging far in the distance. The air is impregnated thick with brine, and angst. The two seals dive, leaving us to confront the ghostly spectre alone. I twist around to charge up the embankment toward the headwaters. Theo grabs my wrist and whispers, Wait. My chest pounding. The light, spectral, thinning, eerie; everything signals we should go. It has been a decade since we last meant something to one another; now this brief sublime lingering passion tugging at us. But there is nothing calling me to follow him here. Yet I once again feel his pull, trust his practiced instinct. We trudge atop the sand in silence, traversing like hopscotch over rocks, driftwood, Japanese glass float, and felled beached timber. Fair winds rustle the brush like witches’ broom. The sky, morphing into a sober Payne’s grey draws us farther away from safe harbour. The formidable whoosh a steady refrain. As we round the rocky coastline, we see it. There, in the shallows, a colossal vantablack hulk of a leviathan, inert, save for its last drawn-out gasps of air. Anaemic and exhausted, its eye turned seaward, fate decided. Its desperate struggle and resignation over. We stand like sentries, suspended in time, helpless, as it slowly collapses under its own weight. A low sonorous wail, its last lament. It is over all too quickly. The moment thin like parchment. The beach, a silent requiem. We lose everything we love, Theo mouths. A temporary opening in the lining of the universe. The great cetacean but a memory. Our blissful afternoon as if it never happened. In the distance, whistles, clicks, low-frequency pops, and jaw claps; the light folding like origami. "The Salish Sea" was published in The Journal of Radical Wonder December, 2022.
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The man, bare-chested and burly, stands before a sliver of mirror affixed to the lamppost drawing a razor down his throat, the buildup of foam lather plopping off onto the sidewalk with each stroke. He nods as I walk by; customary. Zeus in tow pulls at the leash. I maintain my pace, but the dog is insistent, hanging back. Wafts of delicate Mediterranean herbs and spices: garlic, tarragon, anise, sage, coriander, smoked paprika, and sprigs of thyme, flow in and out on the man’s breath. I detect a hint of Baba Ghanoush, with sumac – 5 stars. He is clothed in brown oversized trousers, suggesting he has lost some weight, and three-quarter dove-grey dress socks in well-travelled Birkenstocks. Deep purple and black chevron tattoos cover his arms. A crisp clean white shirt hangs drying on the coat rack. He insists he is not homeless. Although the sidewalk and this intersection cannot be considered residential. His accent is thick. Eastern European maybe. Mixed with flecks of French, Flemish, Farsi? I resume walking, but Zeus is rooted, paws stuck like flypaper. The razor continues up his cheek and now he’s chatting with the dog, saying he appreciates his stopping by to socialize. He pats Zeus on the head with his free hand and the dog sits politely. I haven’t seen this behaviour from Zeus before. It’s like they share a bond, fought in the same regiment, or competed on the same rugby team. I’m the third wheel. The intersection is now on my morning walk before work. I come upon the man again in his morning routine, shaving. I don’t interrupt but wait for him to bend down to pat Zeus. I spot something new on the card table. A linen tablecloth. It’s clean, camembert-white. Just a few droplets of Turkish coffee in front of the demi-tasse someone has left on their way to work or on their dog walk perhaps. A good Samaritan has knitted an Afghan blanket. It is casually draped over the green velour couch. It matches. I’m now compelled to take the same route in the afternoons. When I pass by, the man is playing chess. His partner, a guest, is older, weathered, a poor vagrant and fellow wanderer. They are concentrating. It’s a close game. The board is lovely. Hand-carved, hand-painted pieces, mythical beasts and birds. A gift? When he looks up to acknowledge my presence, residue of oily mackerel and hot spicy piquant garlic olives, swirl on his breath. Crumbs of the hard dry crusty bread he tore up to soak up the infusion of mouth-watering flavours, frame his bottom lip, and sprinkle across the tablecloth. In the morning there is a small gathering. Someone has brought croissants, elderberry jam, Turkish coffee on a silver tray, extra demi-tasses. The coffee is kept warm in a cezve perched on a mound of hot sand. I meet my neighbours for the first time. They become familiar. Someone is lending a book. Offering concert tickets they cannot use. Zeus makes friends with the shy Saluki, Pascal the Giant Schnauzer, Lola the Bouvier des Flandres. Much has changed in the neighbourhood since the arrival of the man. On a whim I pass by on my final dog walk of the evening. I overhear animated conversation, laughter, and clinking of cutlery before I round the corner. There is a group of passersby around the card table finishing a late-night indulgence. Bottles of wine, ouzo, schnapps, drippy candles standing in the empty bottles. Remnants of liver and onions, potato vareniki and sour cream on plates pushed to the side. The linen tablecloth stained with Rorschach-blots. The candles cast no shadows, there are no walls. I linger for a while. The conversation, about living life to the fullest. Setting down roots, and wings. And traveling, always travelling. The neighbourhood is a buzz. The flavour European. There is a camaraderie, a cohesion, not experienced before. Priorities have changed. I meet Gaston. We walk together. His saluki, my vizsla. We pass the boulangerie over on Avenue de l' Esplanade, stop at Parthenon Deli on de Maisonneuve; pick up humous, pita, dolmades. Without discussion we retrace our steps and circle back to the intersection, pull up a chair, and settle in. The man joins us. He eats well. His pants fit better. I am away for a week in the Azores, the first vacation I’ve had in two years. A dream eco-tourist trip to watch the annual migration of sperm whales, common dolphins and bottlenose dolphins. Gaston takes care of Zeus. I am eager to get back, to see them both. I round the corner. It’s oddly quiet. Gaston, the saluki, and Zeus are waiting for me. My heart is alive with desire. There are red tulips in a cellophane sleeve, yellow gerbera and pink carnations tied in craft paper lying on the card table. More bouquets on the sidewalk leaning against the lamppost. Neighbours standing around chatting at low decibel. They exchange stories about their time with the man. Afternoons of double-espresso, croissant, potato vareniki, and schnapps, late evenings engrossed in chess. There was an accident. A drunk driver. Car ploughed right up over the sidewalk. Zeus sniffs and hops up on the couch. My mind’s eye keeps showing me the man’s hand, the rhythmic tic-ticking of worry beads slipping through his forefinger and thumb; his favourite refrain quoting Kierkegaard, Do it or do not do it, you will regret both; the pile of French and Farsi newspapers left unread on the table, his preferred discourse with those who would sit a while with him. I feel numb. Afterward, when I turn the corner onto the intersection, the sidewalk is empty. The following few days I encounter no one. I see how inept we are, how limited and isolated we have once again become. Our social footprint, tiny. Left on our own, it’s all we can manage. A pale, seldom-seen blue moon lingers. The scent of olive oil in the air. "Flâneur" was published in OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters (O:JA&L) December, 2022
Undulating pistachio-green hills cover the valley like fondant in the small peaceful hamlet of Parisot. Horace, the hamlet’s lumbering menace, has been thrown down the oubliette. The dungeon’s musty stink jolts, and Horace lets out a wail for Pétunia, his zaftig sow. The pig, the runt of a litter of nine farrowed in June, is pregnant, and left without breakfast in her muddy pen. The last time the Elders consigned Horace to stew, this time they are intent on teaching him a lesson. *** It is the season of Clémentines, within six days of the harvest. Katydids and crickets chirring. Horace is on the prowl bent on snatching the plump ripe fruit to tempt his precious pig. A single remaining Clémentine tree stands tall on the secluded hilltop, nestled among juniper haircap moss and wild pink phlox. The solitary tree is prized and cared for by the valley folk as if it was the last of its kind. Garnet-red flesh encased in glossy orange skin, fringed with dark green velvety tapered leaves, flavour irresistible, is coveted like crown jewels. In the murk of night, its colour beacons like fireflies. Horace trembles with excitement. The delectable syrupy Clémentine confiture infused with hibiscus honey, zest of bergamot and pinch of cardamon, already titillates lips and tongue in anticipation. But they are watching. Under the sheen of the blue wolf moon, Horace is clumsy and obvious. A stinging arrow stops him in his tracks. *** When they release Horace after the treasured crop has been harvested, he makes a beeline for his farm and directly to Pétunia’s pen. It is empty. He scours the winter barn, the one held for the two Valais Blacknose sheep during the frigid season. It too is empty. He wails loudly calling to her through hurried incoherent yodels. Blubbering, he takes off in the direction of his neighbour’s backwoods farm. She is sure to be there. His neighbour would have tended to her, of course. Pétunia, the runt of the litter squeezed out of the feeding line from her mother who had eight teats for nine piglets, was bottle-fed and slept under layers of linen coverlets like the princess and the pea in her first few weeks, in bed next to Horace. When he held the feeding bottle for her to suckle, the soft contented grunts and dainty blush-pink Pétunia-shaped birth mark on the piglet’s snout, made him swoon. He takes the long route trekking through woodland trails to the creek expecting to find his precious ensnared in the underbelly of tree knots, whorls, and exposed braided roots. The pig would look for dark muddy cool spots and shade, some berries, duckweed to munch, wild purple yam. He uncovers bits of dried scat, ungulate hair, and bone fragments, but none recent. The neighbour does not have Pétunia. Horace gallops back home on thick brutish thighs, unhinged leather galluses flapping at his sides. He throws open the latch and door to the summer kitchen. An enormous salver of whole roast ham garnished with sprigs of rosemary and thyme, soupçon of black prune and red currant, occupies the middle of the harvest table. Potbelly stove stone cold. — She was the last of her kind. Bereft, Horace drinks himself into a stupor, slobbering in a fit of rage and despair. In the morning he wakes to the sound of snuffling and grunts on the front porch. The hefty Pétunia bumbling around the slat-boards. The Elders take their disciplining far too seriously. *** "Clémentine Season" was published in LIterally Stories December, 2022 The three times Lola went down we pretended as if nothing had happened. And nothing did, at first. She slid off the pew like a Slinky, all coiled and springy. Her arms bendy like Raggedy Ann. There were no warning signs, she would say, no blurred vision, seeing of spots, ringing in the ears, or sensation that the room was spinning. Each episode came on like an eclipse, a gradual fading to black; except for the glowing white corona that hovered above like a halo. Each occurrence a revelation. When she came to, Lola's speech was musical and snappy. A distinct change in vernacular. It took us a while to catch on, to recognize the patterns. The roll of her tongue, click of her palate. Struts and strolls over multiple consonants. Hops and skips over double vowels. She spoke with an exaggerated sing-song, a two-step rhyme, and fancy tongue-twisters that made us blush. For an unassuming mousy housewife of few simple words, words that flowed ever so softly they almost sent you to sleep, Lola was full of beans. At first, worshippers took to their knees, expert at reviving the fallen. Some made proper use of their hymnals, others simply fanned. Is there a doctor in the house? Lola’s pulse taken, forehead dabbed, holy water sipped, and yellow floral skirt smoothed. She was given a clean bill of health. Her fainting and spirited display was chalked up to the unseasonably warm weather. What else could it be? The second time Lola went down, Della was approaching the altar, her bouquet of rosy petunias drooping gently against her big belly. The tizzy she aroused. Lola, not Della. We all knew what Della was carrying. We weren’t so sure about Lola. A flurry of chatter and gossip pulsed through the pews. Something’s definitely off. Whispers and tales were spun. A nosey-parker sent rumours through a broken telephone. She just wants the attention. She’s faking it. The unsavory sentiment nested in the shadows. The third time Lola went down, Bertha was thumping the pipe organ, bellows swelling and collapsing, congregants fervently swaying in glorious praise and song. As the rousing pitch climbed higher, Lola began her descent, spooling and kinking and pleating. Her mumbo jumbo was chevron and checkered, zigzag and chintz. Her tongue performed high-wire acts like a flea circus. Moses supposes his toeses are roses — Mrs Puggy Wuggy has a square cut punt. Parishioners were in awe. Some believed Lola exalted. Others thought her possessed. We gathered around to witness her testimony. But no one could decipher the riddles, unscramble the puzzles. Was she for real? Everyone guessed, no one knew. From then on, Church became a popular place. Packed to the rafters and crammed like sardines. The collection plate full. Pastor Jeremiah was not a fan. Lola's fainting became a holy distraction. The Sunday service taking second fiddle to her kerfuffle. The Pastor would stand at the pulpit with one eye cast in her direction, praying that this would not be her day. Lola kept all of us guessing, attentive. Not to the sermon, not to the Promise of the Gospel, not to the Second Coming, but for the next hullabaloo. We started taking bets. We’d look up from our Book of Common Praise, swivel our heads back towards Lola to see if she was on her way down. Elbow the fella or gal sitting next to us to alert them to her imminent fall. We’d wager on which parlance would burst forth. Necks craning like swans to catch the first utterance. And, just as Lola was reviving, Bertha would work the bellows into a brisk tempo, suspenseful, like ‘Charge!’ music at a stadium hockey game. A stirring backdrop for the reveal. When Lola would walk in the door, we’d sit up tall in our pews, our hands folded neatly in our laps, listening intently. Not to Pastor Jeremiah, or to the unchanging heart of Christ, but for sounds of Lola slipping off her wafer-thin cushion. "The Three Times Lola Went Down" was published in Ghost Parachute December, 2022 |
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