The Holy

I wrote another short story and as I looked through submission guidelines (for short story magazines) I found that a lot of them specifically don’t want any content that deals with children being hurt. Which makes things tough, because that is central to this piece.

I was watching an episode of Reservations Dogs, a story that focuses on Indigenous teenagers. One episode in particular focused on Residential Schools, schools that operated in Canada and the U.S. with the intent of “taking the Indian out of the Indian.” The schools aimed to strip away Indigenous hairstyles, clothing and languages. They were also rampant with physical and sexual abuse.

Since the schools were supported by the Catholic Church, a piece of their programming was to also get rid of Indigenous spiritual practices and replace them with Christianity.

It is that context that birthed my new story, “The Holy.”

There is a scene where the Indigenous kids are singing “Jesus Loves Me.” Being Christian myself, I’ve sang that song plenty of times. Yet I never thought of how unsettling two of the lines sound, especially in the context of a Residential School.

“Little kids to him belong. They are weak but he is strong.”

Without further ado, here is a short piece, “The Holy,” that is inspired by Reservation Dogs.

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At Sasha’s age, the school bell was supposed to mean freedom. Now it meant that fear would follow.

 

Mrs. Messa usually let her class out a little early, but not anymore. She stood by the door, tense and unsmiling. The past few weeks had changed her, they’d changed everyone.

 

When every student had their items collected, Mrs. Messa had them line up outside the classroom.

Every other teacher did the same with their class. Twelve classes, twelve lines of students.

 

The principal raced down the hall, checking attendance with each teacher.

 

“OK, all good. Out to the front,” he said.

 

The students stayed behind their respective teachers, not making a sound except their footsteps. There was some chatter in the first few weeks. The change in routine was exciting for Sasha the first time. Then it changed from a day, to a week, and so on. First one of her friends disappeared, then three, then five. It was scary now.

 

Once all the kids were at the front, a throng of parents came to pick them up. Other students were shepherded to school buses.

 

Sasha said a quick goodbye to the few friends she still had left. The rest of her class were just acquaintances now. She could barely spell the word, but it seemed to fit.

 

Some students were walking home, but not by themselves. There were now volunteer chaperones with them. Some were teachers, but others were members of the community trying to do their part.

 

“Sasha, let’s go.”

 

Her mom was walking over to her, grabbing her by the wrist and leading her to the car. The teachers saw, but no one commented. They understood.

 

“How was school?” her mom said, loosening her grip.

“It was OK.”

 

Once they were inside her mom gave her a hug that threatened to squeeze the life out of her.

 

“I missed you,” she said.

 

“I saw you this morning,” Sasha said.

 

“I know, I still missed you. Want to have pizza tonight?”

“Sure.”

 

Sasha’s mind conjured up images of pepperoni and pineapple, oblivious to the fog that was starting to creep on her and her mom.

 

“The fog again. Where did all this come from?” her mom said.

 

Sasha refocused. She could barely see a few feet ahead of her. The sun was gone. The car looked like it was floating through a cloud.

 

Her mom turned on the headlights but they only illuminated the grey wall ahead of them.

 

“We have to pull over for a second,” her mom said.

 

The car drifted over to the ride, hitting the curb softly. The touch was reassuring, since there was no other way to tell where the side of the road was.

 

“Will the GPS help,” Sasha said. She tried touching the buttons but the screen was dead.

 

“Looks like it’s down. Even if it wasn’t that can’t help us when we can’t see. We could drive right through a red light.”

 

“Right.”

 

“I’ll call dad,” her mom said.

 

She pulled out her phone, which also seemed to be dead. Touching the screen and hitting the buttons on the side did nothing.

 

“Try yours,” her mom said.

 

As she said that, the car shut off. The music playing lightly was gone, and the air conditioning disappeared with it.

 

Sasha pulled out her phone, which was also dead. Her mom was usually calm, but her face was showing some signs of worry now.

 

“I guess we have to wait then,” her mom said.

 

“This has happened before right? The fog?” Sasha said.

 

“Yes, never been stuck in it myself, but I know some people that have. They said it doesn’t usually last long.”

 

Now Sasha was getting scared. Her mom wasn’t saying it, but she knew the fog always came the same day as a disappearance.

 

“Are we going to be OK?” Sasha said.

 

“Of course, I’m here with you.”

 

Her mom stepped out of the car, being barely visible from a few feet away. Sasha focused on her red shirt, hoping it wouldn’t disappear from her view.

“Come to this side.”

Sasha followed her mom’s voice, and reached for the outstretched hand by the window. As she gripped it, the brown skin turned white. Not white, like a human’s; paper white.

 

The hand gripped hers, lacking any of the warmth of a human. Black nails wrapped around her forearm, tearing strips off her skin.

 

“Little kids to him belong.”

The voice echoed all around her. It was deep, inhuman.

 

The breath was on the back of her neck.

 

“They are weak but he is strong.”

 

Sasha turned around, seeing nothing out of the window behind her.

 

She looked back to where her mom was supposed to be. She saw the red shirt, but the body in it wasn’t her mother.

A stark white face with pitch black eyes stared back.

 

Sasha bolted through the passenger door, not thinking of what she could run into. Her feet hit what felt like grass. She remembered driving by houses before her mom pulled over.

 

She hoped to crash through someone’s front door and find safety with a group.

 

As that thought brought some comfort, her feet sunk into something. It was soft, but dense. It felt like soil, she was getting closer.

 

The next step wiped out any relief. She sunk deeper into the soil, going down to her knees. Her hands plunged in and she instinctively pulled them back up.

 

The fog cleared enough for her to see her hands, which were drenched in blood. She couldn’t be sure that’s what it was, but something in her brain convinced her that’s what she was buried in.

 

It rushed against her chest, passing under her chin.

 

“Little kids to him belong.”

 

She looked around, with her tormenter nowhere in sight.

 

First, her feet were working, trying to get clear of the blood. Now her arms and legs were paddling as the blood kept rushing in around her.

 

The white hand appeared on her wrist again, pulling her out. It hauled her out with ease, leaving all her limbs dangling. Yet Sasha knew she wasn’t safe.

 

The hand led back to a body that Sasha’s mind could hardly comprehend.

 

She realized the hand gripping her was a child’s, but it was pasted onto something else. Behind it was another child’s limb, and then another.

 

“They are weak but he is strong.”

The Rose

I’ve been thinking about joining a creative writing group for a while, and finally made the plunge on Wednesday. I made excuses for avoiding it before, ranging from time to money. Money wasn’t an issue because this group is free. I have Wednesdays off work at the moment, so I decided it was time. It was great interacting with other writers, some of whom are published. The class has motivated me to try to expand Memory Slave into a novella or novel.

One of my favourite parts of the lesson was a writing prompt at the beginning. A teacher handed out tarot cards and instructed us to write for ten minutes, using the image as our inspiration. I used to do something similar with my wmoviegrapevine posts: I would search for images using vague descriptors like “darkness” or “depression,” and then write about whatever the image brought to mind. Unlike my wmoviegrapevine posts, this writing prompt was meant to be stream of consciousness: No hesitation, no scratching out or deleting. It was a challenge and I know I broke the rules a few times. However, I persevered and wrote about half a page based on an image of a wilting rose. The result is below. I will likely share the piece I do for each class from this point on.

***

It was linked to me now, and it took me too long to realize. I spent most of my time away from it, seeking affection and love from the outside world. There were days when I came home feeling like I found the one. On those days, the rose’s petals stared up at me, blemish-free, blood-red, the stem standing in defiance.

Then there were the other days. Ones where a call or text wasn’t returned. Where “something came up.” The veneer of confidence broke. My insecurities rushed to fill the void and I would come home to a wilted rose. Blackened petals, red ones decorating the ground like autumn leaves. The stem would hang on its pedestal, twisting like a broken limb.

Then came the distractions. The mindless scrolling, the frantic flick of the remote. The rose would remain on the verge of death until I was blessed with the attention I craved. A call, a smile, a kiss. The rose would change in front of my eyes, with its petals rising from the ground to return to their home. Their colour would be replenished. The stem would snap back into place and I would feel whole again, if only for a few minutes at a time.

I don’t know where it came from, only that it hung where only I can see; a spectre, a puppeteer guiding my actions. If I cut the strings, I can find freedom in death.

Caregiver

Hello all,

Haven’t done a poetry piece in a while so thought I’d do one today. I will likely be incorporating some of this piece into dialogue for Hazard.

**

There was a bitterness hidden there,

One that I failed to see for decades,

It hid beneath the smiles and the hugs when I was a child,

Then it festered, growing as I did,

As I slowly approached manhood,

The bitterness continued to build,

My carefree summers were treated with anger,

My time with friends became a hindrance to my greater purpose,

I was no longer a child, a teenager, an adult

I was a tool that failed to serve its purpose,

A tool whose birth ended someone else’s journey,

That sacrifice was ignored in childhood,

But became a looming shadow, steadily growing year by year,

Love remained, but it was poisoned,

I became a trophy,

Something to compare to the other offspring.

Then I was a disappointment.

Achievement

We all want to achieve something special,

Do something that will be remembered long after we’re gone,

In our minds,

We’re the next Steve Jobs,

The next Stephen King,

The next Spielberg,

The next Picasso,

Isn’t this the case for just about everyone?

No one grows up wanting to flip burgers,

Or deal with whiny, angry customers all day,

Yet we need people to fill those roles,

As a Pixar character once said, “When everyone’s super, no one will be.”

We can’t have a society where everyone gets what they want out of life,

The people who are at the top are often there because they are catering to some unfulfilled need or desire in the people below them,

The best creams to moisturize and get ride of acne,

The best clothes to compliment their body,

The best pill for losing weight,

The best advice to get out of the rut they are in,

I am a victim of the last one,

Devouring whatever is dished out by people who don’t identify as self-help gurus,

But serve the same purpose,

Maybe I am just another pawn,

Shelling out what little money I have,

Reading, studying, applying,

And hoping my investment pays off,

I remember attending a Writer’s Conference years ago,

Seeing people twice or three times my age still working at their dream,

It was admirable in one sense,

But also disheartening,

Will I be another person stuck in an unfulfilling day job?

Continuing to work towards something more,

And possibly never getting what I truly want?

Stuck

Below is a little cathartic piece I needed to get off my chest.

******
It hit me today that I am not as young as I think I am,

That I don’t have as much time to figure out life as I think,

I am closer to 30 than I am to 26,

I am stuck in a role I can’t escape,

I’m isolated from my friends,

I don’t have my own place or car,

Women are enigmas I have yet to figure out,

And I wouldn’t be surprised if I hit 30 before I have a girlfriend,

This isn’t where I thought I would be at this stage in my life,

I always mocked the deadbeats,

The people who didn’t have their lives figured out,

Maybe it’s poetic justice that I’m now one of them,

I’m 26,

25 was the worst year of my life,

So hopefully things can only go up from there.

 

Darkness

These next few months are going to be busy as I take on more part-time work but I’m still committed to posting three times a day. If you haven’t already, check out my film and tv comics channel @moviegrapevine, or my writing channel @wmoviegrapevine.

This piece follows from my continued resolution to write more poetry pieces. It is my attempted distillation of all the negativity and worries that I’m trying to cut out of my life. This piece is also takes lines from my most recent post to @wmoviegrapevine.

The Darkness

I can sense happiness now,

Ebbing and flowing with the words and actions of those around you,

Being pulled along like a dog on a leash,

When your walkers vanish,

Or show their true colours,

I’ll be back to lead you down a different path,

I know you’ll let me in,

You always do when the outside world lets you down,

Let me whisper to you again,

Tell you how your hard work will never pay off,

How you’ll decay in a cubicle,

Never living your dreams,

Let me tell you how you’ll always be lonely,

Your friends are all leaving you,

Other cities call to them,

Or maybe you have more competition,

Girlfriends, wives, children,

The things you know you won’t have anytime soon,

Don’t you wonder why?

Can you really blame it all on them?

Their poor taste?

Or is it just that you lack something that appeals to them?

What is it exactly?

Don’t you want me to tell you?

Decay

Update: I was planning on seeing Wonder Woman on Tuesday, but something came up for the friend I was supposed to see it with. I was hoping to see it today instead, but it’s looking like my friend is busy again tonight. Therein lies the disadvantage of wishing to see a movie with someone, your schedule is at the mercy of theirs. When I do see Wonder Woman I will upload a review either the same night or the next day. Also fighting off a cold and not sure whether I still want to get out of the house. In the meantime, here’s a poetry piece inspired by one of the shorter pieces I posted to @wmoviegrapevine earlier today.

I used to say that I’m only 22,

Now I try to convince myself I’m only 25,

The years have crept up on me,

Time is a persistent stalker that doesn’t always give announce its presence,

He may be invisible when we look upon the face or the body,

But his decay is ever present,

The body that looks vibrant and youthful is cursed with pains that only diminish, but don’t dissipate,

Time carries its own passengers,

Responsibility being the chief among them,

What are you doing with your life?

I know what I want to do,

Share my words with others,

I already am,

Yet my words can’t feed me,

At least not yet,

Do I spend my free time working towards this goal?

I do,

Do I spend my free time working to escape the cubicle prison,

I used to,

One resume after another sent into the black void of the Internet,

One more friend who promises to pass it around,

All equalling to nothing,

Maybe laziness makes me grow weary of the hunt?

Or maybe it has simply burned me out?

Hopelessness accompanies each attempt,

There is hope that I will find my way someday,

Yet the question of my future hassles me everyday,

I am not worried about things sorting themselves out someday,

I wanted them sorted yesterday,

Last year,

I can look back on those moments,

Staring ahead with hope,

Only to have the hope harpooned by reality,

I give into vices,

My most valuable resource goes wasted,

A victim to desires that hold me back,

I am only human,

Yet I seem to be a weak one at times,

Seeking escapism or validation from people and things that do not value me,

My someday is coming,

But maybe I don’t want to wait for it anymore.

Chains

The alarm goes off,

I silence it,

Then I retreat back under the sheets,

I know I should leave,

But the chains springing from my mind hold me down,

The lack of motivation to wake up early to go to prison,

Shackled to a phone in my cell,

My escape routes,

My tunnels,

Chiseled by mouse clicks and word of mouth,

Have yet to yield fruit,

And I sometimes feel like they never will,

One year has passed,

And I worry it will soon be two.

 

The Honey Before The Sting

This poem was originally inspired by a line from the second part of my werewolf story, AliveI then expanded on the line for a poem I posted to my poetry instagram account @wmoviegrapevine.  Since I wanted to expand the poem further I figured I would post the result here. Enjoy and as always, thanks for reading.

The Honey Before The Sting

The hope that comes with a new beginning,

The introduction,

The smile,

The kind words,

A new job,

A new relationship,

The negativity seeps out,

Optimism rushes in to fill the void,

It will be different this time,

It is different,

Until people change,

But do they really change?

Or do they just show their true colours?

Shedding the mask they show to the rest of the world,

What vice is on display this time?

Greed,

Insecurity,

Anger,

Cowardice,

Maybe they coalesce to create something new,

A deformed creature,

Standing on two legs trying to convince itself it’s human,

The creature sees all,

It pounces on uncertainty, kindness and weakness in others,

But has a blind spot for what lies in itself,

Misfortune and tragedy are always blamed on its prey,

While power and fortune remain in the predator’s territory,