Story-A-Day #245: Stalemate

STALEMATE

This is a stalemate.

My journey has been embargoed. I am at an impasse, the proverbial crossroads, except there is no choice to be made but one: sully forth at great peril, or retreat the way I came.

This is the end of the line.

I gaze down at my shiny black shoes and the flowing fabric of my cream colored pants. I am a picture of clean professionalism.

The pavement gleams with the sheen if freshly fallen rain, then it ends abruptly in a jagged line where the road has been severed.

Ahead, a cavernous pit surrounded by roaring heavy equipment, monstrous machines that grumble hungrily as they eat away at the road and the earth beneath. Beyond this chaos lies my destination, no more than a mirage, an unattainable Shangri-la.

Woe is me. Check and mate.

I gaze back at me shoes and the shiny black patent leather seems to smile back at me, urging me to make the right decision. These shoes demand austere respect.

This is a stalemate.

If I continue forward through the muddy wasteland of construction, there will be no turning back. If I retreat, I will be late for my very important date.

My future will be defined by the decision I make. Quite possibly the futures of the children I have yet to have and the futures of their children and every generation after that might carry my name.

This choice will define all that follow it.

A stalemate indeed. Or perhaps I am being overly dramatic. I was told that I can be that way, although I find the idea hard to believe. I am too cautious for drama, too reserved for theatrics.

A quick glance at my watch reveals that it is decision time. It's now or never. Carpe Diem.

I can feel the pieces moving in, the tremble knight, the agitated rook, the menacing queen.

Curse my indecision, it will mark the end of me.

Sully forward or retreat? Oh that it were so simple a choice...

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Story-A-Day #244: Tiger Lily

TIGER LILY

She insists it is her name, but I find it hard to fathom. Aside from the exotic ridicule of the monicker, it's too perfect. How could her parents have been so prescient all those years ago?

Perhaps they looked at their swaddled newborn and were already able to see the woman she would become. Perhaps they were big fans if Peter Pan, or even horticulturally minded with a penchant for orange variants.

Either way, it is a perfect name, and it is the only one I have ever known her by.

Her yard is filled with the orange blossoms with which she shares her name. The sweet aromas a perfect complement to her own earthy scent. She is definitely a person on nature. Her skin is a deep sienna brown, flawless and smooth. Her eyes are the colour of crystalized ivy, and speckled with a hint of deep blue summer skies. Her long black hair flows weightlessly around her shoulders like a midnight waterfall.

She is the definition of natural beauty, a perfect concoction of balance, harmony, and symmetry.

There is a regality to her composure as well, her perfect posture and introspective ways. When she speaks, in her pensive deliberate tones, she commands attention.

I realize that my fascination with her borders on love. Not desire, or lust, i have never thought of her sexually, but a purest version of the age-old undefinable.

I have known her for years, but it feels like an instance. She radiates peace, tranquility and a sense of simplicity, almost a though her presence alone can reduce life's complexities to their base elements.

She is all that is right and just.

Tiger Lily. A perfect name made all the more powerful because it is hers.

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Story-A-Day #243: Playlist

PLAYLIST

Imagine a world without music. It would be dreadfully monotonous. Without music and song, it would be harder to define the moments of our lives.

Without song, you would never have experienced that first awkward, sweaty-palmed dance with your first true love.

You would never have inextricable links to key moments in time: parties, graduations, picnics, family trips.

"I'm Too Sexy" would not be about a middle aged woman clapping in a hot tub while an awkward teen entertained his family in a hotel window seven stories above.

"Dust In The Wind" would not be about her and him, it would be a paean to death.

Without songs, we would find it much more difficult to define our emotions, our nature, and our formative moments.

Wish You Were Here, Creep, With Or Without You, Homeboy, Epic, What Do I Have To Do, Writing To Reach You, Out To Get You, Weighty Ghost - where would we be without this music? Where would we be without these moments in time?

How would we define exhilaration without the thrill of live music? How we would define cool without the output o the jazz greats?

Today is Monday and my playlist is "M"s. Tomorrow I will tackle the "T"s an I will play it loud and clear for all to hear. Music is emotion, and we all need it in our
lives.

Enjoy. Take a moment to dance by yourself, or with those around you. Sing along, under your breath or at the top of your lungs. Music is a gift to be shared, so spread the word.

What will you play today?

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Story-A-Day #242: From Out Of The Mire

FROM OUT OF THE MIRE

People go missing all the time.

It's an unfortunate reality in most places, but it's just part of life. Sometimes they wander off for a bit, sometimes they disappear without a trace, and other times, the good times, they are found safe and sound.

This city has those same situations, but it also has a secret. There is a presence in this city, a horrible thing of stench, decay, and rot, that haunts these streets.

I know, because I have seen it, its cold red eyes glowing in the dark recesses of night, its slippery silhouette sliding through the shadows. That is not an allegory for something more comprehensible, it is the truth of this creature. It was born of darkness and slime and corruption. It is not a man, nor anything man could comprehend.

It takes people in the night. Pulls them into the storm drains, hoists them up into fire escapes and across forgotten roof tops. It pulls them into garbage cans and oil vats and digests them from their lives; erases them from their family, friends, jobs, responsibilities, and burdens.

It hides during the daylight hours but once night falls, it climbs from out of the mire and stalks the night.

There are ways to protect yourself. Do not tread upon sewer grates or storm drains. Remain vigilant. If a street light winks out as you walk below, run. If you smell garbage, or feces, or rot, where there should be none, run.

If you hear a squishing belch in the night, run and don't look back.

This creature can be anywhere, tucked into any of those darkest corners of night. Stay in the light. Better still, stay inside once the night has fallen. Your home is not a haven, but it is familiar territory to you. Should your sink start gurgling for no reason, do not check it. There will be nothing to see there except the darkness that will define your life from that day forth.

The creature is out there, I promise you, but I am working on a plan to get rid of it. I will track it, and when I find it in the right location, I will burn it to the ground.

I owe it to you, for you are one of the missing. I'm sorry I was too late, but I plan to avenge you my love.

Nobody believes my story. They think it is but the crazy ramblings of remorse, so it is down to me and me alone to end this.

I will wipe that greasy mound from this city once and for all, cleanse our city of it's stench in a baptism of fire.

I will do this for you, and all the other missing people. Not for the glory or rewards, but because if I don't end this, nobody will.

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Story-A-Day #241: Shads

SHADS

They descended from the heavens like a biblical plague. At least that is how it appears to most people. The truth is, they rise up from the depths of the lakes, more Gojira than locust.

They live for a day, 24 brief hours that see them carried forth on the winds so they might settle onto houses, streets, and cars; onto whatever surfaces they can cling to, before they eventually die.

They have no mouths, so they do not eat. They are not like an infestation of tent caterpillars that can strip a forest clean. The Shads have very little to offer the world, besides a source of food for the fish in the lake and the birds in the trees.

Still, these tiny winged creatures can strike fear into the heart of a town.

At night, the swarm to the lights, making everything a dark fishy green. By morning, the world is covered in the ineffectual stink of their dead and dying carcasses.

Mounds of them amass by doors and on windows, they cover the streets making them greasy and slick, and devoid of traction.

Bikes slide out from under riders and cars glide brakelessly into those fortunate enough to have found traction to stop.

These creatures are not a threat, but their dangers are evident and impossible to ignore. They are silent killers that overwhelm by sheer volume rather than brute strength.

The plague starts with one or two. You might notice them on a sidewalk late one night. That is the only notice you will get that they have returned, those early scouts sent out to see that the city remains a safe haven from the fishy terrors of the lake.

It begins that way, year after year, after year.

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Story-A-Day #240: A Way Out

A WAY OUT

She had been in the dark for a while now and had lost track of just how many hours and minutes had passed. The only light had been the dull red glow of the brake lights as the car jostled up to each stop.

When she first awoke, she tried screaming, but the gag in her mouth rendered the efforts futile.

She could still taste traces of the chemical on the cloth, the one that had been rammed across her nose and mouth as she walked home from work; the one her assailant had used to knock her out.

The car had stopped a while ago and she had heard a door open and close, then the sound of footsteps fading away.

She had thrashed and kicked and screamed for what seemed like ages, but there was no escape.

She was ready to give up, to resign herself to her fate, when she heard the soft click and the trunk rose an inch.

She was no longer scared as she pushed the lid open and clambered out of the close confines, clawing at the gag.

Whatever sick game was being played was clearly not over. Her captor would not simply let her go.

She surveyed her surroundings quickly and efficiently, then did the only thing that made sense. She started running, as fast as her legs would carry her.

She sprinted up the winding ramps, following the black on white signs and not looking back.

As she ascended from the depths of the garage, from the depths of this nightmare, she noticed something funny about the signs. They said out, not exit.

Either way, as long as they got her to where she needed to be - which was as far away from that car' it's smelly trunk, and it's insidious driver, she was fine with it.

She sprinted faster than she ever had before, knowing that as long as she kept going and didn't look back, she might find a way out.

She didn't care where her out was, and she would not slow down until she found it.

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Story-A-Day #239: Crabapple Fight

CRABAPPLE FIGHT

1986: Thibeault Terrace, North Bay, Ontario.

The kids of the neighborhood had gathered together for an epic annual battle.

It was a hot day in July and we had been preparing for months in order to capitalize on this day.

Craig Landry, Stephen Mimee, Paul Chayer, Aimee Brunette, Michael Messenger, Sean Pearson - the role call went on as we convened under the quiet maple canopy of the front yard of 397 Leonard Street.

A quick scan of the gathered crowd showed an equal blend of excited smiles, and nervous apprehension.

In today's society we would be considered Tweens, but in those days, we were practically adults, warriors ready to take to the battlefield.

The weapons were standard issue: as many fresh, firm crabapples as would fit into your pockets.

The communal harvest of weaponry was the rare time where smiles, jokes, and playful challenges of the days event were shared. After the harvest came bloodlust.

Every year, the cranberry fight stood as the highlight of the long summer months, and as with all games of skill, to the victor went the spoils.

Some year's the chief prize was bragging rights to victory amongst your peers for the duration of the year. Other years, the prizes were far more substantial.

This particular year's pot was immense. I clung hesitantly to my Evil Horde Slime Pit players, a favorite amongst my fellow He-Man collectors, before finally throwing it onto the heap of spoils.

A wave if regret washed over me and I nearly scooped him back up and ran off into the sunset, but a few other trinkets in that shiny plastic mound had caught my eleven-year-old eye.

The Boba Fett figure with firing missile was long prized, as was the collection of Dukes of Hazzard diecast metal cars and the handful of G.I. Joe rarities. Oh to get my hands on either of those treasures.

With a resolved sigh, I joined the throng and prepared for the initiation of the battle. The prize was far too great to pass upon this year.

I was in it to the end and with any luck, the prize would be mine.

Such wad the thrill if the cranberry fight.

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