2005
Bambie Starr
They send me visions of lonesome wolves
and speak of twisted lives.
Empty pages are filled with truths
that are often hidden from human eyes.
Words that could never stand alone
come together to fulfill prophecies;
rendering me breathless and amazed
by someone else's atrocities.
Here among these shattered dreams
I will sometimes find threads of hope
that entwine and repair the frayed
fabric of an emotional rope.
They reach out to me
with words I never thought to say,
and bring a little excitement
to an otherwise boring day.
Their voices are unheard and unknown,
and they are never seen,
but their hearts are represented
by the ghosts on my computer screen.
Thinking back to when I started this website, I was really excited. I had envisioned hundreds of submissions in my inbox daily. Of course, that didn't happen but I am still happy that Illogical Muse has had so much success in the first year. Thirty-one contributors and still more to add in 2006. I am also happy that I've been able to make Illogical Muse so multicultural. There are poems and stories here from different age groups as well.
Hopefully, with your support, Illogical Muse will be able to continue to grow and unite the world with it's diverse material, even if it's just for a breif moment. To everyone, contributors and visitors alike, thank you for making IM a part of your life. I wish you nothing but the best for the new year and pray that you find much success with your writing endeavors.
Aamir Aziz
I have witnessed holy love
between flowers and the sun
and self annihilation
of sacred caterpillars,
in honour of the candle flame.
This lends due veneration
of light to my spirits,
but where should i seek this light
in these modern exploits?
Our pygmy stalwarts turn
all worshippers to their track,
every ignorant pilgrim
visits their furnished temples.
Aloof, stands the clayed cottage
of the dustman,
which shakes and cracks
with their boastful stares on every turn.
his eyes flush and his heart gushes with blood
at this difference, but mental peace
and satisfaction with his daily wages pacify him.
He knows the secrets of dust and decay
and the skills of Pioneer Potter, whose viceroy
he is, and in his vexat! ion lies His displeasure.
That is why I don't bow before these
nervous torch bearers, for love thrives on honesty,
purity and truth of each partner.
***
"Fourth Grade Field Trip"
Holly Day
it was the middle of the day when they
piled us into school buses, drove us out to the farm
I�d spent the last two summers at
and they had dug the deepest hole
right in the middle of the yellow corn field
in the hole were as many bones
as there were people in my class,
laid out like matchsticks, dry, tinged red
I would have never guessed all these bodies
lay beneath my feet, the same place my sister and I
had spent all our hot days, playing squirt gun tag
if I had known
I could have been the one
to dig them all up.
***
"The Beginning Of The End"
AK
Conflicts emit in every direction.
Bomb it to bits, our means of correction.
Congress gets pissed, they show no affection,
except when interns cause an erection.
Sex in office, it's just an obsession.
Like fixing presidential elections.
Voters mistakingly make selections?
Another scam planned out to perfection.
Intellect is key to misdirection.
The right injection to fight infection.
Diseases like these taint beef overseas,
so easy to see we'll reach World War III.
Because all the heat from Mid and Far East,
when will these disagreements cease to be?
All the struggling for the almighty green.
Today's world is relinquishing quickly.
Greed is extinguishing peace it's sickening.
We've crowned currency as the reigning king
of everything in all those existing.
The Earth turns? Looks to me like it's twisting!
***
"Confined"
Korea Brownstein
The guilt it is surrounding you.
One door is only open.
What you thought you should have done
is sticking on your side.
The voices in your mind
are screaming horrid cries.
You could have done better,
but you thought you did enough.
It wasn't what they wanted.
You didn't do enough.
You cannot think about it
because of tangled feelings
in chambers deep below.
You cannot talk about it
because the chambers will unwind.
You do not feel the pain inside.
What you could have done
would change your path,
but fate clutched onto you
and would not let go.
The door it is open
and you want to get through.
You say you forgive,
but the feeling won't leave.
The guilt it is surrounding you
like a dirty cloud.
You're confined in your troubled mind.
***
"Petal Possibilities"
Chance Carmichael
Such a delicate flower,
With a nice fragrance,
A little less than bliss.
I smell the sweet smell,
I let it soak into my soul,
And I hold it closer to me.
A petal, as if possesed,
Flies through the air,
Into the endless meadow.
SHE LOVES ME!
What-
PIERCE!
Ow! What the hell was that?!
A petal protrudes from my skin,
Blood stains my white shirt.
SHE LOVES ME NOT!
My eyes water in defense,
But I watch as another,
Floats quickly far away.
SHE LOVES ME!
I quickly throw the flower,
But where it lays, another petal,
Flies toward my unprotected chest.
PIERCE!
SHE LOVES ME NOT!
Where is that voice coming from?
And what the hell is happening?
I try and pull the petals, but-
SHE LOVES ME!
I see another petal fly off,
From the ground, and away,
I look frantically for the flower.
SHE LOVES ME NOT!
Right in my arm the demon petal flies,
I pull at the petals, but they,
JUST WON'T FUCKING BUDGE!
SHE LOVES ME!
I scream at the voice in frustration,
"WHO THE HELL IS OUT HERE???!!!!"
I see another petal whiz past me.
She loves me not...
This was spoken, sadly, as if,
This mad man felt sorry for me,
I turn around and around in panic.
There was no one in the meadow,
I was all alone, was I crazy?
I waited for another petal.
PIERCE!
I fell back, on to the flowers,
This wound was hurting horribly,
I began to grimace in pain.
I looked at the white, pure petal,
This harmless paper thin, petal,
Stuck out above my left breast.
Blood gushed outward from my heart,
I scream and stare ahead, only to see,
A flying baby, covered in my blood.
With a bow and arrows in his hand,
And two feathered, moving, wings on his back,
He looked at me, and he shrugged, "Oh well!"
I recognize that voice, the petals!!!
Cupid, you bastard!
One more stupid petal, and-
The petals wilt, and I see darkness...
***
"That Annoying Fear"
Chance Carmichael
It was like a blackhole,
Had taken my soul,
And I pulled the trigger,
Who would figure,
The funny guy,
Who wasn't shy,
But sociable,
And noticeable,
Wanted attention,
And acception?
Nothing is holding me here,
Except that annoying fear,
Of them missing me,
Yet, it's clear to see,
I'm not needed,
Time to be weeded,
I will be not be something,
Then my ears start to ring,
And sweat pours down my forehead,
Dripping into the barrel, moistened lead,
It's time to self-repent,
And time for self-judgment,
Nothing is holding me here,
Except that annoying fear...
***
"Night of Light"
Sandra Hedin
Beautiful fireflies dance in the night
Tiny little orbs that give off such light
The waves lap, the wind sighs
It all comes together and seems to bind
This is not something I thought I could have
A sliver of peace is all I can grab
The forest is alight and so alive
Too much to behold, my soul cries
Not tears of sadness, tears of relief
It can all be so simple, I can let go the grief
This precious moment I wish would not end
I will keep it inside until I need it again
This beauteous night of such simplicity
Only for a moment can it be so easy
A flicker of awakening, a side not often seen
This beauty will peak, then fade like a dream
This may heal me, this night of light
Might give me the strength to continue to fight
***
"waiting..."
Raechelle Wheeler
she placed fresh flowers on the table
daisies, all colors, her favorites
she cooks breakfast in the kitchen
bacon, eggs, fluffy biscuits
"when they wake they'll thank me"
she says to herself with a smile
she sets the table carefully
forks, spoons, napkins of course
then she waits...
awake, he can smell breakfast
bacon, eggs, biscuits
but all he wants is coffee
dark, no sugar, piping hot
already his brain is reeling with reports
figures, numbers, due soon
he gets ready for work, it's a saturday
extra day, more pay, more money
he sits on the table absentmindedly
"just coffee, no cream, no breakfast"
and he waits...
he wakes up after a hard night
tossing, turning, waking too many times
his nightmares came back
darkness, monsters, he doesn't understand
he sits up hands on his head
sifting, sorting, trying to figure it all out
he doesn't want to get up
it's 8, everyone's home, he's tired
so he lays back down and succumbs slowly to sleep
no nightmares, just sleep, he just wants some sleep
and so he waits...
three different people
waiting for three different things
three different things to hope for
three different ways to be disapponted
a mother waiting to be noticed
for the things she does, wanting to stand out
a father waiting to leave
more important things in mind, wants to get out
a son waiting for sleep,
just wants to feel peace, wants to know what it's all about
but they wait...
***
"Identity Unknown"
Raechelle Wheeler
The mirror reflects my image
Is this who I really am?
Deep brown eyes
In search of truth
Red full lips
That possess a hurtful tongue
Black hair
Covering a restless mind
And ears
Ears that hear what they want
Your eyes reflect my image
But is that who I really am?
Black pools for eyes
Hiding all thoughts within
Kissable lips
Parted and waiting for a kiss
Short shiny hair
Begging to be touched
And ears
Ears that wait for whispers of sweet nothings
I see me as confused
Restless and unsure
You see me as beautiful
Confident and charming
But who am I?
What am I?
And what do I mean to you?
***
"On the Corner of Vista and Minton "
Raud A. Kennedy
Let the skinny ones
stay skinny
standing,
thinks
the fat man
sitting
in the middle
of the bus shelter bench,
not wanting
to share
as he watches
the two dogs
on the corner
across the street.
The big dog sniffs
the little dog�s butt.
The little dog
spins around
and snarls,
then presents
her butt again
for smelling.
***
"Reduced Speed Ahead "
Raud Kennedy
His bottle of e.d. pills rolls across the dash
as they speed through the turn
in his new red Porsche.
His heavy �girlfriend� has frosted hair
instead of gray.
Middle age is a washed out memory
in the rear view mirror
as the Grim Reaper
leans over the backs of their seats
and glances at their speed.
***
"A Shaking Spear "
Louie Crew
My lover's buns are nothing like a God's.
Plate glass is far more rippled than his chest.
His six-inch fuse becomes his only rod.
With no cologne but rankest funk he's blessed.
I have seen glistening men, hirsute or smooth,
but no alluring luster's in his face.
And I've known even yokels less uncouth
clutching their men in graceless long embrace.
I like to hear my lover's tuneful shower,
but any glories there are merely myths,
for though his songs indeed my spunk empower,
the truth is that he all too often lithps.
And yet I swear my man's to me more real
than hunky clones who, unrehearsed, can't feel.
***
"An Apology"
Phelan Snow
This is a poem to my best friend, my God,
whom I know I have disappointed.
Whose endless forgiveness
seems to be exploited by my endless shortcomings �
the eyes of a father, wishing for the best from me.
But the best I can give can�t be good enough,
not when I�ve failed so many times.
When the going gets tough, I turn away.
I turn away from the one I should be running to,
instead of away from.
I thought You knew that I love You,
You always keep me secure
(Your love will endure),
But now I see that you are like any other father.
You want so badly to be told you are loved,
told you�re adored,
for me to come to you to be restored
to beg forgiveness, and walk with you
my own demands are too much to live up to.
So I write you this with nothing but remorse,
for a relationship ignored,
too much emphasis placed on the temporal,
I�ll live for you, my Eternal.
***
"Cigarette"
Raghab Nepal
I burn your legs,
Bite your head
Suck your soul
And inhale straight.
I crush you beneath
My dirty feet,
Throw you lonely
To your merciless fate.
Been no friend, for so long
Living in my blood, in my lungs
I hate living, you help me die
I puff you out into the sky
Still you call me as a friend
And I rush, to get your smell.
You are the only true friend of mine
In my lonely and ugly times
None had been so close, so dear
To my heart and to my lungs,
Love in my heart, still lies for you
And I don�t care about your bitter truth.
***
"My Big Fat Excommunication"
Marianne LaValle-Vincent
I stare at the old church from across the street in my
Car remembering when I was a regular
A parishioner
A donator with envelopes
It was at least a hundred years ago when I took that
Walk down the aisle with husband #1 in an ivory gown that
Weighed more than I did in true Italian style with
21 bridesmaids parading to the altar
The ceremony lasted longer than the marriage
And the church only recognizes till death do we part
Now I�m a regular at another landmark
Julie�s Place has a lot of similarities to that old church
It�s full of sinners donating to the cause
In any given corner there is always some pontifical know it all
Who overdosed on loud-mouth soup preaching to his fellow
Imbibers on the evils of society
There are weekly worshippers and those who visit daily
And though it may not look like a confessional Al or Nicky
Will listen to almost anything for the right price
On Saturday evenings at about 5:30 the place is packed
Just like that old church
And don�t kid yourself---all the regulars are waiting for a miracle
Praying for redemption
Some of them will even be on their knees before the night ends
Al pours me another drink and I look around
The only thing missing are the pews and the nuns
I�ve donated enough so I head home taking the long way past
Our Lady of Pompei and I decide to go in for a prayer or two---but
The doors are locked
Bolted shut like Fort Knox
Just like Julie�s Place at 2 am only it�s a lot earlier
Or maybe it�s later than I think
Maybe I should make a choice between Holy water and Grey Goose
I�ll give it some thought tomorrow
While I'm down on my knees
***
"Tastes Like Goodbye"
Marianne LaValle-Vincent
All those years
I wouldn�t eat onions
Pretending that I hated them, too
And I almost forgot the sweet taste of
Garlic
Because you can�t find it in
BLT�s
Packs of Tic Tacs
Lived in my pockets
Masking the lunches I
Savored without you
And those evenings I spent
Alone
Went so much faster
As I lost myself in a bowl of
Pasta and Beans
I never told you I�ve always hated
Peanut Butter
And by the way
I am good at math
And as I sit in Casa di Copani
Alone with just a ricotta canoli
I picture you
Indulging in your usual feast
Of meatloaf and potatoes smothered in
Ketchup
And I am sorry for my sophisticated palate
And even more for your
Lack of taste
For there can never be a marriage
Between garlic and
Corn Flakes
And I can�t pretend to be
Her
Anymore
***
"My Own End"
By Evanessa
Drifting into this slightly medicated sleep
Nothing more than a labored breathing heap
Can't feel myself or anyone around
Hunted by this sight and every other sound
Don't you dare open or come through that door
You can't see me laying here on the floor
Cutting and bleeding took the pain away
But i'll all come back at the end of the day
Music drowns out the sound of the stain
Wringing me out like I'm being drained
Tainted by filth and marred by hate
Choosing a time just to procrastinate
Memories are the reason the future is bleak
The dark of the future makes the memories weak
I think of the present to block out the past
And ruin my future with one piece of glass
Blood is the color the sun takes this morn
Reminding me that I lie here torn
My eyes are glazed over they see no more
The product of a wretch and a whore
But then for the first time I finally see
No one else can make or break me
I am the result of my own choices made
I am the creator of my own ball of clay
So I made a choice that I stick with today
I got up and I chose to walk away
I won't go back to the person I had been
I chose my beginning and I'll choose my own end
***
"Captivity"
Evanessa
I loved you...I clung to you
So hard I could not breathe
I could hear you scream
I could feel you seethe
But I was so young, so innocent, so lonely
And I didn't know how to set you free
I loved you for your tender hands
And your face, it was so beautiful
I loved the way you held me in your arms
Even if they were too full
But I was so young, so innocent, so lonely
And I didn't know how to set you free
You soothed my nightmares
Kissed my tear-stained cheeks
Whenever I had thoughts or troubles
I knew who to seek
But I was too young to know
You had troubles of your own
And your biggest fear was to be alone
When I went to school you'd pull out your drugs
Forget my childish kisses and heart-felt hugs
As the tears filled your eyes
You'd remember all the lies
You were ever told
All the times you were cowardly
When you should have been bold
Then you'd slip away into your paradise
If only you knew it had an eternal price
Ten years later and you're all alone
Thinking things you should have known
Sure, now you're clean
This I have seen
But now we're both silently crying
You, because you've wasted your life and lost me
And me, because you are dying
I hope that one day I'll see you again
And you'll ask how things have been
But that won't ease the pain
So I'll sit here in the pouring rain
Wishing I could have set you free
But now I'm in captivity
***
"The Final Gesture"
Michael Levy
His life just seemed to
pass by without any love or joy,
in the fullness of time
he died a billionaire, his lawyer
followed the instructions
of the will to the letter,
all the relatives and friends
gathered in the great hall,
All were given a new short pencil
that had not been sharpened,
Then the will was read,
it declared:
Here is my gift to you all
hold your pencil it your right hand,
look carefully at both ends,
keep it with you at all times,
and remember...
Don't live a pointless life,
I leave all my money to charity!
***
"In Decline"
Michael Levy
It seems the more
the writer submits
true-to-life inspirational words,
the more the media
declines them,
How long, one wonders,
can the media
keep on declining,
before they hit rock bottom?
***
"There Is A Street . . ."
Gerald Bosacker
Called Internet
that heads straight to my house,
between open gutters
full of filth, deeper and wider than the street.
It is a crowded road and peddlers drop by
to sell me what I never knew I needed.
Strange bullies lurk within the throng,
indistinguishable from
the regular pimps, prostitutes, beggars, clowns
and shady merchants
soliciting business on this street
and daily banging on my door.
These anonymous bullies
destroy other people's treasures
just for specious pleasure.
This is a very dangerous street
on which I must travel for work
and use to visit my friends.
I must pay rent for
a greedy monster watchdog
that is always a little behind the time,
and needs to be periodically updated,
his teeth sharpened
and to have his psyche energized
and aggressions focused.
My virus eating watchdog,
loves the predators among the peddlers,
as they keep him needed and fed,
but always baffled by the latest invasion.
My watch dog may be self perpetuating,
clandestinely creating his own need.
***
"Father"
Dana Brammer
Oh father, why did you have to be so cruel
Why could you never love me
Like a father should
Oh father, did you ever hear my tears
In the back of your jaded mind
Did you make sure you never would?
Oh father, when I looked into the mirror
I saw you looking back at me
Through eyes the color of green
Oh father, why did you want to leave me
Why was I not your princess
I was your child, your blood
Oh father, you threw me to the sharks
Let them devour my innocence
They destroyed the child within
Oh father, where were you when I screamed at night
Where were you when I tried to die
Anything to end the pain
Oh father, now that you�re cold within your grave
And you know you haven�t a soul to save
Do your tears fall down on me like rain?
***
"Wound"
Fran LeMoine
A deep cut of noise,
her screaming at him
that way.
All he did was
forget to listen.
He said he was sorry.
The wound can only be healed
by sutures of silence
and she won't shut up.
***
"Indigo"
Connie Price
Shadow land
Personal design
Simple retreat
Deep in my mind
Fully immersed
Welcomed by
Indigo
Below the surface
Weightless calm
Infinite pleasure
Healing balm
Yielding to
Infusing with
Indigo
To clarify
The steps I make
Panacea
Oh, sweetest taste
Rests on my tongue
I savor
Indigo
I emerge
In satin stain
Refreshed, renewed
Clarity gained
Now in my eyes
And on my voice
Indigo
***
"Sign on the Dotted Line"
Connie Price
Shut up and listen to us
We decide what's best for you
No questions allowed, get in line
Your attitude adjustment is past due
Who do you think you are?
We won't put up with your kind
No creative thought, unless we approve
Sign here on the dotted line
That hair, your clothes and jewelry
Where have your parents been?
It's obvious we are needed
To teach you self disclipine
So much work upon our shoulders
We must start with the way you look
Teaching is our second priority
Oh, here is a cover for your only book
***
"Seven Years Bad Luck Part Two"
Kari Newsom
After I broke that mirror at my party the bad luck started all over again
The stove refoze my meal instead of cooking it and it exploded.
The heater blew cold air instead of warm.
Everyone called me a klutz at dinner when I dropped the ketchup bottle.
I took wire cutters to that offensive bed spring.
It flew off and hit me in the eye.
Then they all started popping out.
T.J. turned tail and ran while I spent the night on the floor.
I was so mad that I cussed myself to sleep.
My outlaw tattoo (located on my hip) shot his guns.
I was charged with having a concealed weapon up my butt.
I fell through my friend's floor for the second time.
I was arrested for shoplifting when I couldn't find my sales receipt.
Things only got worse when I was released
I was arrested again for cussing in a public place.
Seven long-ass years finally passed and T.J. and I can sleep on the bed again.
***
"Trojan Horse"
Phelan Snow
It all started about three months ago, when I overhead Mr. Lougheed, my boss at the time, talking to someone on the phone. CSIS is notorious for secrecy, but I had no idea it went this deep. Lougheed, or �the weasel,� as I�ve come to call him, told the person on the other end to �commence operation Trojan horse.� I assumed it was another governmental takedown; such oustings were commonplace in my line of work.
I thought little more of the phone call until yesterday. I had just arrived home from another uneventful day at the head office. I sat down with a cup of coffee and turned on CNN. The face on the screen closely resembled that of a man I had been acquainted with several months before. Dr. Henry Grates, the biologist behind a revolutionary line of nutritional supplements, proven to reverse the effects of cancer, AIDS and other lethal ailments.
The cosmetically altered brunette behind the news desk said that Grates had been gunned down in his Dallas, Texas home the night before. I was stunned! Why would anyone do such a thing to someone who had provided such a service to humanity? The anchorwoman went on to say that his death was a presumed assassination, though no suspects had been named as of yet.
An assassination�My mind immediately raced back to the day after I had met Dr. Grates. I remembered hearing someone in my office say that these products were going to get him into some serious trouble. Just a coincidence. CSIS couldn�t have any involvement in this horrific dispatching. Or so I thought.
The next day I casually mentioned the news bulletin to my boss, and his response was what tipped me off. Being a trained psychologist, I had a polished ability to pick up on nuances in people�s body language. The weasel seemed unconcerned as he said, �What a tragedy.� He proceeded to shift his weight from left to right, and rub his left palm with his right thumb. He knew something.
If I could have hooked him up to a polygraph, I would have right then and there. But at that moment, I realized that this was bigger than me. I knew I would have to use all the espionage skills I had accumulated in my training to get to the truth.
For the rest of the day, I nervously drudged away at the mountain of case files I had to sift through. The weasel poked his head into my office and told me it was six o�clock, �quittin� time.� I told him I was going to work late that night and waited about twenty minutes until I knew he was gone. That�s where the plot thickens. Maybe I shouldn�t have broken into his office and looked through his filing cabinet, but I needed an answer.
Wearing my dusted silicone gloves, I pawed around in his personal correspondence, to almost no avail. I was ready to give up when I came across a file titled �Trojan Horse.� Remembering the conversation I had overheard three months prior, my curiosity spiked, and I reached for the file. Upon opening the file, I was faced with a snapshot of one Dr. Henry Grates. My heart seemed to skip several beats when I found what I�d been looking for. Using my pen-sized image scanner, I made copies of each document in the file, and replaced it exactly the way I�d found it.
As I was leaving the weasel�s corner office, a �new email� notification popped up on his computer screen. I crept up to the machine, and looked at the message. The subject line read �Trojan horse complete.� I knew I needed that email if I was going to be able to prove anything, so without opening it, I forwarded it to my own address.
As the �message sent� confirmation screen loaded, I heard a door close somewhere in the building. If I got caught in the weasel�s office, he�d have me, shall we say, �silenced.� The only ways out of the room were the door that I came in, and the 15th storey window beside the desk. I knew if anyone were coming toward the office, they�d see me come out, and I didn�t have enough allies to keep me safe. I was left then, with the option of the window.
I covertly stepped up onto the ledge, and gently opened the window. As the latch released I heard footsteps just outside the door, followed by the jingle of a set of keys. I moved quickly out onto the one foot wide ledge, closed the window, and stood completely motionless, 150 feet from the pavement below.
As the wind blasted against me, I used every ounce of energy I had to keep from making a sound. The door inside opened and a small ray of light from the hall pierced the dark interior. I slowly pivoted my head to take a look inside the room, to see who was in there. A brief moment of relief came when I discovered the source of my fear as being Frank, the custodian. That moment soon fled when I realized that even if he discovered me, he would be required to notify the weasel. I had to get out of there and back to my desk to avoid suspicion.
I knelt down and dug my fingers as hard as I could into the concrete window ledge, and let my body drop down. As I hung there, praying that I didn�t get a sudden attack of vertigo, I began to swing my legs back and forth like a child trying to touch the sky at the playground. After two or three swings, when I knew I had enough momentum, I let go of the ledge above me. As my body flew through the air, my adrenaline level went through the roof. My feet hit the ledge below me, and I released a breath that it felt like I�d been holding for hours. I used my pocketknife to pry the window open, and crawled in to safety. I rode the elevator upstairs, gathered my briefcase, and got out of there.
While driving home, I started thinking about how I could go about exposing the truth without getting myself killed. This would be a dangerous mission, and it had to remain completely under wraps. I reached into my briefcase to retrieve my cellular phone. I had an old friend working at a national television station who I�m sure would be interested in this story. With one hand on the steering wheel and one hand digging through the pockets of my attach� case, my mind raced with thoughts of the email I had forwarded to myself. I wondered who the sender was, and exactly who else was involved in this devious plot.
I began to panic when I came to the realization that my phone was nowhere to be found. What if I had dropped it in the weasel�s office?! If he came in to work tomorrow ad found my phone in his office, my entire operation would be finished. My frenzy was cut short when I heard the familiar tone of my phone ringing coming from the back seat. Relief washed over me like a flood of Biblical proportions. I pulled my car over to the shoulder of the 401, and answered my phone.
�Hello?�
�I know what you�ve done. So will everyone else.�
"What? Who is this?�
Click.
The voice on the other end of the line had been a deep, raspy, male voice. I had no idea who it was, but I knew that I had to be extremely careful now that someone knew. I pressed *69, but the number trace didn�t work. My panic renewed itself at the end of that phone call. I realized then that I was racing against the clock, because it would only be a matter of time before they found me.
I pulled my car back out onto the highway, and dialed the number of my friend at the news agency. It took seven rings before she answered, and she sounded like she had been sleeping. It was about 10 o�clock at that point.
�Christy James.�
�Hi Christy, it�s Thomas. I�ve recently come into possession of some very compromising information about a top ranking official at CSIS. I need your help, I�m in a lot of danger.
�Thomas? What�s going on, what have you got?�
�You know Dr. Henry Grates, the assassinated biochemist? I have proof that Jackson Lougheed was involved in the murder.�
�Thomas, that�s huge! How did you find out?�
�Let�s just say, I did some independent research. Listen, someone just called my cell phone saying they know what I did. I�m afraid that my life is in jeopardy now. I need to get this information to you, and you need to get it out there immediately.�
�Of course Thom, I�ll do whatever I can to help you. Do you want to come to my place and give it to me?�
�To risky, if someone knows what I did, and was able to find my phone number, they might follow me there. Meet me in about 20 minutes at the coffee shop where we met.�
�I�ll be there. Thomas?�
�Yeah?�
�Be careful, ok?�
�You too. 20 minutes.�
I hung up the phone and turned onto the Don Valley Parkway. As I pulled into the downtown core, I saw a pair of headlights in my rear view mirror. I watched inconspicuously as I turned several corners. The car followed at every turn. I thought that whoever this was would have assumed that I�d be expecting a tail from someone, but he didn�t seem to care. He followed me closely, so I started to speed up.
As I approached the Queen and Dundas intersection, I started to slow down, and then floored my gas pedal, making a ninety degree left turn. The car behind me sped up so he wouldn�t lose sight of me. Lucky for me, I had grown up in downtown Toronto, so I knew all the back alleys and one way streets like the back of my hand. I began to lead my pursuer on a winding duck hunt through the residential haven of my childhood. I was gaining a fair amount of distance between our two cars, and when I knew I could do it without being seen, I pulled into the back lot of a little pizza place. I shut off my lights and engine, and laid down across the passenger seat of my car.
The perpetrator slowly drove past me, seemingly without seeing me. I waited patiently until I saw him turn the next corner, started my car back up, and headed for the little coffee shop on Lakeshore.
I parked my car a couple of blocks away from the shop, so no one would see me. I had walked these streets a million times, but never did they feel so unwelcoming. I peered over my shoulder from time to time, just to make sure my secret admirer hadn�t found me again. I arrived at the shop right on time. I could see Christy through the grimy window. She was sitting at our table, nervously watching the door. I walked in and her eyes lit up like bright blue spotlights.
�I�m definitely in trouble, Christy. I was just followed by someone.�
�Really? Thomas, I�m worried. I don�t know how I can help you.�
�I need you to get this information disseminated as quickly as you can. Get it to all the major news stations. If the info is published, then the people involved will be under a lot of scrutiny for their actions. With the public watching, it will be a lot harder for them to touch me.�
�OK, I�ll do it. What if they find out it was me, though?�
�I won�t lie to you Christy, if you get involved in this, your life will be in as much danger as mine is. I hate asking you for such a favour, but you�re the only person I can trust.�
��Alright Thom. Give me the information, and I�ll do everything I can.�
�Thank you Christy, you�re a life saver. Literally. Do you have your laptop?
�Yeah, it�s right here, why?
�I need to check my email.�
The email I had stolen from the weasel told me everything I needed to know. It gave me the names of everyone who had a hand in Project Trojan Horse, and explained exactly what the mission had been. I told Christy to forward that email to everyone she could. After a few more minutes, I told Christy to get home quickly, and I got out of there.
The walk back to my car was more enjoyable. I felt like I had hope now. I knew Christy would come through for me, she had before. I sat down in the driver�s seat, and breathed a sigh of relief. Just then, I felt a cold, hard circular object against my right temple. A voice in the back seat told me to drive.
I could feel the sweat drip off my brow, and my adrenaline levels shooting up again as I pulled out into the street. The man in the back directed me to a warehouse near my old neighbourhood. The building was cloaked in the blackness of night, with a few of the surrounding city lights casting their glow on the outer walls. There were no signs of life anywhere, but I knew I was in for some action.
The man pulled me out of the car, and directed me toward the warehouse with primitive grunts and nudges with the barrel of his gun. I could tell that he had done this sort of thing before. He seemed very comfortable with holding a human life in the palm of his hand.
When we arrived inside the warehouse, there was only one light on in the entire building. I could see several large machines lurking in the shadows. I was fully expecting to be hit from behind by this brute, so it came as no surprise when he walloped me with the butt of his pistol. I hit the ground pretty hard, I think my collision with the floor hurt more than being pistol whipped.
I finally caught a glimpse of my assailant. He was tall, about 6�4, and was completely dressed in black. His face appeared to be distorted in a wretched, sadistic smile, as he stood over me and buried his boot in my midsection. I winced in pain as the force of the kick drove the oxygen out of my lungs. As I struggled to get my breath, the thug asked me who else knew. I told him that nobody else knew, but he didn�t seem to like that answer, as he proceeded to hoof me again.
I�d been beaten up before, but grade eight was a long time ago. My ability to �scrap� had long been overshadowed by my formal combat training. I transitioned my mind into a state of hypnosis, as I simply blocked out the pain in my stomach. I waited for the barbarous gunman to wind up for his next blow, then quickly maneuvered my body out of his path and swept his feet right out from under him. He hit the ground with the force of a piano falling from a twenty storey building.
He was stunned and winded, so I took that opportunity to spring back to my feet. As he sluggishly arose, I threw a precisely aimed fist at the side of his head. The punch did little damage; I guess he didn�t have much in there to damage in the first place. I threw another punch, but this time he caught my fist, and wrenched my arm behind my back. It felt like it was going to snap off. I felt him reaching for his sidearm, and I instinctively reached around to grab his hand. I pushed the barrel of his gun away from me, and threw a straight jab into his chest. I felt a bone crack under the pressure, but he was barely fazed. I remembered my Judo lessons as the gun began to come my way again. I tightly grasped his wrist, tucked my shoulder into his armpit, and flipped him flat onto his back. In the process, I held on to his weapon, and left him disarmed on the warehouse floor. I now held him at gunpoint, and demanded to know who he was working for. He insisted that he didn�t know. He just got a call from his boss whom he�d never met, and was told to get rid of me. By this time I was tired of dealing with him, so I returned the favour he had paid me earlier of a solid pistol whipping, and left him unconscious in the dimly lit storehouse.
I was worried about Christy, so I called her cell phone as I drove back toward the city. There was no answer. What could have happened to her? If someone found out she was involved, she didn�t have the kind of combat training that I had. She could be seriously hurt�Or worse. I had to find her.
I drove to her uptown apartment, and buzzed her number. No answer. She had showed me a way to sneak into the building once a few years ago. Hopefully the building�s superintendent hadn�t fixed it yet. I hurried around to the fire escape and pushed the dumpster out of the way to reveal a two foot by two foot opening in the building�s hull. I crawled in, took a left and popped out in the basement storage area. I slipped up the stairs to the sixth floor, and knocked on apartment number 613. Still no answer, but I thought I heard something fall inside the apartment. I lifted the corner of Christy�s doormat and found her spare key (so predictable). As I twisted the lock, I definitely heard something, or someone moving around inside.
Allowing the door to open with its own momentum, I peered inside the dark unit. Listening attentively, I slowly crept into the apartment. I switched on the main light, and as I did, I saw a small black figure dash out of the room. I then remembered that Christy told me she had just gotten a kitten a few months ago, so that explained the movement I had heard. I looked around, hoping to find Christy, but what I found was completely unexpected.
There was a pile of papers scattered on Christy�s kitchen table. I briefly glanced at the stack, and the top sheet floored me. It was a personally addressed letter to Christy from none other than Mr. Jackson Lougheed. The letter was a thank you note for her assistance with keeping Trojan Horse silent. My heart and hope sank. I had trusted Christy, one of my oldest and dearest friends. Now I found out that I had made a drastic, irreversible error in judgment.
I knew I was in this alone now. Fortunately I had only given copies of my documents to Christy, so I still had the originals. I scrounged through the apartment looking for a rolodex, or contact book of some kind. I figured if I could go above Christy, then I still might have a chance at survival. Without remorse, I turned Christy�s apartment inside out until I located a small, black address book. I pocketed it, and went back down to my car.
Driving endlessly, with no real idea of where to go, or what to do next, my mind frantically buzzed over the events of the past few hours. My only idea, and so my only hope was to get downtown to the Chum City building, and get this information into the public eye. As I headed in the direction of my last chance, my foot seemed to get a little heavier on the accelerator.
I arrived at the massive broadcasting center to see none other than the top news anchor exiting the front door. I leapt out of my car, and sprinted over to her, what she must have been thinking�
I told her my story, and she was dumbfounded. I showed her all of the documents I had gathered, and she immediately agreed to help me. She escorted me up to her fourth floor office, and introduced me to her boss. She relayed my story, and he insisted on calling all the major news stations (after running the story himself, first).
I waited at the office until the story had been broadcast. Finally I felt a wash of relief douse me from head to toe. I was now protected by public knowledge. Or so I thought.
I began the long drive back to my apartment, with a much lower rate of acceleration. A smirk tickled the corners of my mouth as I thought about how much I had accomplished in the course of about five hours. As I was reflecting on my proficiency as a secret operative, I felt my steering wheel jerk to the left, followed by a loud screeching noise. I looked over my shoulder, and saw that same black car that had tailed me before.
I pushed my gas pedal halfway through the floor, but it was too late. I guess the driver had shot my back tires, because they were both flat, and the steering was almost sloth like. I felt another hard nudge from the car behind me, and the next thing I saw was the steel barricade of the highway shoulder, crashing into my windshield as the car careened over the boundary of the warm summer asphalt.
I was momentarily knocked senseless, but when I came to I heard a very familiar voice. It was Christy. In a monotonous, almost robotic tone she said, �That should take care of it.� I heard two sets of footsteps climb the embankment, and a car, presumably the one that ran me off the road, peel out and speed away.
So here I am. I can�t feel my legs, my right arm looks broken, there�s a warm liquid running down the right side of my face. Shattered glass is all around me, maybe that accounts for the warm liquid. I still have those original documents, but what difference does it make now. At least I have the comfort of knowing that the weasel, and Christy and their entire operation will be brought to justice, now that the public knows about their little scheme.
It�s not everyday that you nearly lose your life�But thousands of people die every minute of every waking hour.
***
"Cheeter"
By Evanessa
Cheeter, you say, this alone and nothing more? My surname, though wherefrom it came, I do not know, was all they chose to carve into the stone, for the riches of earth had not been mine, and without riches, those left behind do not care to linger at the doorway of death, do not care to make it a more pleasant place for they that are taken. My name had been Paul. Paul George Cheeter, the boy without a home, without a family, without a soul to care about him in the world. No, there are no dates carved into the stone; dates do not matter, the suffering of humanity does not change with the years.
I had been an orphan, sometime during the early nineteen hundreds if you must know, a boy with chestnut curls and starry eyes. I often stared up at the trees in reverie, lost in enchantment, spellbound by the beauty that surrounded me, drinking in the scenery that made up the little town of Clayton. A dreamer, I was often called. A dreamer, and an orphan. A waif of a boy with no aim or purpose, a lost soul with no hope. And always, throughout my life, I was alone.
Until around my eighth birthday. Now I do not know for sure that I was eight, because being the uneducated urchin that I was, time did not effect me, and I kept no record of its passing. I was however, known by the asylum people, and they estimated me to be about eight. I took their word for it, for there was none other to go by. I was sitting outside in the cherry orchard, a small walk from the asylum, my chin tilted upwards, the sun streaming down on my face. I was lost in the splendor of the cherry blossoms, their delicate white petals to me were a reflection of heaven. I was staring up at the blue sky, the wind playing with my curls, a playful breeze, much like the one that taunts my gravestone now. And in the distance, I could hear a whimper. Small at first, but growing steadily more persistent. So lost was I in the intricate folds of the flowers that I did not at first hear it. But as time passed by slowly, and the whimpering increased, it suddenly entered my mind that the quiet had been broken. I stood and listened for the sound again. I followed it to where I thought it was coming from, and found its source: an orphaned puppy. We became best friends.
For two years I was the happiest I had ever been. For two years, I had a companion, a friend. We went everywhere together, did everything as boy and dog. He followed me everywhere I went. If I slept, he would sleep curled up at my bare feet, making them toasty warm. If I ate, I would share my finds with him, and when we finished what little bit we found, he did not cry for more. We roamed the countryside, traveling from hill to hill in search of something better, something more beautiful. And there was always another hill to pass over, always another sunrise to discover. At night we would return to the asylum, envied by the other little boys and girls who had no companions, and we would play together in the failing light until we were told to go to sleep. That was our way. That was our life. And we were happy.
And then they killed him.
Who? Who would do such a terrible thing? Who would take the life of something that was my everything, the life of a boy who had nothing? The adults. The owners of the asylum. They drove a shovel into his skull, and thus stole the only friend I�d ever had.
They threw his limp body into the river. They held me back, so that I could not go after him. They could see that my fragile heart was broken, that my depraved soul had reached its limits. But they did not care. What worth were the tears of an orphan boy? In despair, I cried myself to sleep that night. And then, when they ceased to watch over me, I crept out by the light of the moon to find him. If nothing else, I would bury him in a proper grave, for if any deserved an honorable death, it was the little dog that had given me love and happiness for the two years of his life. I dove into the cold river, no thought in my tortured mind but to find my little dog. My body was cold and stiff and starving, and as the waters rushed over me, I knew that we had been meant to be one both in life and in death. As the water filled my lungs, and pain coursed through my heart, I called for him. And then I breathed my last.
Death is lonely. And it is dark. But no lonelier, no darker than was life. Unless you are placed into the path of a person, they will not see you. They look but they don�t see, they listen, but they don�t hear. I knew this; of all people, I learned this well. But now I lie beneath the dirt, a reflection of something that once was. Darkness surrounds me, day and night. But I do not fear it. I am not afraid of the dark, of the loneliness. Because here, here I will not be disturbed. Here, I can rest.
But with nothing more than �Cheeter� carved into the stone, no one shall ever know this story. Surely the stone should have said �boy and dog�, for that is all my life was, a boy and his dog. But others did not see me then, and they will not see me now. My life came and went, and not a single blade of grass was altered.