Better Living Through Chemistry

        'Hurry up. We don't have much time left.'

        I fumble beside the bed for my jeans, peeking at her smooth naked back while I do so. Her left hand strokes my skin and it is with my best willpower I resist the impulse to throw myself back into her loving embrace.    
       My blue jeans are on the floor next to her lamp. I put my legs through while she fastens her bra with a set of clicks. My shirt is across the room and I go retrieve it, sensing her eyes watching me go. Our faces catch another glance and she smiles instantly, the kind my grandparents used to call a "Hollywood Movie Smile". On impulse I move closer so our lips can be reacquainted but a thunderous noise from outside interrupts us.

        'Too late.' I mutter. 'They're here.'

        I button my shirt and charge down towards the front door. After a hard breath I push it open and see exactly what I expected: hundreds of drone soldiers, all dressed in full rubber body armour and carrying grappling hook rifles. They have gas masks for faces, identical cybernetic helmets for hair and each stand in flawless formation with the exact same posture. How long ago they were once ordinary humans I'm not really certain, all that matters is their presence here and their immediate intentions towards us. I sprint back inside, locking the door tight behind me.

        'Is there a back way out of here?' I ask, arriving back in the bedroom.
        'There's a secret way through my bookcase.' She nods, doing up her belt. 'How close are they?'

        The sound of a smashed window rings throughout the house.

        'Very. Let's go.'

        She grabs hold of my hand and leads me through the bookcase, which spins forward and leads us into a neglected greenhouse. We rush out the doors and into her large back field, the sound of the drones bulldozing through her bedroom closely behind.

        'Into the woods! We'll lose them in there!' She shouts, leading towards some tall crooked trees ahead.

        Just as dozens of greenhouse windows shatter we slip into a thick part of the forest. We charge ahead, stumbling over twigs and rocks with only a full moon lighting our way. After several minutes of running we stop, completely short of breath. The glow of the moon gives just enough illumination for her light brown eyes to shine marvelously in the night. 

        'Is there anywhere we can go nearby?' I gasp.
        'Nothing within twenty kilometres.' She whispers. 'Our neighbours have all been compromised. Maybe down the road we can find---'

        Her words are cut short by dozens of bright orbs appearing in the woods, shining beams of light from every direction. The eyes of the drones, serving as flashlights, to better track us down and close in.

        'Let's keep moving!' I say, taking her hand.

        We rush forward past more trees but their beams only become stronger. She pulls me to the left just as one beam becomes so strong I swear a rubbery hand nearly swipes my shoulder. The lights are so blinding I can only stare down at the ground so to see anything. Somehow she leads me forward, changing directions at the right moments even while the orbs and beams keep doubling. 
        Suddenly we stop. Once my vision returns I see a river blocking our path.

        'Can we go around?' 

        Dozens of orb lights flicker behind us, some of the drones now visible just a few trees away.

        'There's no other way.' She says. 'We've got to jump in. Can you swim?'
        'In an emergency, sure.' I reply. 'On five. One, two... five!'

        Still holding hands, we leap in and hit the water with an impressive splash. The current immediately grabs and carries us rapidly downstream. After a fighting moment to keep myself afloat I find my legs and amateurly tread water, meanwhile she bobs along the surface effortlessly as though the ethnicity of "duck" had been passed down through her family tree. I admire her aquatic grace until a grappling hook misses her head by centimetres, hitting a bush along the river shore instead.
       Dozens of drones are along the side of the river, aiming their grappling rifles. Another hook lands in the water two metres in front of us, forcing us to swim apart from each other to dodge the onslaught. I grab a floating stick and hurl it at a drone about to fire at her, disrupting it's aim wildly onto the other side of the river. She dips underwater and emerges with a large stone, firing it squarely into the mask of a drone who would have hit me point blank.
       The water picks up intensity and suddenly we're both flying uncontrollably fast down the stream. Up ahead the horizon vanishes and my stomach sinks: this is the top of a waterfall. From this view I cannot tell how far down the waterfall goes but the drop looks increasingly fatal the closer it comes.
       A grappling hook suddenly strikes a lonely rock way ahead of us and stays fixed in place, the rope connected to the hook possibily within our reach in a quick moment. My first thought is to grab for it, but her tug on my hand stops me. Thinking how the rest of my life, our lives, will unfold by grabbing that rope: to be hopelessly captured and at the mercy of the drones, perhaps even forcefully becoming one of them. And so would go the rest of existence, an unthinking tool of a faceless machination. Yet we would still be alive, she would still be alive. I reach out for the rope.
       I turn to her face and again see those marvelous eyes, seeming so vibrant by the light reflecting off the water. Her hand grabs onto mine one last time, the grappling rope passes us by, and down the river we go until wherever we land.

The Urban World: Subordinary

When I was sixteen I wrote a collection of interconnected short stories I titled "The Urban World". Here is a sample of one of those stories:


Subordinary
 


    The clanking sound of silver coins dropping inside a small metal container indicated he had commited himself to this particular transaction, without any further way to legally retrieve those same coins again. With awkward ease he pushed himself through the turnstyle and quickly scanned his surroundings, ever careful not to delay the other people scurrying busily around him. Each of the walls around him remained true to a similar design, each tile following the same pattern of colour, texture and shape. Here, it was a shiny whitewash with a robust green trim and an occasional silver column.
    As he was about to head down the escalator a loud whistle rang through the air behind him. He turned to see a short stocky man offering him familiar a suede wallet.
    'Is your name Patty Sohier Nelkie?' asked the man with a quiet, timid voice.
    'Uh, it's Peter, but yeah that's mine. Thanks!' he answered in surprise. He reached out and took back his wallet.
    Young Nelkie checked to ensure everything was in it's proper place. His modest amount of currency generously approaching an amount of ten dollars, his health card, and a badly scratched birth certificate. Just for the sake of reminding himself who he was, he read the certificate to himself. Born May 27 1987, birthplace Etobioke, gender male, all of them facts that were not going to change.
    With haste, young Nelkie hopped onto the escalator and rode down to the subway platform. He was fortunate that today the escalator's mechanics had not yet broken down and required weeks of "repairs." The subway train was speeding forwards him from the tunnel as he hopped off the escalator, indicating his timing had been perfectly fortunate. A massive roar sounded throughout the station, growing louder and louder as the front of the train erupted into plain sight and rushed past the patient commuters at the far end of the platform.
    One of the train doors came to a stop right in front of where young Nelkie stood, further confirming his moment of good luck. Through the car windows he could also see that the car was surprisingly empty. It was mid-afternoon, a time of day right in-between the dual rushes of the grouchy morning and frantic late afternoon hours. The doors opened and he was welcomed onboard by a collage smell of old chewing gum and spilled coffee from that very morning. Other odours made themselves present as well, but they were various enough not to be precisely identified.
    Few other people occupied the nearby area he choose to sit down at, allowing him the option of a fine vantage of a window. Young Nelkie had made a mental note to sit near a window because the train route required travelling across the Danforth bridge, nourishing upon young Nelkie a marvelous view of the Don Valley for a good brief minute.
    His fellow passengers glanced momentarily and customarily at him, swiftly scanning his appearance and with the same speed diverting their eyes when necessary. One fellow in the far end of the car continued still to stare at him for several seconds, or at least young Nelkie's direction, for his eyes had a distinctive wandering about them. Another person, sitting down a few seats to his right, was quietly reading an uncommonly thick self-help magazine. The final passenger onboard this car was dressed in a well kept navy blue suit, complemented with a dark yellow tie overtop an ordinary white business shirt. A black leather suitcase sat on his lap, providing a temporary reading desk for the stock listings of the days newspaper. Clearly this man had a job of some sort.
    Young Nelkie leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, his destination not coming for several stops, leaving plenty of time for rest. That destination was a cousin's house, whom had promised him a brand new bicycle a pair of months back. A something began to jab and poke at his shoulder, causing him to open his eyes and see a blurred vision of what looked like the glazed eyes and face of a fellow leaning over him.
    'Isid yer nam Patty Sohar Nalkie?' the glazed eyes man asked, his voice difficult to interpret.
    'Uh... yes? I am, Peter Nelkie.'
    The man with the glazed eyes fumbled with his pockets until he pulled out a piece of suede and held it out towards him.
    'Oh, thank you!' exclaimed young Nelkie realizing it was his wallet.
    'Yeez, ats tif a gerfot allet blah.'
    The man's breath was terribly pungent, almost definitely from consuming large amounts of various liquors. This was also clearly evident by his clothes, which reeked of a marination of rum and rye. Young Nelkie nodded politely and sat back in his seat, and the man with the glazed eyes stumbled slowly back to the other side of the train. A young person sitting near the door took hardly a glance at this sloppy incident, preferring instead to be visually captivated by a Hollywood celebrity magazine. The man with the glazed eyes even let out a loud snore and slipped from his fresh seat to the floor. An empty bottle of bourbon slipped out of his left jacket pocket and hit the ground with a glassy "thunk."
    Suddenly the inside of the subway car came alive with sunlight, as the train had emerged from the tunnels and was now charging across a bridge. Young Nelkie looked out his nearby window and down below the suspended tracks, where a once mighty river could be seen flowing gently southward. Over the course of long centuries it had gone from mightily filling an entire valley to being a mud filled stream between a highway and a rail line.
    'Excuse me, are you Patty Sohar Nalkey?' a male voice inquired, breaking young Nelkie away from his daydreams.
    'Yes, I'm uh, Peter Nelkie.'
    A man in a trim and mannered blue suit stood in front of young Nelkie, holding out a familiar piece of suede and looking at him curiously. He took back his suede wallet again and gave a nod of thanks to the apparent businessman.
    'No problem, chap.'
    The businessman was about to return to his seat, but thought better of it and turned back to face young Nelkie.
    'Wait, I'd like to tell you something.'
    He took a seat right beside him.
    'I've got a tip.'
    'What kind of tip?' asked young Nelkie.
    'You know, a stock tip'
    'What?'
    'Look kid,' the businessman began, 'I like ya, you've got a style I admire. So listen carefully. Unicorp is about to unveil a brand new kind of toilet brush. Could be big. It's a can't miss.'
    'Unicorp toilet brushes?'
    'Yes, don't repeat it,' the businessman told him, looking around quickly to see if anyone was eavesdropping. 'It won't cost you any to get in either.'
    He straightened up and walked back across the car to where his newspaper and leather suitcase lay. As he sat back down he shot young Nelkie a quick thumbs up before returning to his reading.
    The train reared to a halt and the doors slid open to reveal a station painted mostly light blue and green, the station young Nelkie had been waiting for. He rose from his seat and jogged out of the train excitedly, knowing that within the hour he would be riding a brand new bicycle. Left behind on the subway's car floor was a small familiar piece of suede.
 

Steckland Russ -- (Chapter III.i)

    (x) -- 




    The past weeks have seen my care of recollecting the days slowly vanish. As such I feared my previous chapter would conclude our one-way correspondence, Future Steckland. The passing moments don't feel as vivid as before that tale, the words I seek to describe are lost before they are even spelled. I've been in a funk and I know exactly why, and yet I don't know why.
    Everyday when classes end I hop aboard my bike and try only to get as far from Highview Collegiate as possible. As west is towards the home I avoid, south is a Fool's Downhill and north is weird and unknown to me, I point my wheels east and go as far as my sense of adventure will take me. Every time since my second trip I stop at a parkette on Coxwell Avenue just south of some railroad tracks. I lean my bike against a tree, take a seat on a bench, put my hands in my jacket pockets and stare into nothing until the sun goes down several hours later.
    I never leave this place at any consistent time and the ride home is so forgettable I question whether it really happens. My father is unresponsive to my coming home at these late hours, only once asking loudly if I had been at the library and then returning to the television. Never have I eaten a proper meal on these days, my hunger relying only on a box of cookies I keep atop my bedroom dresser. I'm in a funk and I don't know why, and yet I know exactly why.
    The past weeks have been forgettable and the future promises to be the same, except for a curious incident just a few hours ago. I admit to not fully understanding any meaning or significance about this experience: it was only a simple but interesting encounter, worth a retelling in what likely will be my last chronicle to you.
    On my familiar bench I sat, staring into nothingness. The honks of the cars and the children hand-in-hand with their parents and the dogs wagging friendly tails and the toddlers in strollers and the five o'clock ice cream truck and the teens throwing a frisbee behind me and the skinny man with a fedora carrying a Top Notch pizza and the baseball fans cursing the Yankees and the police officers glancing my way and the pretty girls and the unpretty girls and the fast walkers and the dawdlers and the setting sun right over the roofs in front of me, I noticed none of it from inside my bubble.
     The sky was inbetween dark blue and black, the final shift change of twilight into evening, when a man walked towards me. Somehow I sensed right away he meant to encounter me and I thought of making an escape, but he was upon me before I could shift my backside.

    'Mind if I join you?'

    He sat down beside me before I could protest. He smiled as he looked over me, which you will understand made me extremely uncomfortable. After a slight nod he put one hand in his jacket pocket and used the other to light a cigarette. He was an aged, physically unremarkable sort, yet by the way he lit his tobacco or the polish on his jacket buttons or his immaculately styled balding hair, this clearly was someone who despite his surroundings viewed himself as a king. I resisted the urge to be in awe of him and he sensed that.

    'What's your name?' asked he.
    'Steckland.' I quickly replied.

    The man closed his eyes as he inhaled a long puff of his cigarette, enjoying it thoughtfully. Once the puff escaped his lips he turned back to me.

    'I have a belief, would you like to hear it? Of course. It is that our names that are hung over our heads at birth are only empty wine glasses that we spend the beginnings of our lives trying to fill. Our real names are the incidents that shape and change us. Before them we are invincible, afterwards we are flawed and human. So I ask again, what's your name?'

    I wanted to make up something but failed.

    'Galvin.' I answered. 'You?'
    'Leipzig.' said the man, exhaling more smoke.

    Any blue colour that was left in the sky had now been overtaken by blackness. The lights of this parkette were fairly bright and many aspects of this area that had been dull in daylight now glowed under artificial light. A solitary cloud hung in the sky against a backdrop of a dozen scattered stars. My bicycle caught my attention for a moment as I noticed a drunk fellow eyeing it as he walked by, so I followed his movements until he vanished under the bridge. Leipzig noticed this preoccupation with my wheels and took a final puff of his cigarette.

    'Do you live far from here, Galvin?' he asked, flicking the butt to the ground.
    'A good ways away, yes.' I answered.
    'Interesting. I have seen you come here everyday. Do not be alarmed,' said Leipzig quickly, seeing my increased uneasiness. 'It is only because in my present arrangement, I have nothing better to do than watch from my window the happenings of this small neighbourhood around me.'    
    'Right. I guess you're out of work, then? Retired maybe?'
    'Forcibly retired.' replied Leipzig.
   
    Three teens in large yellow sweatshirts walked past our bench and chuckled to each other once they were a few metres away. I was embarrassed to have strangers laughing at me, yet Leipzig was so unaffected his self-determination was contagious. He looked at me for a moment and then reached into his jacket pocket for another cigarette.
   
    'Are you fine? You seem lost in the devil's work.' said my bench companion.
    'Yeah, I'm... I'm good. Just kinda lost in, my... situation is all.' I explained. 'It's good.'
    'Yes, of course.' said Leipzig, afterwards taking a long puff of his smoke.

    There was a short pause before Leipzig inhaled again, and then spoke:

    'You've said you live far away, so I don't understand exactly why you come here. What is so special about this small and dirty parkette, so distant from anything interesting?'
    'I don't know. Something must've pulled me here.' replied I.
    'Does it still pull you?' asked Leipzig.
    'Seems like it.'
    'But it is not wind or storms that do so. Nor do I see a look of terror on you that I've seen in the eyes of many enemies. No, no, no...'

    I could hardly see Leipzig's face through the cloud of smoke that now covered us both. The shine of the streetlight through the cigarette fog gave his face a wickedness found surely in the shadows of men. Here was a natural schemer, a man who was constantly planning his next glorious move and by the quick movement of his eyes this moment was no different. Yet the sense of danger such a man could brew around him was not there. Leipzig perhaps sensed my growing comprehension of him and tossed his smoke to the ground still lit.

    'You could say I am here against my will, that I am placed here by those who had finally bested me. But your exile is self-imposed. You can leave your island and never look back. That's what I do not understand.'
    'I don't understand it either.' I said softly.
    'Hmmm.' said Leipzig, reaching into his jacket pocket again. 'Sorry, do you smoke?'
    'No I don't.' I replied.
    'Foolish of me not to ask.' said Leipzig, pulling out another cigarette. 'And rude. Well young man, this has been a most enlightening conversation but these autumn gusts are too much for my old bones. Perhaps we will meet again.'
    'Perhaps.'
    'Until then.'

    Leipzig rose from the bench and lit his cigarette while he walked away, a wispy trail of smoke following his path. I sat for a long while, entranced by thoughts until finally I lifted myself from the bench and stumbled towards my bicycle, still against the same tree as before. As I prepared myself for a long and tiring journey home I began wondering about the feeling of being trapped. I had done this to myself, all of it, and these feelings and reactions were the result of me and no one else.     Still I do not know what to do, only that I don't want to be trapped any more.



    (x) --  No Time To Meet Napoleon