Our Predatory World

 

Strange, nature's construct of the human
mind and the empathy that is evoked
when confronted with the realization
that the world can be a frightfully nasty
place to inhabit where humankind does
indeed advance its interests yet remains
primordially raw and red with blood in
furthering those interests and woe betide
those who represent the huddled masses
whose only aspiration is to survive for
it is they who are invariably sacrificed
on the alter of achievement that the few
pursue. We shudder with apprehension
and fear lest our personal world become
contaminated with the inborn pathology
of universal psychopathy but it is a trait
imbued by nature's decree that those few
whose success in wresting resources from
the many will prosper and rule and
inevitably oppress, subjugate and deprive
the masses of the means of life though
not the will to live, depriving them with
finality through the medium of conflict.
Yet when such tyrants are the objects of
annihilation themselves the tumult of
wonder, deploring the violence that ended
his rule negates the destruction he wrought.

 

The Experiment

 

 

Perhaps the covenant was one that nature

herself undertook -- to bestow upon one tribe

attributes of vision, curiosity, capability and

intelligence, apportioning to another envy

covetousness and anger -- in unbridled curiosity

pure and unsullied by compassion, utterly

indifferent to the outcome, focused solely on

the strengths of endurance and the lengths of

endowments each would develop, deploy and 

exemplify, she preferentially endorsing neither 

in her indifference and neither was she inspired

to conclude the experiment, as a minor diversion

and just as certain it is that the vast reaches of 

the universe will steadily expand so too do the

results of this micro-lens in human diversity

of unequal, disproportionate apportioning roil

the world offending the spirit of commonality

with the presence of one tribe's success in 

revealing its own sensitivity to creative science

the other its viral defence of hostile resistance to

acknowledging the superiority of exceptionalism.

 

 

Winter Gift

 

The early morning sun cast aside the last

vestiges of night lurking in tight corners

allowing the first glimmers of dawn to create

suspense, then fully illuminated the overnight

landscape, gleaming and glimmering below

in a breath-catching scintillation of diamond

clustered skeins of snow soft and bouffant

comforting the late November forest for its

pitiable loss of leaf mass, the disappearance

of bracken on the forest floor, dispensing its

incomparable decor over the forest canopy

shielding from critical eye the discarded matter

brown and desiccated in exchange for the

brilliance of a heavenly gift delivered to last

long winter months where ferns and wildflowers

slumber to be reawakened in spring when the

geese now flying overhead calling their goodbyes

return in reverse migration and the snowpack

melts irrigating the forest floor and the raging

raceways that will welcome returning wildfowl.

 

 

Worlds Within Worlds

  

They are so proudly distinctly different

from all others surrounding them clutching

their faith to their hearts, wearing those hearts

so visibly in long black flowing robes the

women concealing themselves from unauthorized

gaze, the community cloistered forbidding its

members communion with others lest they and

their community be tainted by the commonality

of the surrounding culture, theirs dedicated to

one on high and none other, certainly not to the

specious authority of any government as they

declare themselves immune from laws and

regulations meant for others while they exclude

themselves with the riposte that God alone

informs their action by his ineffable judgement 

as they defy instructions broadcast to inform 

the public of measures to be taken by all in the

hopes of staving off a deadly malevolent virus

from exacting ever greater punishment on human

life. Their piety the talisman the virus shrinks from.

 

 

The Winter Sun

 

 

As long as there have been sentient creatures 

awe and adulation, and the timid instinct to

recognize the power and dependence exerted

on the appearance of that ancient orb

that greets us every morning and temporarily

leaves us in the evening -- lighting and warming

our days from dawn to dusk -- the venerable

role of the sun as the giver of life has been

known. Should it ever leave of an evening

and fail to return so too would we in a world

where a cooling planet no longer illuminated

fails to provide the balanced measures for

life to flourish. Winter offers a glimpse of how

vulnerable elements-exposed animals and 

vegetation temporarily cope not abandoned by

our fiery star but removed from closer proximity

as we involuntarily orbit its gravitational draw

resigned to the revolution that will restore us

to the benevolence that inspires our renewal

as worshipful revenants to an ancient ritual.

 

 

Forever A Child

 

 

Forever a child you gape and gasp

at the dazzling magic of endless starry

crystals dimpling the air as winter charges

into a landscape left desiccated and grey

by fall, transported to a time deeply etched

in memory when your childish eyes

transcribed the downy coverlet of the world

in your mind with enchantment, and fairy

tales were true as you recall the soft yielding

measures of snow packed into perfect spheres

and snowmen speaking of their delight in

release from the crowded pack and your

clever mittened hands. You remember the

pleasure of burrowing into drifts, of spreading

your arms and legs and there was born a

snow angel. The happy flight of a sled 

skimming a slope to deposit you head over

heels below, the warmth and comfort, the

laughter and the joy have never vanished

merely tucked safely deep in the bank you

know as memory to be retrieved annually in

a celebration of life and youth and nature.

 

 

Prevention The Cure

 

Beware, a nation that has seen the brink

of the chasm of annihilation is no longer one

to be trifled with. The responsive lightning strike 

of prevention in asserting the right of existence

should henceforth be perceived as the predictable

response to all and any promising annihilation to

complete genocide's goal. No longer a nation

dispersed and dependent hailed for its human

assets' accomplishments and despised for those

very traits of achievement in all indices of human

prosperity and quality of life. Know this, that

threats against a nation now capable of mounting

its defences against the pitiless designs by vicious

psychopathic regimes will be deflected and the

consequences will deliver to those emitting such

threats the very existential uncertainties they

openly plot to accomplish in destroying Israel.

 

 

Down Payment on Deterrence

 

And so it proved that those who survived

despite the most exacting measures to ensure

they would not proved the adage that whatever 

does not kill you will make you stronger. That 

proof came at a terrible cost. No fewer than six 

million lives exhausted in dense black smoke

their ashes enriching the soil that hosted the 

crematoria all over Europe just as the living 

souls had enriched the culture of the societies 

that hosted them unwillingly and no longer did. 

But the survivors would never again be herded 

onto cattle cars nor buried in mass graves for 

they have returned to their Biblical-era roots 

and the fortification of security and defense 

superior to the military assets of those determined 

to complete an unfinished genocide is dedicated 

to prevention. Any that may threaten their 

intention by now proceeding with a renewed

 annihilation and their architects will discover

they themselves become ashes of deterrence.

 

Expulsion? Just ... Because

 

 

It was because they were Jews and it may not

have been just but that's the way it was, no one

really cared. Give the world something to get

morally exercised over, on the other hand -- but

that's a different story. That's the story of a motley

assortment of settlers who migrated to the scene

of an ancient exile to live among the pious Jews

who had never left, settlers from Egypt, Syria

Lebanon, Jordan arriving to search out a livelihood

aroused to fury when a mandate for Palestine by

the League of Nations led to a Partition Plan by

the United Nations and a new exodus was born

and the world turned its attention to 'refugees' who

required empathy and financial support ad infinitum.

Itself leading to a renewed exile when surrounding

nations expelled the Jews that had lived among

them for millennia, an unobtrusive affair because

no one noticed. Syria, Iraq, Egypt, Algeria, Tunisia

Yemen, Iran: where are your Jews? Arab visitors

to Israel can hear the daily call to prayers emitted 

from mosques throughout the country, a nation

Jew-haters label 'apartheid', its presence called an

'occupation' for the military presence forced by

Palestinian Arab violence perpetrated against Jews

insisting that Jews must abandon their heritage.

And the world approves. Why? Just ... Because.

 

 

The Jewish Question

It is more than the mind can bear, the

burden of knowing strains the cerebral

functioning of an organ of wondrous

capacity designed by nature to envision

the world she created for her progeny

to inhabit that her creatures are capable

of formulating a plan so diabolical to undo

the existential presence of a people through

cunning brutality and the accompanying

conscienceless violence of extermination

succeeding in influencing ordinary people

that the issue is one of racial hygiene and

harmony to advance civilizational mores

and the quality of life of deserving Teutons

by extinguishing the rapacity of the rabble

among them whose purpose was to own the

world, direct its finances, enslave the worthy

souls innocent of their malice to avail the scum

of the earth the Third Reich would remove

from contention ... and all would be well.

 

She's My Sister

 

 

I don't call as often as I should as the elder

between us but she laughs, tells me she was

expecting my call, it never fails when she suddenly

visualizes me though we haven't seen one another

in years. Not too good she responds when I ask

how she is, but then she hasn't been too good

progressively for years and the trend continues

but she has a tendency toward self-deprecation

and when we speak laughter comes easily to her.

Mostly we reminisce once we've exhausted the

pleasantries -- or not too pleasant news of our

respective children's lives and I suspect that part

of her 'not too good' revolves around her children's

lives. We speak of the conundrums of existence

of the difficulties facing the world communities

of dire consequences of living in old-age homes

in the 'golden' years where the global pandemic

has strewn its peculiar type of violence. We talk

of the haphazardness of life's  trajectory, that our

father, an orphan sent from the streets of Warsaw

to Canada as an indentured farmhand and our

mother's home in the Pale of Settlement bombed

by White Russians, her emigration with her sister

to Canada and the long years it took for both he

and she to pay back their passage before they 

were free of debt, free to resume young lives, free 

from the horrors of the Holocaust, and we sigh.

 

Iranian Child Martyrdom

 

Those of the faith endowed with the wisdom of 

years and piety know that solutions to seemingly

impossible dilemmas can be found through the

expedient of compelling the hand of god to point

the direction of proceedings. And so was seen

an answer to the problem of how battle-hardened

soldiers could march to the enemy lines and

escape triggering the minefields separating them

by sending platoons of tens of thousands of child

warriors appropriately bedecked to greet Allah

on their entry to Paradise as martyrs, entry keys

for secure passage around their necks, special permits 

signed by the great Ayatollah - his mouth to the ear 

of god following instructions that to save the 

Islamic Revolution, Iran must sacrifice its young 

and unlike Isaac whom the Almighty spared 

returning the child to Father Abraham, there was

no intervention for the martyrdom-impassioned

children of Iran, tutored to obey and to serve. 

 

 

Stylized Canadian Governance

 

To pose unabashedly as a cynic is not generally 

viewed with admiration but to be a sanctimonious 

cynic with only the sanctimony visible presenting 

as empathy and a desire to be of public service

is the hallmark of a political genius who instinctively

knows how to capture the  trust and loyalty of those 

targeted to bring a democratically elected leader 

to power through a willing electorate. Outgoing

personability, a modest demeanor, a winning smile 

promising sincere intent and a comely physical

appearance all initial aids to vaulting ambition 

by a practised egotist within a studied thespian 

with ambitions to make a nation his stage to 

international acclaim. In a climate of universal 

threat to public well-being heralding an opportunist

impassioned defence of looting the national treasury 

to gain the voting public's economic equilibrium

castigating the wealthy even while consorting 

with them as an equal the most efficiently effective 

insurance that a spirit of public indebtedness in

gratitude of trust installed through funding to 

those not needing it, but known to vote appropriately

in appreciation lends credence to the concerns of 

clear-eyed critics understanding full well that 

democracy is no guarantee of sound governance.

 

Destiny's Son's Smile

 

How void of suspense and drama would be the 

history of the world without the presence of those 

legendary creators of a new world order carefully 

arranged through revelations of divine intervention 

in search of the golden grail of destiny. When the 

vanishingly rare spark of genius alights to set fire 

in the cerebrum of one no one might suspect of 

consorting with the elevated powers of global 

conquest as its chosen possessor ascends the 

spiral staircase assigned to purpose the rise of a 

human construct of divine choice giving no option 

whatever to those comprising the great balance 

of humanity. Now chosen to lead a great empire 

toward its final place in the global order Prophet 

Xi by measures profoundly profane effectively

rises to the throne of empire, his place in history 

assured while lesser mortals with similar ambitions 

albeit lacking purposeful ascent emerge as mere 

footnotes to history as horrific serial murderers.

 

 

It's the Jews!

 

 

It is not yet known and possibly never will be

since the accursed creatures determined to

dominate the world and perhaps the universe

are notoriously averse to identifying themselves yet

represent a secretive cabal, from which primitive

planet drifting in the bleak darkness of outer space

they arrived possibly exiled by common decree

to befoul the serene accommodating and peaceful

aura that would pervade this globe were it not

for their hostile presence. They are heroes those

who recognize and deplore the mission of these

extra-terrestrials to destabilize the irenic glory of

the ship of Earth gliding through the ocean of sky

unrelenting in their revelations of the sinister plots

against humanity from ancient times to the present

of these interlopers seeking to command and to own

all the riches of the planet by stealth -- skilled at

covert schemes to install themselves at the  height

of society and government taking the reins of

finance and communication to steer the naive

in awe of their false benevolence in developing

hospitals and universities, humanitarian groups to

aid those in need, innovators to bring the world of

science into a modern era, music and art to delight

the soul in a massive conspiracy to deceive while

sweeping awards and recognition of superior

achievements, all designed to disarm suspicion in

their ultimate goal. Yet all is not lost for the world

can rely on the august body of the United Nations

and its stalwart minions to reveal the devilish ruse.

 

 

And Now Abideth Faith, Hope and Charity

All those humanly vital ingredients for survival
are there, in abundance, Faith, Hope, Charity.
Does the order and the singular manner of their
magnitude concern us in the dark night of despair?
Suffice that they manifest, for without those
sisters of survival, devastation, forlorn destitution
and graspingly greedy Death alone would remain.

One might assume that Dread Death had
feasted extravagantly enough as it was, consuming
a quarter million of Haiti's perennially
hopelessly indigent. But no, there he is, the
fallen angel, slavering over those newly delivered
to his bony maw by disaster-endemic choleric disease.

The millions of earthquake-displaced huddling
in makeshift hovels of canvas, plastic, paper and tin
against nighttime cold and winter rains, praise God
and fervently pray for deliverance from these
incessant tests of their simple faith. As they raise
voice in Hosannas their faith remains their hope.

They extend charity of thought toward the
outside world stricken by Haiti's pathetic presence
reflecting a people's miserable past, present and
destiny. Charity rains down heavy with morose
guilt from abroad as thousands of organized
charitable groups provide water, food, medicine.

Predators roam the squalid camps seeking out
the vulnerable; women and children. Who to keep
them safe from harm? People linger without
purpose, seeking comfort among their own, as
orphaned and lost children weep and seek
refuge and food to still their pangs of hunger.

Foreign governments pledge aid dollars that
slip effortlessly into the pockets of corrupt
officialdom. In crisply washed frilly dresses,
hair meticulously pigtailed, girls and women
join their menfolk in voodoo ritualistic ceremonies
and ruined cathedral masses where the bodies of
other faithful remain interred under the rubble.

In this ruined, bleak country the Three Graces
of timeless legend immortalized by human need
and nature's devastating deed, dance gracefully,
raising plummeting spirits. In Haiti, Faith, Hope
and Charity clasp one another with love and divine
forbearance. Well they might for what it avails. 

 

The Inner Self

 

 

Life is a difficult passage - from childhood
curiosity, stimulation and growing aspirations
to the development of memory, experience,
regret and profound concerns and finally,
disappointments. We are singularly fortunate
when the serendipity of personal fortune
outweighs the overlapping misfortunes that
are met and dealt with on our life-journey.

It is incumbent upon us all, in reflection of
the finer emotions we are gifted with, to care.
The manner in which we express that care, on
every conceivable level, identifies us as
individuals. When caring becomes an intolerable
burden that makes a misery of our lives, there
is a useful human antidote: humour.

There is no situation, however stressful and unhappy
in its dark bleakness that does not hint at humour
for even humour can have its grim edge, lifting
us from submission to despair. Before we
stretch the tether of emotional balance to its
snapping point, humour beckons to be heeded.

A lighter mood has its own perspective, capable
of reflecting hope and deliverance from the
destitution of lonely, devastating destruction of
confidence in the future. Where there is no hope,
there is no future. Where there is not future, there
is no reason to prolong life. The imperative is to
steer in the direction of life and the future. One
where the light of hope and comedic relief from
life's stressors liberate us from rejecting ourselves.

We can laugh and find humour everywhere; light
and carefree, or mercilessly dark. But humour,
withal. Transient but renewable, sturdily useful,
enrapturing at times, insightful and mind-directing,
it may become a tool of choice in our enduring
free-choice subliminal quiver of survivalist options.

 

 

Skip One Generation

 

It is a conundrum. Why, that is, people
have children. As a way to complicate lives,
nothing else quite matches child-rearing
for resulting agitation, confusion, frustration.
The child questions and challenges the parents'
authority while the parents attempt to fulfill
their parental mandate to guide, protect,
encourage and support their offspring.

Difficulties in achieving this most basic
of human social protocols, to obey nature's
first law of survival through genetic inheritance,
bumps hard up against nature's other imperative,
the child's quest for affirmation of independence.
The parent-child gulf of one separating generation
is so profoundly vast as to produce a malfunctioning
relationship not readily amenable to being breached.

The patent relief on the psyche of both parent
and child when they are finally free of one another's
daily puzzling divisions of temperament, values,
priorities, are profound. The parents' revenge, as it
were, is realized finally on seeing their children
join the ranks of parents themselves, confronted
by the very reflection of parent-child dissonance.

Only the grandparents are firmly in the child's
self-obsessed, entitled orbit, holding no brief for
their own children suddenly confronted by that
all-too-familiar challenge. Oppositional divides
widen, converge. The new parents' methodology
confronted by the old parents whose memory
of their own efforts remain sharply astringent .

Emotions lavished on the new generation in a
conspiracy linking children and grandparents,
excluding the parents, the agony of raising
children reveals its purpose as a necessary albeit
blighted tedium whose end result, the grandchildren
who can do no wrong, delights the grandparents
into a state of exuberant elderly amnesia.

 

 

Once Again To the Breach!

 

 

There, she's done it again. Your anxiously
lonely and obsessed, impetuous daughter
has chosen unwisely, and in your ears,
piercing your torn heart comes the
unleashing of the conflicted anguish. Out
it comes in an unending stream of emotional
bile against yet another man whose cavalier
approach to partnership in life has managed
to devastate expectations; are you surprised?

A brief nod to self-reproach as she moans
that her generous spirit and open heart
conspired yet again to leave her gasping in
frustrated disbelief. You cannot interject to
remind her of the imperious rejection of your
cautious advice, for now is not the time and in
fact there never will be a time. You are there, a
soft wall of compassion, absorbing her grief.

Note to self: you will shop for a luxurious set
of warm flannel queen-size sheets for your once-
again bereft child, hardly knowing where to turn
for the comfort of a life companion once again
denied her. It is a gesture the absurdity of which
will pass beyond her, and just as well, given the
circumstances. Those circumstances being nothing
you may now amend, after all those years.

Did you raise her so ineptly, arm her so sadly
insufficiently to recognize quality from liability?
Fail to imbue her with an acute awareness of her
own value and discerning discrimination well used?
Were those life lessons you imparted by word and
in deed so shallow and redundant? She is approaching
menopause. When does personal passage to life's
afflictions become one's rightful ownership? 

 

 

But It's Good For You!

 

 

He is a very small creature, but perforce not
to be judged by his size which nonetheless
houses a quite large ego, an odd belligerence,
and no small consideration of entitlement.
Ah, yes, not to be forgotten - an oversized
appetite as well, more suited to the need of,
for example, a hard-working sled dog. He,
by contrast, has naught to do but anticipate
meals laced tantalizingly with tidbits his
humans consume, and contemplate the weary
rest one is compelled to indulge in, afterward.

He is, to say the least, besotted with his
languid lifestyle. It is when, daily, the
presumptuous humans among whom he
deigns to live, assume he wishes to accompany
them on woodland rambles, that his patience
wears thin. Indolence, he feels, becomes him
so. No need whatever for the she to sigh that
he is becoming a tad too rotund, for he
most certainly favours rotund, and it is his
body, after all, under critical discussion.

Does he, to be fair, evaluate and stand in
judgement of her humanoid form? Perish
the very (awkward) thought; he has better
things with which to occupy his mind, like:
who goes there!? when they are engaged in
the silly conceit of marching through the woods
and leaving peanuts for squirrels. Yes, he is
presumptuously belligerent -- was not Napoleon?

What a futile, nonsensical pastime these
daily rambles represent, an affront to his
dignity and sense of self. His pace displeases
her; she wheedles and teases, pleads entreatingly,
resorts in irritation to authoritative tugs, which
he simply will not tolerate -- so he tugs back.
Is he therefore stubborn as she so bitterly
claims, then? Is the Pope, need we ask, pious?

 

 

The Compelling Winds

 

The shy little cousins of the wind - the gentle
zephyr, the breeze, stand by regarding the fully
mature wind with awe. The puissant grandeur
of the wind, its assured and determined mission
against which all of nature's creatures quail,
instructs and guides the breeze and the zephyr,
but they will never be capable of instilling
dread and fear in the pursuit of their assigned
roles within nature's indomitable schemes.

The gentle ones soothe, they cool and refresh,
they are met with calm expectation. Yet
they longingly regard the fearful esteem the
wind's fury elicits in its many fearful guises as
intemperate, fierce, pitiless, bitter, raw,
destructive and unstoppable in its self-tasked
guidance heralding atmospheric change, posing
by degrees as a hurricane, a tornado, a blunt
force blast furnace shielding its ferocious intent
behind innocent sounding names like el nino and
la nina. Snowy blizzards erasing vision and warmth,
torrential rains abetted by howling winds reveal
facets of the weather phenomena so genially
visited upon this Globe by the great Earth Mother.

Wind becomes a co-conspirator with fire,
wreaking havoc on the flora and fauna lest there
remain any doubts who sits at nature's right-hand
side; the sinister by right of conquest and
domineering intent. From the enabling resources
of the environment's firestorms to the sweeping
guidance of ice storms shredding all that stands
before them. Volcanic vapour and fiery ashes
spread far and wide over land, sea and air.
Wind-whipped ocean storms breeding gigantic
vessel-killer waves and deadly land-sweeping
tsunamis; the wind whips, master of all. 

 

 

The Untouchables

 

There, she caught herself doing it again. She wasn’t really thinking about what she was doing, it was a habit that just seemed to develop, over time. Her father teased her about it, said he was prepared to take the mirror off, to help her. His very own Miss Personality. She thought it amusing at first, then tired of hearing him say it. Her mother defended her, saying it was just natural for a young woman to try to make certain she looked all right, before confronting a stranger. Not that it was only strangers that came to the door. So she had glimpsed herself in the mirror, to make certain she looked all right; big deal.

She was running late, really didn’t want to have anyone at the door. It would be the second time this week if she arrived late at work. Mr. Peters wouldn’t say anything directly, but he noticed and he took note. It was Sheila whom it impacted. She was mature and experienced, and cut her younger colleague some slack. Even though it meant she would be harried and a bit upset, doing work they both were tasked with.

Sometimes she just got carried away, forgot the time. What with her early morning run, and too many things she let slop over from the night before that took her time the following morning, it was always a race against time to make sure she left when she should. And right then, it was time she left. Right when the doorbell rang.

It was the last few Tweets that did it. Oh, and that email she sent her cousin, just some last-minute updates on their trip. She forgot the time, got too involved and wasn’t even certain she had given a clear explanation of why everyone in the area was becoming so nervous.

Anyway, there she was, ready to leave, and now she had to respond to someone at the door. Always some kind of nuisance factor to complicate life, she sighed.

Like her Dad, putting up last-minute objections to the trip she and Nora were preparing for.

“I know young people are curious and like the idea of adventure and going to new places, but you two are out of your minds, planning a trip to Central America. You have any idea of the number of people robbed, injured, even murdered there?”

Like he did, as though he kept up to date on stuff like that. He was interfering as usual, inventing reasons why she shouldn't pursue something of interest to her. She'd be in her cousin's company, after all, and Nora had travelled on her own, before. When she mentioned this to her father he always snorted and said who'd look at Nora. She thought that was really offensive, but she said nothing about it.

“Yes, Dad, we do. We’ve talked about it. We’ll mostly be in cities, and the few side-trips we take will be with a guide. So relax, we’re not exactly stupid, you know.” They wouldn't use the services of local guides, they'd decided that. Nora knew her way around and knew how to get around, and they wanted this to be a different kind of adventure; she had confidence in her cousin, even if her dad hadn't.

“Not stupid, I never meant to intimate that, just innocent of what can happen when you’re in a strange place”, he grumbled.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake” her mother intervened. “All the young people are doing that, travelling before they get bogged down with life. They’ll be fine. They’ll be together, after all, and they’re both responsible adults, they’re not kids, after all.”

She could always count on her mom to come to her defense. Her father was just too protective, fearful of anything that could happen to his little girl. Her mother said he’d been like that since she had emerged from the womb and they both had a good laugh over that.

Theirs was the only house in the area that had a storm door over the regular front door. No one else saw the need for that. Oh, it was practical all right, to air things out in the summer heat, installing the screen part, but it wasn’t for that reason her father had installed it. It was so that he could teach her that it represented a barrier. When she responded to the front door and there was no one else around in the house, she could open the front door, and decide whether she would unlock the storm door.

Now, confronting her visitor, it was clear there was no need for precautions. She knew him. Not personally, but she knew of him, knew what he looked like, what he represented, his reputation and power in the community. She knew other things about him too, of course, everyone did. This was a small community, only six thousand people, and everyone more or less was aware of everyone else. Strangers would stick out in this community.

Even so, peculiarly alarming things had been happening in the past year and a half. There was clearly a violent predator on the loose coming from somewhere and everyone was nervous. Not her, not exactly, she felt all right, just that she was aware, as any intelligent woman should be. You can't be frightened all the time, you've got to live your life, or it's no life at all, her girlfriends had all agreed. The violently gruesome death of one young woman in the area was felt to be an isolated incident. That was a year ago and the investigators had turned up nothing at all.

There was no linkage, as far as anyone could tell, to the two women who had been bound, heads covered, raped and beaten, both within the space of a month. They'd been alone for the night. Just coincidence, or did someone local know that because they'd been stalked? Little wonder the whole town was on alert. It was top of the gossip charts. The mayor did his best to calm fears, and so did the OPP. These were rare, anomalous events in this sleepy little town.

Everyone was convinced some nutcase from Ottawa was involved, likely from one of the suburbs which weren’t, in fact, all that distant. Police had done a thorough job questioning anyone whom they thought might be involved from the area, and they’d come up with one huge zero. Anyway, nothing else had happened for awhile; it was possible whoever it was had decided to play his deadly games somewhere else, or moved, or … who knows?

“Can I help you?” she asked. “My parents have just left.”

“Hello, Miss Jackman. Heidi, I know that’s your name. Is it all right if I call you that?”

He knew her name. How odd was that. She warmed to him. The way he was looking at her. He had a reputation for being stand-offish, and there was nothing too stand-offish about his frank admiration. Suddenly she felt embarrassed. “Sure, she said, that’s all right. What can I do for you?”

Was he looking for directions? Wanting to ask her something about her parents? Her mother was involved in the local social club, maybe that was it.

“That’s all right, it isn’t your mom or dad I’m interested in”, he said, smiling broadly.

A large man, well built, must be close to 50, but doesn’t look it, she mused. Married; he and his wife famously a power couple in the nation’s capital. Bought a ‘cottage’ in the area; a lavish one-story brick house in fact, but because of its location, right at the river’s edge, it was termed a cottage. She should be so lucky, she thought wryly. Husband a wealthy industrialist; a social stature and affluence she might only imagine, and clearly politically well connected.

The town was flattered by their presence as summer residents. Pumped up with the importance of having someone like him around. It was well known that the mayor and his council deferred to him, invited him to their closed-session meetings. And it was also on the rumour mill that he pulled his influence where it mattered, to the gain of the town. More; it was bantered about he was considering opening a branch plant. There would be openings for local jobs. He had everyone’s respect.

So it was kind of puzzling that Marie, whose family owned the local pub, described to her friends a taciturn man who showed up there regularly once a week to order the ale brought in especially for his refined tastes, settling himself at the bar far from any locals in hot conversation. But here he was, Mr. Friendly, demonstrating his reputation as the jewelled presence of opportunity in situ.

“Oh, what then?” Interested in her? She wracked her mind to think why he might say that. Nothing special about her as far as influence went. She was involved with the town’s Little Theatre group but she didn’t sell tickets to their performances. Could he be an aspiring thespian? Why come to her, why not Adrian, who made all those arrangements?

“Me? You want to ask something of me?”

“May I come in?”, he asked.

She blushed again. So busy inside her head trying to find meaning in his presence she’d forgotten her manners. She glanced toward the driveway. There was his big BMW blocking her Toyota. “I’m … kind of late. I’m supposed to be at work in ten minutes”, she explained.

“That’s all right", he said, easily. 'I won’t take much of your time. Just a few minutes. You can spare a few minutes for me, can’t you?”

Her parents would never forgive her if she was rude to the man. Besides which, this was flattering, ego-appealing. Being noticed by someone like him …

“Sure”, she said, “I can spare a few minutes. Please, come in.” And she pushed the storm door wide, inviting him entry.

Stepping across the threshhold. Entering their house. Looking around. Spotting Tigger, her little orange-striped cat. “You’ve got a cat! My wife and I, we have cats”, he said.

“Yes”, she said, “I know”. And then cursed herself for saying that. Tried to make amends as though to tell him she had no personal interest, wasn’t nosy about him herself: “It’s just that”, she stumbled, embarrassed again, “everyone seems to know everything about you.”

He laughed self-deprecatingly, and drifted into the living room. Looked around, as though appraising the value of the interior. Cocking his head toward the stairs, and she wondered why. She invited him to take a seat on the sofa, and nervously sat across from him, but he quickly got to his feet again and said he didn’t mean to take any more of her time.

He wanted, actually, to show her something and it just happened he’d forgotten it in his car. It would take him a moment to get it, but on the other hand, it might be quicker, more efficient, if she just accompanied him to the car, he’d extract it and give it to her for her consideration.

Consideration? Was he offering her a job? The thought of a hefty salary doing something interesting flooded her mind.

“Just a minute, then, I’ll get my things …" She’d just jump into her own car afterward and make off for work.

“No“, he said, “don’t bother, you can get your things together once I’ve left, there’ll be ample time. This will only take a minute.”

And he grasped her firmly by her shoulders, leading her weakly protesting, out the front door, to his car.

When her mother returned from work late afternoon, she assumed her daughter was working late. Or she’d gone shopping with a friend, after work; that wasn’t unusual. But she noted the telephone answer machine light blinking. And the message was asking where her daughter was, her colleague was being swamped and couldn’t handle everything on her own. The next message fairly well repeated the original one. Finally, there was a third message, from her daughter’s employer and the man sounded fairly put out.

It was too late to call the place, they had closed for the day. She fumbled with the telephone book to find the number for her daughter’s employer, and called him. No, she hadn’t shown up to work at all that day, he grumbled.

A slow panic overtook her. She heard a sound and jumped, her worry suddenly evaporated, ready to grasp her daughter in a panicked hug of relief. And then tell her in no uncertain terms that her odd behaviour today had worried her no end, and that she had a lot of explaining to do to her employer.

But it was her husband, returning from work.

In a growing state of shock and fear they contacted the police.

“Please, Ma’m” the desk officer said, “calm yourself. Is there anyone else there we can speak to? I’m having difficulties understanding, your words are kind of running together.”

 

 

Deference By Association

 

When I kind of casually mention his rank, people are instantly deferential. Gives me a bit of a leg up, I soon enough noticed. Respect by association. Although I’ve earned my own, in fact. Still, it doesn’t hurt to mention that kind of thing.

My father always thought of himself as an astute judge of character. He could tell right off by closely examining someone, he always said, what they were made of. First impressions, he would tell anyone who’d listen, are important. I was really pleased when the first impression Mike made on dad was a good one. “Fine young fella”, he said.

I’d already been going out fairly steadily with him by then. My mom was less impressed. Mike was with the military, the air force, and my mother wasn’t thrilled with that, on my behalf, she said. Urged me to look around a little more. I could do better for myself.

“You wouldn’t like it, trust me, Sheila, living with someone in the military.”

“What on Earth would you know about it, Mom?” I recall asking. I wanted her to be as generous in her acceptance of Mike as dad so obviously was. Why I cared what my mother thought anyway, puzzled me more than I cared to admit. Truth was, I didn't know.

“I know”, mom responded. “I know that you’d have to share him with the military. His first allegiance will be to the military. That’s just the way it is. If he’s needed somewhere, called to duty, off he goes, and you’re left at home, holding the bag.”

“What bag might that be, Mother?” A little arch; she thought, since she knew what her mother was getting at.

“You want it spelled out? Ever thought what it might be like living on a military base? What kind of support do you think you’d have there, isolated from everything you’re familiar with? You’d be stuck there, with your kids, months, even possibly years at a time, if this country ever gets involved in another big war.”

“Kids!” she laughed. " There won’t be any.” Now that really shocked her mother. Mothers always begin thinking about grand kids. She’d have to get used the idea that her only kid won’t be having any. Tough, but that’s how it is. I can't envision myself as a mother.

“You can’t really mean that! You’re telling me you’ve given that thought and you’ve come to the conclusion you don’t want children? What about your future husband? Even if you don’t want any kids, what makes you think he won't?”

“Relax, Mom, he doesn’t want kids any more than I do. We’ve been through all that. It’s a mutual decision.”

“You’ve had that depth of conversation already? You’re that certain you want to spend your life with this guy?”

That was then. And since then so many things went down in our lives together. He took university courses and so did I. His were political history, economics, mine psychology, media studies. We had ambition. I often thought how alike my dad I am in identifying other peoples' strengths, and I was right; he had an abundance of great qualities.

Of course that wasn’t what brought us together. Sheer animal magnetism was what did it, back then. He was rough and ready, a handsome, tall male and I was ready to settle into some guy’s life. Things just seemed to mesh. I was lucky, I knew that.

He surprised me, frankly, about the sex thing. Just didn’t seem like he was prepared for it. Didn’t want, he said, to compromise me before marriage. My mouth kind of hung open. Was he for real? Was he just kidding me? As though I hadn’t had any experience. I was open with him, but that didn’t seem to impress upon him. He would wait. Bloody damn, I thought that was really, truly stupid, absolutely Victorian; antediluvian, actually.

I wasn’t, that way inclined, just bloody frustrated and just a little uncertain about him, over that. It just wasn’t … kind of … normal. For a guy not to press the issue. It made me a little uneasy. Besides which I had a good dose of sexual urges and saw no functionality in waiting. What the hell for? He wouldn’t budge. So despite some misgivings, we agreed, finally, to put the wedding date forward.

After that everything was fine. But again he surprised me. Oh, it wasn’t that he couldn’t perform. He was good, great, sent me into the high Cs. No complaints, just a bit of a surprise about his attitude. He waited for signals from me. Once he thought he had that - and those signals kept coming - he'd sweep me into the bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, anywhere, any time. He was amazingly good.

Still, I couldn't help wondering why he had this tactful delicacy about holding back until he thought the time was good for me. Sometimes that wasn't what I wanted. What the hell was his problem? Made me wonder about whether there was some kind of twisted relationship somewhere in his history.

I thought I would try something else, and began to practise being cold to the prospect of inviting him. Turn my back to him in bed, forget to kiss him, push him away after the perfunctory kiss and embrace when he arrived home in the evening. The cues were absent and he respected their absence. And that positively infuriated me.

Here he was, a big strong male, a military man no less, and he found it difficult to approach me demanding sex? What the hell!

He asked what was wrong a couple of times and I said nothing, nothing was wrong. He brought me flowers, took me out a little more often. But I stayed aloof. I was determined to wait this thing out, to make him puzzle out what was wrong in this relationship. But he was always so bloody busy, damn him.

Was anything wrong with that? I wanted him to assert his masculinity, wanted him to sweep me off my feet, let me know in no uncertain terms that he wanted me. I needed him to take no notice of my assumed coldness, to take me by storm, overcome my weak 'objections'.

Nothing. Finally I couldn't stand it any longer, and though I didn't really mean to, I blurted that found it strange that he wasn’t able or willing to be a little more sexually domineering. That’s what I wanted, I told him, what I expected from him. His passivity bugged the hell out of me. I couldn't understand what was going on, I could see he enjoyed sex as much as I did.

“That’s it, that’s what’s been bothering you?” he asked. “You’re my wife, I love and respect, cherish you, why would I be physically overbearing with you?”

“It’s just that … it doesn’t seem - kind of natural. The way you do it”, I said. “I … I’d like a little more physicality … know what I mean?”

“No. No, not exactly. But I’m getting a hint, here. My performance isn’t up to par, you want to be roughed up a bit, that kind of thing?” He said it with an air of disbelief. And maybe, I thought, a bit of hurt feelings. I was challenging his masculinity, after all, getting into dangerous territory.

Things changed after that, though. We had one hell of a time together. And he was ascending rapidly up the line of career appointments. Helped along by a stint at the Royal Military College where he obtained his Masters degree.

And I was getting plenty of experience working as a case manager for a local social services agency. And then transferring that experience to a career with another branch of the military myself, using my expertise in social welfare to advance myself as an advocate and support for military families. I felt pretty comfortable around the bases he was assigned to, and managed cross-stream assignments.

As he rose in the ranks, I often tagged along. Europe, East Asia. Secondments that increased his reputation. While he did his thing I did my own. That was another thing; through this exposure to foreign countries I learned more about people, formed some perceptions in opportunities to augment my formal training, sharpening my instinctual ability to diagnose idiosyncrasies in people. Kind of a more informed knock-off of my father.

So when Mike returned to National Defence Headquarters, there I was, ready to launch out again on another career tangent. We did all right, me and him. Some people (snidely I suspect) referred to us as a “power couple”, and I suppose that’s right on the mark.

Mike helped me through some tough times, too. A couple of times there were some really ugly, violent things that happened in places where he was stationed. The local media would cover these gruesome things, and for some reason, they bothered me more than I think they would have if I’d read about them back home. Women going missing, their bodies found later in desolate out-of-the-way places. Evidence they had been sexually assaulted before being cut up, partially dismembered. But all the pieces found together when they were finally discovered, in a state of decomposition.

Thinking about things like that made me pretty hysterical. Mike comforted me, reminded me how safe I was surrounded by the military, and being with him. He would never allow anything bad to happen to me, he always said.

Back home again we bought a nice little vacation property, and a house as well in a suburban area of the city. As part of the executive contingent of the military Mike makes good money, and so do I, working as a consultant with a large national health-advocacy charity. And then, Mike got a really terrific assignment; base commander of the largest and most important military base in the country.

There’s this about Mike; he doesn’t stand on ceremony; he’s affable and good-natured, and treats everyone well. People respect him, they like him. And that makes me really proud of this guy I married. I’d never have been able to imagine he’d make that rank and be given that kind of responsibility. He’s a full colonel; on track, I’ve been told confidentially, to becoming a fairly young full general in the near future.

I discussed that with him, of course. And he told me it’s in the future and fairly assured, but we’d do well not to say anything about it. Or, he said, if I really needed to tell someone, I could mention it to my parents, and he would to his, telling them to keep it to themselves. It was nothing that had to be spoken of, because there were no guarantees, only speculation at this point, despite what anyone said.

His parents were thrilled, naturally. And my dad kept saying how he knew all along that Mike would amount to one whole hell of a lot. My mom? Well, she smiles and doesn’t say too much these days. She’s not all there at times, she’s gone into a health decline; early symptoms of dementia. That worries the hell out of me. Not only for my mom and my dad, but for me, too. I imagine I’m genetically inclined toward the same. Mike laughs that off, tells me no one could be healthier, more involved with life than me.

We keep fit, both of us. Lots of time spent building up muscle and resistance to ageing; we’re in good shape. Couldn’t do that kind of thing if we had kids. No spontaneity. No fun, too many constraints. Our leisure time activities are heavy on golf. There’s a golf course close to where our summer cottage is located.

A few weeks after Mike took up command of the base, some young Corporal, a military flight attendant at the base, was found dead in her home. Her boyfriend found her there, dead. In her nightclothes, torn, throat slit, sexually abused. Her boyfriend, evidently, wasn’t a suspect. He was military too. Mike said these things happen, they happen anywhere. There are plenty of sadistic people around, psychopaths. Society would never be rid of them, he said. It’s simply an unfortunate fact of life.

More stuff went down. Seems to me women are plagued by men who turn out to be these criminal misfits. I can’t understand for the life of me how a mother can raise boys without imbuing a stiff sense of respect in them for other people, for women in particular. What kind of a man would brutalize, rape and torture a woman? A lost soul, Mike says, trying to comfort me. But they’ll get their own in the end, he said to me.

There were two home invasions a week apart in the area during the summer. In both instances it was women alone at home at night. A masked man entered their homes, raped and robbed them. This is a small town not used to this kind of stuff. Doors often not locked. One of the women had recently been separated from her husband. Both women reported intimate apparel missing, afterward, that they'd been photographed, naked, in degrading positions by this monster.

I thought about our neighbours, the people we bought our cottage from. He’s an amateur photographer. And I kicked myself for having those thoughts. He’s a nice enough guy, and his wife, too. He's not much of a conversationalist, but we don't have much in common; they're country people, and we're busy; he's retired, got lots of time to shuffle around. She shares garden produce with us, mostly zucchini; guess they grow too much of the stuff and don’t know what to do with it. I don’t either; I tend to just toss it.

When the second of the two home invasions occurred, soon afterward police actually arrived at the place next door to question this guy. Even though I’d thought about him, I was appalled. I just couldn’t believe it. They came back a second time to question him and his wife again. We never had much to do with them after that, hardly spoke beyond the occasional brief hello, that kind of thing. Never said anything to her about that, didn't want to hurt her feelings.

But I did say a lot to Mike about it. He tried to steady me, told me that if the police had any leads, any evidence or witness accounts that supported their suspicions they would arrest the guy. Sure he was questioned, Mike said. So were a lot of other local males. It was standard procedure. People were nervous and angry and upset and wanted some answers. So the police react and go around questioning everyone. Probably, he said, everyone but the person who did it. Often, he said, that’s the way things go.

I told him I just didn’t feel comfortable there any more. We should sell the place. I wanted to return to the house, summer be damned. I wouldn’t spend another night sleeping next to where this guy lived. So he agreed. He always does, he never gives me any grief about anything. He has pointed out often enough that I might be a more effective social worker if I managed to remain personally calm in the face of human relation difficulties. I know that. That’s why I switched over to fund-raising isn’t it?

That’s why I’m back here again, at the house. And Mike, of course, can’t be here right now, since he’s no longer stationed at Headquarters. He’s back at the base. With his responsibilities. Enormous responsibilities, I might add. But he’s more than able to match his abilities and his talents to the work needing attention.

I miss him. But he comes along most week-ends and he tells me it won’t be all that long before he’ll be re-assigned. Likely back to Headquarters. A year, maybe two. In any event, it’s far more convenient for me to be able to drive down to my own office from this location. Tele-commuting is a drag.

My God, another young woman missing. An alert went out when she didn’t report to work as expected. Her family is frantic and search parties have gone out looking everywhere. The community is helping, people are putting up posters. Word has spread through Facebook postings and the news media are really playing this one up. Probably went off on her own, sick of living in a small town, the cloistered atmosphere, lack of privacy. I hope. God, I hope her body isn't found somewhere, that would be horrible for her family. I think I knew the girl, her face looked familiar from the news shots.

And then. And then I discovered, listening to the radio early Sunday morning that that young woman who has been missing for weeks now - her body was discovered in a remote location. Mike heard it too, he was in bed beside me. On the week-ends when he’s home, we sleep in. And we listen to the radio when we wake, trying to stretch out as long as possible the luxury of staying in bed before we’ve got to get up and going.

Things happen so fast, when they happen. Our house is surrounded by yellow tape. I was advised I’d have to leave, to somewhere else for the time being. I went to my parents’ home. I’ll stay there for a few days, I guess. Or as long as it takes while they search our house. They'll let me know when I can return ... home. My mother knows absolutely nothing, she's just kind of back at an earlier time in her life. My dad is grim-faced and tries his best to comfort me. He’s going nuts, I think, going from my mom to me.

Mike, he’s been arrested. Two separate first-degree murder charges. And two home invasions. Investigating authorities say they’ve launched further enquiries into unsolved assaults against women that occurred over the past years, in places where he’s been stationed. There's all kinds of police forces working together on this, the media are reporting. Mike's face is everywhere, standing in uniform, handsome and resolute, standing next to the Minister of Defence, showing him around the base.

That guy who lives in the cottage next to ours said something to the press that really infuriated me. He said that while he was being treated as a prime suspect in the murder of the missing woman his wife was getting telephone calls and people at the other end would say to her “What’s it like, being married to a murderer?”