Dealing With Uncivil Muslim Threats

The thing of it is, you see, it's really bad form to 

shoot up parochial Jewish schools, no better to 

firebomb synagogues, defile them with racist slogans 

and threats, intimidate schoolchildren, threaten 

and march to protest the existence of a Jewish state

celebrate the rape and murder of Israeli women

admire the butchers who slaughtered families and 

tortured children in front of their anguished parents. 

        IT JUST ... IS NOT ... CIVILIZED.

And it is downright bad behaviour to occupy the

campuses of universities demanding administrators

agree to relinquish investment in any fora involving 

Jews and Israel, cut off academic links and let it 

be known that Palestinian students are welcomed 

free of tuition fees to study where Jews have been 

outlawed. We know these peaceful protests are not nice 

because the country's authorities condemn them

identifying the most outrageous as antisemitism and 

vowing they will not allow such raw hostility and 

lawlessness to occur in such a wonderful country as 

Canada. So be prepared for elected officials at 

every level to finally take possession of the situation 

becoming more dangerous as each week goes by. 

They are !!Ahem!! prepared to meet each incident 

head on in no uncertain terms -- by of course 

iterating and reiterating their civic displeasure.

The Select Credulity of Evil

The conundrum speaks to a peculiar flaw in

human nature when popular opinion in the

minds of great swaths of humanity mysteriously

find themselves drawn to believe interpretations

expressing raw infidelity to reality issued from

a group that embraces the elixir of jubilation

so exhilarating to their sense of immorality in

carrying out mass murder, finding enjoyable the

agony imposed on raped and mutilated girls and 

women in the raw pursuit of power and pleasure

committing atrocities of a magnitude eliciting

disgust among those in the civilized world with

the possible exception of psychopaths admiring

and emulating the propensity of low-order humanity

to extreme violence committed against others. Yet

this very group of humanity's executioners held

to the lowest of standards somehow draw credulity

in their version of events meant to blacken the

reputation of the most moral society on Earth for

the simple reason that when Jews are involved evil

contaminates humanity's trust in balanced logic.

Palestinian Blood Sport

In 20th Century Third Reich Germany Jews

were declared Untermensch with no civil rights

the state declaring that Jews could not teach nor

their children attend school, for why bother when

their future dimmed toward a horizon of complete

extermination in the knowledge that none would

intervene. In 21st Century post-national Canada

a creeping antisemitism has morphed into a

full-blown rage of intense hate and there too now

while governing authorities have not proclaimed

its Jews expendable, neither have they lifted an

eyebrow when Jews are once again persecuted

threatened and their human rights violated so

that Jewish children attending school submit to

jeering threats and random violence, unleashed

by terrorist factions against Israel's vulnerable

populations of farming communities by the

Angel of Death's willing executioners who

subscribe to an aspiration to renew Holocaust

intentions and in the process ably convincing

the world that theirs is a just response to Jewish

intransigence insisting on the right to restore

its ancient ancestral heritage on contested land.

Admirers and supporters in Canada pleased to

emulate the fearsome actions of terror as proxies

abroad threatening Jewish life in Canada with

utter impunity from a demographic reflecting

the deadly rancour of tribal memory reborn.

 

Post-National Canada

His father before him merely fractured the country 

whereas his father's son has been far more ambitious 

and strove with panache and vision to destroy the 

heedless country that elected him its premier 

taken by his charisma, demeanor and handsome 

facade never dreaming that he would set out to 

accomplish what he spoke of as post-nationalism 

a country whose population was that of immigrants 

primarily from a Europe of bygone days under two 

founding nations competing for dominance and 

settling for accommodation. A country where 

newcomers took their place in the vast open spaces 

wheretribal First Nations found themselves a minority

yet there was cohesion and common values to bind

the fledgling nation toward peace and prosperity.

Enter the son with his narcissistic flair dazzling the

electorate until his machinations drew the country 

into a maelstrom of antagonism when progress meant

a return to the past when vast natural resources lay 

untouched enfeebling the economy even as social 

services became strained under the burden of an 

avalanche of migration unrestrained by scrutiny in 

an embrace of the world's misfits, tribal and theistic 

belligerents flailing and flaunting their contempt 

for all that Canada represented where equality was

transmogrified to represent reverse racial prejudice

disentitling those proficient in a multitude of skills 

in the name of diversity and inclusion. A diversity 

that now growls its disdain, flexes its muscles of 

hostile activities, flourishing on the opportunities 

to brandish threats and criminal acts against a minor

demographic whose  historical ancestry gifted the 

world and Canada with vision and the philosophy 

of caring tolerance. Mission accomplished the chief 

enabler of chaos and ruin whose legacy is Canada's 

downfall beams pride on his great accomplishment.

 

Neighbours

 

 

These are your neighbours, now

 
grandparents to children as young

 
as their own were when you first

 
knew them. Some have become

 
firm friends, others have 

 
disqualified themselves from

 
that inner circle to remain firmly

 
acquaintances, but all are like

 
close-bound residents of a

 
small village whose moments in

 
life become public knowledge

 
by consent of the inevitable

 
or by design. Now the common

 
interest is the afflictions of

 
implacable aging as all are

 
bemused by the little-noticed

 
alterations in appearance, where

 
grey is the mutually shared common

 
denominator. That, and the growing

 
litany of hip-and-knee replacements

 
heart surgeries, catastrophic fall

 
recoveries and post-surgical

 
treatments for an encyclopedia

 
of diseases. There, on the street

 

 where neighbour meets neighbour

 
each sighs to the universal refrain

 

of time and tide's impatience.

That Rarest of Attributes Combined

We speak here of the genius of cerebral

function, inspired imagination, the

unmitigated thrust of curiosity and

invention, knowledge, entrepreneurship 

the absolute craving to know and to explore 

the keen eye, unequaled intellect, talented 

hands and that unquenchable thirst for

knowledge and creation, and this is what

the purveyors of hate, distrust and craven

envy insist must come to an end. The

choice is celebrating genocidal terrorism 

in yet another targeting for the world's

minuscule ethnic/religious/cultural 

group that breeds a superior branch of

the human race or the more genteel

version of emasculating genius by simply

pretending it doesn't exist -- thus enact a

different solution of Boycott, Divestment

and Sanction and so, deprive the very

same rancid detractors of Jews from all the

brilliant communication, medical, scientific

and artistic devices of Jewish derivation in

an exercised mind capable of discerning

and devising instrument and method to ease

the human journey through a lifetime for

generation following generation of giftees.

Shades of Black and White

The 'right' man or the appropriate group can be 

irrelevant but they can be rehabilitated in surprising 

ways to remind ourselves that social requisites 

like law, order and justice may be the prevailing issue 

of fundamental necessity in quelling inborn instincts 

to mayhem but their proponents, representatives and 

forces of public order will not escape violent dissent 

from a public married to a concept of equality that 

forgives disorder, chaos and criminality. And so it 

was that a committed criminal became an icon of a

people oppressed and discriminated against whom 

the law held accountable for their many misdeeds 

when George Floyd was lionized as a victim of an 

unrelenting mission to degrade and humiliate the

underbelly of civilization's misbegotten underclass 

distinguished by colour and whose penchant for crime 

brought him to the misfortune of an untimely death 

in a struggle for life cruelly denied him, a scenario 

that found empathy on a universal scale that elevated 

the man to heroic dimensions and the law to a deplorable 

weapon against people innocent of all but their shade 

of skin. The resultant mass mourning and global rash of

condemnation elevating a criminal to celebrated martyr 

impelled a social movement of blame and shame

catapulting George Floyd in death to memorialized fame 

rationalizing the resulting lawless criminality throughout 

the public domain of those piloting a social movement to 

riot and pillage, denigrating White and elevating Black.

The Ancient Curse of Jew-Hate

Just a straight-up news report based on a public

celebration of the re-birth of the State of Israel to

which the celebrants, municipal authorities and

regional citizens of Jewish ancestry gathered in a

display of mutual respect. A decidedly sour note

interjecting when citizens of Arab ancestry too

gathered to condemn the audacity of Jews who

shamelessly rebuilt that ancient destroyed state of

antiquity representing their Biblical-era heritage.

One group joyfully celebrating their good fortune

the other crying foul as it denigrated both the State

and the celebrants. What a relief that police were on

hand to ensure lawful security and only one warrant

was issued for a septuagenarian who flashed an

obscene gesture as she dragged a hijab from the 

head of a woman bearing a Palestinian flag, while the

flag of Israel fluttered in the public square and others

in the crowd held signs reading 'Global Intifada!' 

amongst others urging a 'Final Solution' and 'From

the river the sea!' Goodness knows, civil society 

cannot abide lewdness for it assaults public order 

but the signature call to violence and celebration 

over genocide and more recent slaughter of innocent 

Jews by Arab terrorists can be tolerably side-lined 

in the greater interests accommodating victimhood 

theology that calls upon the never-fail, submerged

universality of the ancient curse of Jew-hate.

The Protocol of Verbal Self Defense

Language and the subtlety with which words are 

carefully used is a fine art, one studied and perfected 

by academics and politicians for very particular purposes 

if, after all, one can deliver a message unpopular by 

those who are ultra-sensitive to perceived slurs one

must plan for the credible fallback of contextualization 

and misunderstanding to move the ball of contention 

back in the court of those quick to take offense and 

contemplate lawsuits. Above all, most self-respecting 

members of university faculties and Parliamentarians

know the power of a people skilled in aggrievement 

for as providential victims  haven't they after all

a powerful political voice heard and heeded through 

the lobby of intense manipulation posing as moral

rectitude they have so clearly perfected over the years? 

The issue of influence in the corridors of power to 

ensure their misdeeds are overlooked silent some 

but for those courageous and clever enough to curate

language in a selection of perceived neutrality one can

claim their intent was not meant to blemish and blame 

an entire group even though it is well enough known 

and agreed that as a group they represent greed and

manipulative coercion as the fount of all human

suffering, indignities and injustice despite which one 

must still practise the caution of addressing issues 

specific to the matter at hand; Jews control the

world's affairs; their noted wealth and interference 

in world affairs to benefit their tribe alone is manifest 

but bear in mind heated accusations of antisemitism 

will follow that open declaration as surely as the sun 

will rise following night, leading those aware of inevitable

consequences to neutralize unwary language substituting 

for example 'Zionists' in innocent blame and shame.

Time and the Tides

Not one progressive country now sanctimoniously

declaring themselves fully prepared to recognize

a state claimed by Arab Palestinians as their own

heritage bestowed by right of conquest would

themselves be prepared to live alongside such a

country whose ultimate goal is their destruction.

Yet there is no need for them to care to imagine

what it might be like for Jews living in their very

own ancestral homeland, forced to acknowledge

that sudden death by terrorism carried out by those

declaring their right to statehood while covertly

holding out to claim the entire territory as their

own when they succeed in destroying Israel's

hold on its historical patrimony are themselves

oblivious to the creeping presence of Palestinians

within their own nations, soon to be contested as

well for Islamic expansion and conquest. Should

they when the veil of oblivion lifts, protest in favour of

retaining their culture, heritage, laws and religion an

October 7 event will erupt and then who will come to

their aid other than those nations who like themselves

chose to support fanaticism and savagery, outrage leading 

them to declare a defensive against the martyrdom forces 

then focused on serving up Muslim gratitude in a bold 

sweep to take full possession of territory they thought

their own through time-honored rites of succession.

Intolerable

Intolerable, gravely intoned the personage

who as secretary-general of the venerable

United Nations sets the tone for a global 

response to the vagaries of state and tribal

misdeeds, conveying his august opinion not

quite of the misdemeanor of thousands of

terrorists streaming into Israel with an express

purpose to rape, mutilate, murder and kidnap

infants, children, youth, foreign workers, men

and women, civilians all foregoing life in the

most involuntarily brutal manner unimaginable.

Intolerable because Jews pollute the planet as

does its national homeland in his opinion? Or

as a result of Israel launching a 'special military

operation' to refute once and for all the fixed 

idea that Jews are fair game for total extermination

if not by means attempted half-successfully

then alternatives will do. Favouring the aim

of the terrorists and paying due homage to their

patron's sad loss of their president, the famed

architect of strategic mass murder whom karma

claimed for a final voyage across the River Styx 

meriting the grace of a fond farewell expressed

in plangent sorrow, the UN flag half-masted.

 

The Weight of Fame

That gloriously evasive ascent to the pinnacle

has been reached and euphoria of that so

great achievement in heady pride of purpose

lasts but a moment in time until inevitably

the realization strikes that the goal is yet

incomplete for the hot breath of ambition

of others is trailing close to unseat the most

current champion of public adulation and

acclaim and as that figure topples the next

achieves the fame that spurs the field of avid

contenders to greater heights of charisma's

promise in the very public sphere of mass

entertainment. Rising to the height of popular

appeal the weight of fame is met by 'Is That

All There Is?' and a drive to self-destruction 

a craving for escape from the dilemma of self 

found in addictions to soul-destroying and bodily 

insults while the mind slowly erodes until the 

final chapter when news and entertainment media 

deplore the mournful too-soon-in-life escape 

into unpredictable fame's finality of death.

Marauding, Mutilating, Mass Murder

No one on this planet could possibly be unaware of 

the graphic details that live video documented through 

body cameras worn by marauding terrorists gleefully 

took as they swarmed into farming villages in Israel 

eager to fulfill orders to rape at will, inflicting pain

 and horror while murdering entire families burned 

alive in their homes, forcing children to witness their 

parents tortured and maimed and parents to watch 

as their children were mutilated before they all were 

murdered. So what could it be about slicing off a 

woman's breast and tossing it like a volley ball before 

mass raping and killing her, about knifing women's 

genitals then raping them, about a girl forced into a 

car trunk her pants streaming blood, her heels sliced 

to prevent her escape, about elderly and ill men and

women abducted for the ransom of releasing

murderers from prison, about kidnapping infants 

and toddlers -- that so captivates and titillates the

minds of women and girls who vow support for the

terrorists responsible for this sadistic savagery? 

The power to inflict on others unspeakable torment 

-- could that be the appeal that persuades feminists 

and human rights defenders in the staunch belief

that merciless slaughterers represent their ideal of

victims calling out to celebrate a victory of the 

underdog over the criminal act of occupation of a 

land mass of ancestral antiquity, a secure homeland 

for Jews disdained everywhere else in the world? 

The Ravening Mob

 

It's the stuff of nightmares, to be confronted

by a rapacious, unrelenting mob of violently

bloodthirsty creatures whose genetic function

is survival matching that of the frighteningly

legendary vampires prepared to sink their

sharp proboscis reeking of rankly aged blood into

your flesh. Chased, run down and threatened

by the mob buzzing in chorus with the intent to drain

my frail form of its scarlet-hued nectar of life

my single option in defense of longevity was to hope

I could outrun the sharp-needled predators fully

aware that my two companions with their black

fleece were in the mob's cross-hairs just as I was

and that the nightmare extended to them as they

depended on me to save them from the danger

that single-mindedly assailed our frailties.

The People's Republic

The People's Republic -- you know, the country

that occupied and swallowed Tibet, that

promises the same to Taiwan, that banished

democracy and autonomy in Hong Kong, that

imprisons to re-educate Turkmen and Uyghurs

all to ensure 'harmony' amongst its many

reluctant citizens unfortunate enough to live

in a geography ever expanding to absorb their

own -- is restless and searches for new challenges

over and above its ambitions of imposing the

state of indebtedness in Africa, Latin America

and the Middle East through its ambitious scheme

to portray itself as a bank for infrastructure and

modernization to entrap unwary nations by its

siren song of friendship and good will selective

enough for common cause with other ferociously

territorial dictatorships to the detriment of poor

embattled Ukraine and battered but unbound Israel

while the CCP glowers at its critics and fawns

over its admirers tolerant of China's penchant for

installing provocateurs wherever its vast populace

wanders far from home migrating from oppression

to lands of welcome and opportunities to prosper

yet dogged by the long tentacle arms of China's

invariable outreach reclaiming those who rejected it.

 

In This Great Land

The forest glows an incandescent emerald

green, the late spring sun filtering through

to highlight its pride of newly leafed trees

and shrubs sheltering the presence of raccoons

and skunks, chipmunks, squirrels, and hares

loathe to make their presence visible while

cardinals and robins praise the day in high

pitched trills and owls and hawks take note.

This is the glory time for wildflowers erupting

from the moist soil, the yellow heads of trout

lilies, red of trilliums and creamy sprays of

foamflower all flaunting their transitory beauty.

Spring rains have flooded the forest floor as a

boulder-strewn creek hurries tempestuously

through the ravine holding the forest in its

tight embrace, where migratory Mallards float

at leisure before resuming their return to the

boreal forest further north in this great land.

Palestinian Pretenders

 

Two distinct and adversarial groups claiming

rights of possession to a hotly disputed land 

one group through the right of ancestral

heritage, a people clinging to a land whose

linkage is traced through the Biblical era and

beyond, the other by right of conquest as

colonial settlers, a condition they accuse the

indigenous population of representing as they

boast themselves the original inhabitants

prepared to mount unceasing terror to succeed

in dislodging Israelites from their ancient 

Judaean homeland claimed by Arabs naming

themselves Palestinians, the historical Roman

Empire designation for occupied Jewish land.

Jews returned to their cherished homeland saw

no handicap in envisioning the re-creation of 

their Jewish state on a portion of their land, yet

the migrant Arabs fumed and rejected the offer

to share turning instead to conflict designed to

extinguish the Jewish state and the Jews that it

held, to no avail. Now the world body whose 

decision was flagrantly repulsed cossets and

gently humours the Palestinian pretenders while

sternly, injudiciously berates the Jewish State for

its bald impudence in believing it has the moral

right to its self-defence from Islamist terrorists.

The Good Husband

 

Four more previously-cherished and lavishly cared-for dogs for the local humane society to shelter. Animals confused by the sudden absence of the woman who had cared for them, loved them, took them out for daily walks in the quiet neighbourhood of single-family homes with its adjacent parks. She is no longer there to feed them, speak to them, assure them that each day will be the same as those it succeeds. Her future is now a chasm of silent grief, and theirs is separation, confusion and a woebegone sense of something gone dreadfully wrong, that no human could quite discern or attribute to a species other than their own. They are two large-dog breeds, two middling-sized. Each with its own personality, and needs. As a group they made a very well-disposed team, with her to guide them past little lapses in their social compact.

Now they languish, ears flat to their heads, tails tucked firmly into their haunches, eyes solemnly following the activity of the staff at the human society animal shelter. Each to a cage, none knowing nor quite caring about the whereabouts of the others, waiting, in their patient, canine way for order to be restored to their lives and their caregiver to walk through the door with her huge welcoming smile.

They had lived with her for all the years of their lives worth remembering. When she was absent during those periods when she was at her job, they awaited her return. Mostly sleeping, occasionally engaged in solitary play. But all four, when the time arrived in the late afternoon when some arcane animal sense informed them she would soon re-enter their lives, circled around the front door, then sat stoically, until she finally entered to be regaled with a chorus of welcome. She would rub the tops of their heads in greeting, bustle about a few minutes, then haul out their leashes, and take them out for a quick run through the neighbourhood.

The neighbours were always aware of her presence. She was not shy, not averse to greeting them, talking about neighbourhood things. She had good relations with them and they liked her living close to where they did; a good person, and a good neighbour. When she eventually brought home a young man, to introduce him to her dogs, everything seemed fine. He was a nice young man, with sandy hair that streamed over his forehead, deep brown eyes, and a good manner. She had met him when she’d taken the dogs to a far-off quarry turned into a recreational park for companion animals where their owners could let them run free off the leash. He wasn’t a dog-owner, but he had been there, walking about, and they had stopped to talk.

Over the course of the next several months he called often, and they went out on casual dates. It wasn’t that she was lonely and felt she needed a man to complement the quality of her life. She was happy enough with the family she had; herself and her dogs, and her extended family with whom she kept in constant contact. He liked her practical, matter-of-fact nature, accepting him for what he appeared to be, not closely questioning him, asking, prodding, why he didn’t have a regular job. He had enough of that from his family. He was happy to work when he felt like it, at casual, part-time jobs that paid just enough. And when he got tired of working he managed to manoeuvre himself into a job loss, and still qualify for unemployment insurance. Giving him the time he wanted to just mosey about life, at his own speed, fulfilling his very own need.

She had a regular, full-time job, a responsible one, as a professional, with a department of the federal government. You could see that she earned a respectable income, since she owned her own home, and he admired that. He had great admiration for her love of life, her sparkling good humour. It gave a nice balance to his moods, when she went out of her way to sympathize, to lift his spirits. He loved running his fingers through her long, straight-silky hair, worn shoulder-length. It suited her, with her green eyes, her fine complexion, her neat facial features; a pretty woman with an athletic build, nicely contoured.

He appreciated her casual disregard for social custom. He felt that same way himself. So it was a little surprising, he felt, when she said after six months of comfortable companionship that she’d like him to move in with her, but it wouldn’t work for her outside of marriage. He hadn’t anticipated that kind of conventionality from her. But he didn’t mind, after all. Because truth was, he did love her, and he told her that, and he could see how much it pleased her to have him say that, and to hug her whenever the mood took him. Oddly she didn’t like holding hands in public. But that made good sense, since the dogs’ leashes were often at the ends of her hands when they were out in public, other than at night during their decreasing number of nights-out dates.

Their marriage was a muted affair. A few of her close friends from her high school days, from her office, and her sisters, father and mother although they were separated. His father attended, and a few of his cousins; friends, none. Everyone seemed to get along. It was kind of festive, he liked that, and so did she, the casualness of it all.

He always went with her, when she visited with her family. They made him feel welcome, and he felt comfortable enough with them. The dogs, they were always brought along, too. Everyone had long ago accustomed themselves to the reality that wherever she went so too went her dogs. Bad enough, she said, she had to leave them at home while she was out working. In her leisure hours they deserved her company.

He actually didn’t mind. He enjoyed watching her with the dogs. They more or less ignored him, but came alive when she was around, and he thought that was interesting, the dynamic between them. He watched her set out their bowls at feeding time. Her assiduous attention to their regular appointments with the veterinarian he knew were expensive. Her life, her earnings, she could do what she wanted with all of that. It had no impact on him, other than as an observer, and an equal-opportunity recipient of her warm attentions.

Well, sometimes he felt irritated when he was in the house alone with the dogs, and they might be curious about something he would be doing in the kitchen, and he’d snap at them. That would effectively clear the room. They’d slink out, find somewhere else to install themselves. He was, in fact, alone often in the house with them. So, she said brightly to him and to anyone else who might remark on it, how terrific it was that the dogs were no longer lonely, with his presence.

Occasionally the neighbour whose house was closest to theirs heard shouting during the day, and understood that the dogs were doing something inconvenient, irritating or plain bad, and he was disciplining them. He never laid a hand on them for physical punishment, though. He respected how she felt about her dogs. Why shouldn’t she?

She had told him once how those dogs had come into her life. They were all what she called ‘rescues’, dogs that had been abused, abandoned, and she had taken them in. She had coped with their aggressive suspicion, determined to turn their temperaments around, to invoke trust in them, to treat them well, to gain their trust. It took a long time, but eventually, each of the dogs came around and became loyal and trusting of her. When she had taken in the last dog, one that had been rescued from as far away as Iqaluit, it had taken her the longest time, she said, sighing, looking at the dog as she spoke, lying comfortably before her feet, its thick husky-fur on its large, muscular shepherd body resembling a placid bear. He respected her enormously, he told her, for her conscientious kindness to those animals. Not that he particularly cared for dogs, any dogs, but he could, he told her, relate personally. As one who had been abused, neglected. That won her heart, he was convinced of that.

She didn’t seem to mind that she was the bread-winner. In that sense, she simply continued what had always been her reality. She had simply added another member to her family. She never chided him for his lack of enterprise, his unwillingness to apply himself to working, to look around to find something he would like to do, rather than limp along from one impermanent service job to another. And that was really good of her, he thought, and he appreciated that too about her.

So at the funeral mass, when the good Father, speaking of how loving a person she had been, remarked “Unfortunately Gwendolyn’s love was not reciprocated” he was wrong, dead wrong. Gwen loved him and he loved her, he most certainly did. No one could take that away from him, from them. He always would love her, recalling the soft smoothness of her skin, her arching back when they made love, her cuddling into him afterward, her soft words of love. They loved one another very much. No one could take that away from him, not her family who blamed him and now hated him, nor the pastor who in his ignorance thought he could take away the love he had for her.

His father sat well back in the last pew at the church during her funeral mass. He described to him later how there were so many people, extended family, friends, colleagues, neighbours, all there to mourn his wife’s too-early death. And his father sat there, later, comforting him, telling him not to worry too much. Things would unfold as they would. He would be there, at the trial, to testify on his behalf.

He knew his son, and he knew the kind of relationship he’d had with his wife. He saw them, after all, each and every week, since they visited him every week-end, and he could see the mutual love and respect they had for one another. He knew there had to be a reasonable explanation for what had happened. It wasn’t his son’s fault, he was a good husband, and he loved his wife. Something had happened, quite obviously, but it would all come out, and his son would be exonerated. Hadn’t he said to the police who came to arrest him at his father’s house where he had stayed the last few days, crying his broken heart out that his wife had refused medical treatment? And then they took his boy away.

It would be revealed that she had a medical condition that threatened her life, but she refused to seek out medical help. What could his son do in the face of such an indomitable will, other than submit to her wishes? He knew how much his daughter-in-law meant to his son, how she turned his life around, how he stopped drinking incessantly after he met her. How happy he was with his new life. He knew from observation, and from knowing his son. Why, when they were separated while she was off at work and his son at his own workplace - sometimes even helping him with a roofing job - they were always using their cellphones, staying in touch.

It seemed odd to him that an autopsy had been performed on his daughter-in-law, but that was likely standard procedure in such mysterious sudden-death cases. He had been concerned for his son’s state of mind. Completely inconsolable, weeping, tearing at his hair, mourning his wife. “Buck up, fella” he said, patting his heaving back. “The truth will out, and everyone will realize that you’re beyond suspicion. Her medical condition killed her, and that’s the truth.”

But police detectives thought otherwise. And after the results of the autopsy were revealed to them they knew their first instincts were correct. Trauma to the lower body, legs and feet. The upper body badly burned. Her body discovered in the basement of the house.

Well, if they asked, and it will likely be a matter of enquiry during the trial, her bereaved husband could explain that, too. How, sometimes, he’d had to correct his wife, instruct her. He had no intention of causing harm to her, and she knew that. That was a huge component of his love for her. She never, ever judged him. She would ask him quietly to stop doing something that bothered her. And then when he calmed down, she would talk, talk, talk to him for what seemed like an interminable period of time. Sometimes all that talk gave him a raving headache and he would tell her so. She was so concerned for his well being. She would immediately stop talking, cuddle him to her, run her slender, loving fingers along the top of his head, and rock him until he fell asleep. She was his very own treasure. He will never, ever get over her untimely death. No one would ever know how much he loved her, how he would miss her.

And the dogs? Well, their separate photographs appear on the website of the Humane Society. One by one they have also appeared in newspaper advertisements, in the hope that people at this time of year, preparing for Christmas, might feel it in their hearts to have some compassion for truly lost dogs looking for a home. For all the dogs, the description includes nothing of the misfortune which befell them, but the legend “much loved, high-energy dog needs a new home” follows them all.

If they were to be adopted by some kindly souls looking for the company of faithful companions at the Christmas season, it would please the ghost of their mistress so very much. A matchless gift to her on her 34th birthday, this coming Christmas. 

 

 

Brownies, Anyone?

She was on her best behaviour. She really, really didn’t want anything to go wrong this morning. Last night she had laid out her wardrobe for the coming day. A ritual she had long accustomed herself to. A bit of a time-saver. Learned that from her mother who was always in a great big hurry. Doing that she hadn’t to worry what she’d put together in the morning, and with the time saved she could take a more leisurely shower. Even so, she would almost miss her bus, half the time.

Of course there were other things she had to do, like grab some breakfast, throw a few items together for lunch. Sometimes she’d get so interested in a novel, she’d sneak peeks at it before leaving the house, and just kind of forget the time. Her mother got kind of miserable about having to remind her. At her age, her mother said, she should have a keener sense of personal responsibility. Yeah, sure, Mom.

At her age. Well, she was in her teens, her teeny-teens, half-way through thirteen. She had chosen a white shirt with black jeans, and a crystal pendant, pink crystal in the shape of a heart that she really liked. Then she had changed her mind, because she’d already worn a white tee-shirt the day before. So she kind of reversed things, a black tee-shirt, with brown jeans, and the crystal pendant would be just fine. Even better, come to think of it, on a black shirt. Maybe a little of that blue eye-shadow? That’s another thing; putting on a little make-up took time, to do properly.

A little make-up. She definitely wasn’t interested in slathering herself with the stuff. Nothing on her skin. No lipstick, ugh. Just a bit of colour around her eyes. One of her better features. Her grandmother said she had wonderful hair, but she hated it. Her grandmother was critical of her wearing any makeup. But that’s what grandmothers are like, she consoled herself. When she mentioned this to her grandmother, she had laughed and said “that’s because grandmothers are old”. “No!” she’d responded, without thinking it through, “you’re not old, you’re Grandma.” Eliciting another indulgent laugh from her grandma.

She could get away with anything with her. Not so with her mother. Her mother thinks she knows everything about her, but she doesn’t. She thinks she can look clear through her, read everything in her mind. Whereas her grandmother is always surprised by things she says. Her grandmother always says kids these days are incredibly well taught in schools, they know so much, she can hardly believe it. Her mother says kids these days are incredibly egotistical, just think about themselves, think they know everything, and they’re rude, as well. So what’re you going to do about it? Life, it’s just life.

When she mentions these things to her grandmother, she sighs, and says it’s another world altogether. She just can’t keep up with things. It’s confusing, too fast-paced, and too invested in things that don’t really matter. Peoples’ values are confused and lacking. Who, she says, rolling her eyes skyward, can even understand this generation?

She’s got something there, who can? She still can’t puzzle out herself, why her best friend sometimes seems like a stranger to her. If they’re such good friends - and they’ve known one another for as long as she could remember - how come she still seems like she has some kind of secret agenda that she reserves for herself only. And how is it that she herself doesn’t feel comfortable enough to confide in her when there are things that truly puzzle her? It’s like when she’s at an impasse with some of her math homework and she knows she could call another friend who’se a wiz at math, but she doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to admit to anyone that she could use some help. Instead, she tackles it, determined to work it through for herself.

Christmas lunch at school today. Following hard on last night's musical-dance performance for parents. A school tradition, just like the pot luck lunch they were having today, open yet again to any parents who wanted to attend. Her mother, of course, wouldn't be there, had to work. Hadn't come last night either, too bushed from everything she had to attend to; single parent, full-time job in the workforce, and another at home.

As for her, contemplating all the goodies laid out on two long tables, she chose to spurn the casseroles and pigged out on the desserts. Like the brownies that looked so luscious. And they were, they were just right, heavenly. With that deep, dark chocolate flavour and moist interior, just the way she likes them. Just the way she sometimes bakes them herself. This time, though, she’d baked a big batch of chocolate chip cookies. She’d take brownies over chocolate chip cookies any day, but she thought the cookies would go further.

She was still smarting over Morgan yesterday snarling at her to ‘shut up!’ when she’d been complaining about Miss McCullough. As though Morgan never does that. As though Morgan isn’t the one who is really the very one person who they could all count on to moan about Miss McCullough and her ranting hysterics, treating them all to those unbelievable melt-downs.

What kind of a teacher is that who can’t even get her act together? And expecting them to, after she screams at them that they’re impossibly stupid. She’s the retarded one, not them. Obviously. So she’d said to Morgan that she could just shut up herself. God, she was so tired of all that snipping and snapping back and forth. Why couldn’t they all just get along? Well, they do, most of the time, but sometimes something just seems to go kind of funny, and everyone acts truly weird.

She was glad to see that today everyone seemed in a pretty good mood. Maybe it was that everyone was looking forward to the open house. A Christmas special, an annual event at the school, where parents who had nothing better to do in the middle of the day would come out and be entertained by their coached kids, and eat all the food that they’d themselves brought over for the group pot-luck.

Not that the kids were looking forward to the parental-presence part of it. What kid is thrilled at seeing their mother or father at their school? There’s always that lurking danger that they’ll pull off some really stupid stunt that’ll make their kid look bad. It’s the thought of all that food, just waiting there; tantalizing their noses, and then their taste buds. That's what got them all excited, frantic to get at those tables.

So of course they all over-ate. Everything tasted really scrumptious. Everyone wanted to try a little bit of this and some of that, and hey, look what’s in that casserole over there! Lemmeatit! They were standing around, groaning, holding their bursting stomachs, and kidding one another about all the weight they’d gained, standing sideways so their bursting guts could be evaluated. At least the skinny kids were doing that. The ones with some flesh on them weren’t that eager to get into that particular game.

She thought that was pretty funny, actually. She had half a mind to tease Sydney, but didn’t, remembering what her mother said about the seriousness of some kids’ preoccupation with looking mean and lean. Sydney was all right, not too bright, and too concerned with her silhouette. Which was kind of crazy, since she was one of the few girls in the class who really didn’t have much of a silhouette. She resembled a notional drawing of a girl; straight up and down. So it was puzzling why she was so into her image.

Anyway, Bryanna and Lorna were standing right beside her when they each decided they’d go for another dessert. Actually, most of their lunch, like hers, consisted of ‘dessert’. With a few exceptions, like pizza slices and macaroni-and-cheese casserole, and a couple of samosas. She decided to go for another brownie, and snapped it up. She didn’t realize, because she wasn’t really looking, that the brownies hadn’t been cut right through and there was a companion piece to the one she held securely between her fingers. The extra piece didn’t quite make it, ending up on the floor. She knew that Bryanna and Lorna had seen what’d happened, but they looked the other way.

A dilemma. A few scenarios raced through her mind. Pick it up and put it back on the plate? Eauuu! Then some other kid would pick it up and enjoy it, never realizing it was full of germs. Couldn’t do that. Pick it up and place it in with the waste? What if the person who’d brought the brownies saw that and thought some ingrate felt their hard work was garbage? Embarrassing to both of them.

This weighing of options seemed to take forever in her mind, but of course she realized that wasn’t the case at all. Finally, she decided she would do nothing. Just leave it where it lay, beside the table, visible enough. Someone seeing it there would dispose of it. Knowing they weren’t the one who knocked it off the plate. And sure enough, when she looked back a short while later, it was gone.

Most of the kids in the class had tried to influence Miss McCullough about their performance time. They were really pretty psyched up right then, they told her, ready to give a terrific performance. Couldn’t they do it before lunch? They should’ve known better, understood that in their interactions with their teacher a kind of automatic reversal occurred; whatever they’d recommend she would resist and do the opposite. A little bit of psychology goes a long way she thought sourly; why couldn’t they ever remember?

So, as events unfolded, it was after lunch when she herded them back into their classroom, gave them a few short, sharp reminders about her choreography and pumped them up with endearments like “don’t make a mess of things like you usually do”, and sent them out on the stage to do their best. They did their best, and suffered for it, moving about as gracefully as a herd of rhinos. Their stomachs were full to bursting. She regretted she hadn’t gone to the bathroom, and thought her physical discomfort was well replicated by the others, evidence plain in their grimacing faces, belying the ‘elegance’ of their performance.

Should’ve known things would turn out like that. Don’t they always?

 

Just Kidding Around

 

The well-drained bottle stood on the night table, beside it their two drained glasses from last night. He lay on the bed, naked, splendidly masculine. The early morning light escaping tentatively through the folds of the sheer window draperies illuminated his taut, muscular form. How she’d wanted him. With, it seemed to her, an urgency never before experienced. Something special about this guy and she had been so certain of his response.

She raised herself, resting on an elbow. Watched his slow regular breathing, chest rising in regular motions emphasizing that depression between stomach and chest. She reached over, stroked his groin area. No response. She leaned over him, kissed his forehead. Then slipped her face down over his, leaving kisses along the way. He groaned slightly, turned on his side and she sat up.

She padded over to the bathroom, and back. Insinuated herself beside him, spooned her form into his and gyrated. He mumbled something about feeling hellish. Screw that, she told herself. She turned back to face him, nuzzled his chin. No response. A little playful game might help, she told herself. She slid off the bed and passed into her kitchen. A little jab, she said to herself, selecting one of the knives in the drawer. That would make him sit up. They’d laugh, a joke. He would find it amusing, he would tease her for the level of her determination.

She’d loved it when a former lover had whispered to her how mad he was for her ‘raven’ hair. Now that was odd, made him kind of stand out since most of the men she’d been with hadn’t hesitated to rave about her breasts, her long, curved legs, her satiny-smooth skin. There was even once, briefly, a foot fetishist. She adored having a lover cup her breasts, her buttocks, get really hot beyond self-control. She liked the variety every bit as much as men did, and why shouldn’t she?

She’d known women that even she had admired. And those women were so uncertain of themselves, so enfeebled by the thought that no one would love them for anything but their physical perfection. They wanted to be appreciated for other things. They envisaged themselves being abandoned once youth had lapsed. She’d known others who hadn’t cared, just concerned with making the most of what they had while they had it.

She was in neither camp. She had abundant self-confidence. She was more than prepared to live life her way. Didn’t look forward to anyone telling her how that way should be. It didn’t bother her one iota that there were no marriage prospects, since she wasn’t interested in a permanent relationship. She’d had lovers who were, and who were clearly disappointed to discover their aspirations weren’t met by hers. What did bother her was that, now in her mid-30s, she had to face the fact that there would be fewer modelling assignments coming her way.

Not that she looked her age; anything but. She was graceful, slim, her skin endowed still with that dewy freshness that exemplified youth. The hair, her gleaming black hair, it was the only traitor. When she brushed it back off her forehead, off the sides of her head, she noted emerging grey. She’d hardly visualized having to colour her hair so soon, and she resented that.

He was obviously younger than her. After he’d revealed his age - a casual revelation relating to his recent MBA graduation, she just let him go on thinking her age matched his. She’d never before met a man with thick, curling eyelashes, wavy dark hair against a dark, smooth complexion and perfectly symmetrical facial features. He seemed as casually unaware of the effect his appearance had on others as she tried so hard to project, herself.

First time she’d seen him there, and she’d been there often enough. Often enough that she felt comfortable, relaxed about approaching him. Gratified to see the usual response lighting his eyes. They talked, shared a few more drinks, and she invited him to her apartment. They walked, it wasn’t all that far, and it was a pleasant, early fall evening. There was a cooling breeze, they kicked dried leaves off the path as they entered the park close to her apartment. She remembered talking about her regret at leaving university, even though at the time she felt it was the right thing to do for herself.

He was easy to talk to, didn’t seem to feel at all awkward, as so many guys did, being with someone like her. They always, at first, treated her like a porcelain doll. As though they couldn’t believe their luck, picking up this dish. Gloating at envious glances. Other guys watching them as they left. Where to? Well, mostly back to her apartment.

It was a nice apartment, in a good part of town. But then money was no object. Apart from what she earned there was always her family; father to be precise. Her mother constantly worried about her daughter’s finances, knowing nothing of her former husband's generosity. She always told her mother that her finances were her own business and she divulged nothing about her savings, let alone what her social life was like.

Her mother hadn’t exactly been the very best mentor. At least that’s what her father had always hurled at her mother. As though she’d have been different if her exposure to her parents’ lives had been different. Fact was, they knew absolutely nothing about her, and she preferred it that way.

All those years, oblivious to her needs as a kid, now they’re suddenly there when they’re no longer needed. Her father sending those regular guilt-assuaging cheques. Her mother’s irritating calls to tell her how lonely she was. Guess the young studs weren’t quite as available. Move in with her? Not likely, not bloody likely.

“But dear, you don’t have to work!” her mother complained. "You don't have to live there."

“But Mother, I love my work. Why would I give it up?”

“Virginia, you love being noticed, you love flaunting yourself. Modelling isn’t the only way you can achieve that satisfaction”.

Now that infuriated her, that her mother would make the assumption that what motivated her also did her daughter. There was more to her than that. She had a brain, she could think for herself, make responsible decisions. Unlike her mother whom her father always upbraided for being a brainless twit.

Besides which, she’d had a tutor in personal relationships, one who took an interest in her. Who’d given her that encouraging start in making choices. She was thirteen when her father raged and threatened her mother over her truly stupid indiscretions. He’d never bothered when she slept around with men he didn’t know. It seemed to bother him when she had had a month-long fling with the son of one of his business partners.

Uncle Geoff made her feel a whole lot better. About herself. About everything, all the shit that went down in her life. He was really good about it. She was the one in control, not him. If she said stop, or not now, he'd never press her.

It was only natural he’d be the one she would call.

“Geoff, it’s something awful, horrible, I don’t even know how to tell you”, she babbled, words running together.

“Gilly” he said, in that cool detached way he had, “pull yourself together. I can hear you’re in trouble, but I can’t help if I don’t know what’s happened. Try again. Talk slowly, take a big breath, and get everything together”, he ordered in his sane way. The kind of controlled saneness that got him where he sat today, a government bigwig.

She shuddered, forced back her panic, breathed heavily, and sighed relief. “Right”, she said. “I’ll give it a go”. And she explained in rushed sentences, with pauses between each, to give her time to put her thoughts together, trying to inform him in such a manner that he might not outright condemn her for stupidity.

“Geoff, I’ve got this guy in my bed. I invited him. I really liked him. I was preparing for a good time. We were going to have really great sex. And we did, we had a great time… You know… ” Her long pause brought an encouraging response.

“All right, Gilly, so what’s wrong? What happened? He’s still there?”

“Yes. Yes, he is. He’s still here. He … he’s dead, Geoff”.

“Dead? What do you mean? Some young guy, and he’s dead? What happened?”

“I … I … I don’t know how to say this, Geoff. It was an accident, I can’t remember how it happened. I had this knife, see, and I thought I would just fool around, prod him with it. He was lying in my bed, doing nothing. I couldn’t get him aroused. I was confused, Geoff.”

“Confused?” Ginny, you were pissed off? Were you drinking?”

“Yes, that’s it. We were drinking. We met in that pub over the way, you know, the one I took you to last time you were here?”

“Okay, Gin, take it easy, you’re starting to sound a little hysterical. What happened?”

“What … happened? I guess I kind of lost it. I don’t remember, but that must have been what happened.”

“Lost it. All right. You were angry-drunk. You’re sure he’s dead? Did you try to take a pulse?”

“He’s dead! I know he is … he’s dead. What do I do?”

“Now listen carefully, Ginny. I’m not sure what happened with you. And it’s fairly clear that you don’t quite know either. You were drunk, not in full possession of your faculties. That’s kind of extenuating … circumstances.”

“Yes!”, she sobbed. “I don’t know what happened, I really liked the guy. I didn’t mean to hurt him. It was like that knife had a life of its own. I just meant to kind of poke it at him, gently, you know? I did, I just touched him with it. He sat up, looked at me with those big deer eyes, I could see he was fearful. Geoff, that made me feel kind of good, seeing him like that. I guess I must’ve just kept going.”

“Kept going? You mean you really stabbed him. Where?”

“Um, oh God, this is horrible, I can’t take it. This is killing me”, she sobbed.

“Where, Ginny, where did you stab him? Get yourself together. C’mon, let’s hear it.”

“In … in his chest. I guess in his chest. Maybe a little lower down, too. More than once, you know?”

“I see. Now listen to me, listen carefully. You’ve said you don’t remember.”

“Yes, I don’t, not really. I must’ve blanked out for a minute or two. When I came to, I saw him lying there, blood oozing. He wasn’t breathing. His chest was absolutely still. His eyes were still open. He still looked scared. It was horrible. It is horrible, he’s still there!”, she lapsed again into sobs.

“Ginny, now listen. First thing, don’t touch anything. Leave everything the way it is. Leave him alone, don’t touch him.”

“As though I would! I couldn’t touch him if I wanted to!”, she cried.

“Ginny, stop that. You can’t afford to be hysterical. Here’s what I want you to do. Call 911.”

“911?”

“Yes, just as soon as you’re off the phone with me. I’ll be coming … no, I can’t. You can’t let it be known that you spoke with me. You’ve got to let it appear as though the first thing you did when you became totally aware of what happened, his condition ... that you dialled emergency. Call them, and it’s all right if you sound a little out of it when you do, because that’s understandable. Under the circumstances.”

“All right Geoff, I’ll do that. And then what do I do, what do I tell them?”

“You’ll tell them everything, everything you told me. Emphasize your grief. Make certain they’re aware of your … innocence of intent. That it was an accident. You're utterly distraught, contrite, horribly upset. That you hadn’t intended to kill the guy. He’s nude, you said?”

“Yes, he is, yes. We were making love. Only it didn’t happen. That’s why, I guess … “

“Never mind that!” he said sharply. Don’t speculate about why you reacted as you did. Just describe the situation. The knife, where was it? In the kitchen? Say you brought it into the bedroom for a practical purpose.”

“Practical? Like to use it for something else? Like kind of to pry the cork out of a wine bottle kind of?”

“That’s my girl! That’ll do nicely. That’s your story. Got it?”

“Yes, I’ve got it. Geoff, thanks. You know I wouldn’t go to anyone else for advice. Geoff, it’s horrible. I must be a monster to have done something like that! I feel awful. He’s got parents, he’s only a kid, he’s only 20. What’ll I say to them?”

“One thing at a time, kiddo. Just play it as it goes. First call emergency. Then you’ll have to deal with the police. There’s plenty of time before you’ll have to face his parents. That’ll likely occur in court.”

“Court? In court?”

“Ginny, there’ll be a trial. Sorry kid, but you’ll have to go through with that. There’s no way this can be covered up. Someone’s dead. You killed the guy. But ... there’s extenuating circumstances, you’ve got to play that card.”

“Yes, right”, she said.