Tag Archives: death

Single Serving Stories Series- ‘In That Number’

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Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green DesklampIn addition to regular blog articles and my published novels, I’ve also written several Single Serving Stories over the years. Some have been published in anthologies like ‘Between the Shelves’, ‘Edmonton: Unbound’, and ‘All Mapped Out’. Others have been shared exclusively on this blog via the publication platform Smashwords.

Recent changes to the Smashwords platform has made it a less reliable option however, and therefore an exciting change has come to Brad OH Inc.

I will be re-sharing in full—un-edited and un-abridged—all Single Serving Stories previously published on Smashwords with Brad OH Inc. as the new, exclusive provider. All text will be provided in full, with no download necessary. If Smashwords don’t like that, they can message our complaints department.

This project will culminate in a couple of heretofore unpublished Single Serving Stories, so even the most dedicated of readers will have something to look forward to.

Today we share our fourth Single Serving Story, ‘In That Number’. This one was inspired by an amazing experience I once had at a concert down in New Orleans, and was a precursor to the ‘The Evocation Series‘ of articles, which you can find using the Search Bar.

As an added bonus, if anyone e-mails or comments with a correct explanation of the [incredibly artistic] cover art below, a prize may or may not be arranged.

We had all followed along in the steps of those who’d gone before. With so many disparate justifications we’d went on our way, trusting always that the path would show us safely through the darkness. No one could say where we were going… only that we had to keep on; to continue until we’d found what was promised to us.

Now, I held my head high as I marched by them in the red light of the low hanging moon. Even in my most sombre reflections, I had never been able to fully anticipate the depth of this day’s mood. Nor had I ever dreamed as I rose that morning that the sun which burned away my slumber would finally fail to complete its cycle.

On that morning I’d walked among them, all of us equal on the precipice which we had constructed. That seemed like another time now, a forgotten age when our footsteps all fell together, and the joint direction of our path was the shared responsibility of all.

That was before the signal came… before the numbers were given. Now I could see them to either side, reaching and calling as they trailed endlessly off out of sight, into the distance of the world I was now leaving forever. When the march was over, and we had passed out of this place, I knew they would remain. What would be left to them? That was not for me to know.

They were packed in tightly to both sides of us, yet I focussed only on their eyes, remembering the way they’d shrunk down to pinholes through midnight when it had all begun. The trumpet had sounded, rending from the world all other sound and thought, and the sun had faded away like the shredded remnants of dreams come morning.

Had my eyes done the same? I couldn’t say, but even as the march continued, the thrill which had risen in my stomach shook me still to the core. Many around me had fallen to their knees at the sudden trill, lamenting their misfortune for having believed that mere words could alter fate. Then the moon had turned, the familiar blue-white of its surface blushing like the water around a fresh kill, and its shimmering light had fallen down upon the world like a torrent of blood.

How long had we known it was coming? How many had listened? It had been spoken for as long as anyone could recall… written in the most sacred of books—screamed from the most dilapidated of street corners. Certainly none could have denied the truth, and yet the crowd to be left behind—the unnumbered—were beyond count, making the orderly lineup filing by seem inconsequential in comparison.

There could be no doubt that of the millions in that thriving mob, many of them would be known to me. Family and friends; bitter enemies and long-forgotten loves. I’d tried to tell them all. I’d spoken of it whenever I found the opportunity, and remember still the scorn and derision with which I had been met; the pain which was imparted upon me with each sneer, each denial.

Now I had my number, and they called to me, their fingers searching helplessly as I passed. I had no words for them—what before would not suffice, could now offer no succour. They knew by this point. Quite simply—it could no longer be denied.

Some of their faces showed pain or doubt—the rest gaped blankly. Perhaps some still failed to process the extent of the change to come—the trials and strife that were in store for them.

It wasn’t that they’d been complacent. None had ever denied the need for change. Nobody had missed the breaking point as it approached. Some had spoken of revolution, others of revelation. Many had spoken of changing the path, while others had actively steered toward the right.  Most had shared in the speaking alone, but when the world roils, speech alone offers little repose.

It had never been up for vote. Debates had spun their wheels as they always had, their engines of change providing only smoke and ruckus. It was enough for some. When it had come down to action, most had somberly admitted the necessity quickly enough, or else blanched at their opportunity to deny it. Then they would keep steady on their path—their eyes searching desperately for someone else to change the course. It wasn’t that they didn’t agree. It was, most often, that they were simply afraid.

Would they ever know where we went? Watching us now—their eyes alight with helpless wonder—did they question their decisions? If the opportunity was given, would they trade their passivity for a chance to stand in this number, or would they remain crippled by fear; hamstrung by seeds of doubt?

The worries of the world were the forgotten trinkets of childhood now, discarded carelessly upon the floor of society when suddenly innocence is ended by the first sight of blood. With the blaring of the trumpet, the freedom of choice had gone. The numbers were given, the lineup was formed, and the rest had only to wait on the changes to come.

Of those I had truly loved I had no account. Were they in this number, walking somewhere in the line pressing ever onward all about me? Or were they left among those who watched, wondering forever about my fate? Would we be reunited at the end, or had we been sundered forever by the depth of my own conviction? That knowledge as well was beyond me, but as my steps fell, I could not say which fate I would choose for them.

Staring into the vast distance beyond, I considered my own fate. I’d wanted the change as much as the rest; meditated upon it daily. I knew the others had too. Looking around upon those locked in step with me; I felt a kinship unknown to me when the sun had still shone upon our town. They were all following the same path I was, and that alone sufficed to make us one. None of us in this line would be allowed to see the changes to come—by the time they were realized, we would be far, far gone.

Even now, I could not fail to wonder what would remain. It would not be for me—I was leaving with the chosen ones—but what of the rest? It had been said that a new world was coming, and that the sun would rise again on a land cleansed of its weariness.

But that time was not now.

It was hard to believe, despite its being the only certainty I’d ever held. Every day of my waking life I’d dreamed of this stand, yet now the tremble in my spine betrayed my trepidation, and with each step of the march my sense of awe threatened to overwhelm the eternal strength of my resolve.

Would our leaders weep at their naivety? Would they repent of their ill-advised efforts—the endless negotiating and rationalizing they had applied to human desire? When finally the air again was pure, and there was food on every table, would they understand the need for this separation… the reason for the numbers? Would they understand why we had gone, or would they merely start again?

I would not be around to know.

The red of the moon was blinding now, combatting the flare of the trumpet for dominance over all the senses of man. Brought together by our numbers, we passed through it like silhouettes, greys and blacks against the crimson—we were all going the same way now.

Everyone present, in their own way, were waiting to see just what sort of world had been ordained for them. Some would be here to see, others would not. The world had been divided, and shattered shards of the lie called ‘unity’ snapped and cracked under the footsteps of the chosen ones.

We had all been traveling in the footsteps of our elders, each one trying to wring truth from the soiled rags of rumours and empty promises. Now my footsteps fell in rhythm with the rest of the numbered, as still the trumpet sounded… again and again, as if the significance of the moment may still be lost on those who still harboured doubt.

It was of no account now. The choices had been made, and I was on my way. On and on I marched, knowing always that I was headed to the only place which remained to me. I was in that number, and that was all that mattered.

Acknowledgement: Inspired in part by ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’—with particular credit given to the ‘Bruce Springsteen- Live in Dublin’ version.

-Brad OH Inc.

Soirees and Solemnity in the Square

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Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green DesklampI sloshed along—weary, beaten, and soaked head to toe in Faygo. Heading back from the ICP show at the 2011 Bamboozle Festival in New Jersey, I’d taken the train to Penn Station, and was meandering, exhausted, back towards my hotel near Times Square. I barely took in my surroundings as I stumbled along; the adrenaline and unbridled joy of the event still had their hold on me. I mumbled familiar lyrics to myself, navigating slowly towards the Square.

The first thing I recall noticing was the crowd—significant even for Times Square. The hour was quite late after all—likely well into the early morning of May 2nd, 2011. I paid little mind however, and continued on my way until I heard the chanting.

“USA, USA, USA!”

An ominous feeling took hold immediately. As it turned out, that feeling would take a long while to subside. Turning down an alley and passing out into the main square, I was met by an impenetrable wall of people chanting and singing. There were American flags as far as the eye could see. I stood with my jaw agape trying to sort out what was going on, when an errant crowd-surfer nearly took my head off.

‘Nice try,’ I thought—having spent the past few days stalking the Insane Clown Posse along their east coast tour, it would take more than a lone crowd-surfer to take me down. Still…none of this sat quite right with me.

Glancing eagerly about, I saw people climbing telephone poles to either hang flags or to improve their view. Men on benches read from bibles, and women held their children up to the open air. High-fives were exchanged, friends embraced, and a general feeling of unrestrainable patriotic glee pervaded the scene.

“What’s going on?” I recall asking a stranger.

“Obama’s dead!” he answered over his shoulder.

This news came as an even greater shock. Certainly, I recalled the controversy surrounding his presidency, but the festivities taking place around me seemed well overboard—or downright seditious—if based around a recently deceased president.

Still, the next person I asked gave me the same answer. And the next. It wasn’t until I approached a fourth stranger that I caught a glimpse of a familiar face on the giant Times Square screens. Dark skin in white wrappings, a long black beard—no one alive during the past ten years would mistake that face…and suddenly everything fell into place. Osama Bin Laden, not Barak Obama, had been killed.

Now the joy made a bit more sense, for a moment.

I turned around in awe, taking in the scene with a touch of morbid curiosity and a resounding knowledge that I was, at that very moment, witnessing history.

Everything continued as it had been. The songs were sung, the crowd-surfers surfed, and the flags were waved. For me though, the strange scene quickly lost its charm. Listening to the vitriol and barbaric revelling of the partiers, I couldn’t help but sympathize. Many were likely locals, who had been personally affected by the tragedy of 9/11. I was not.

It didn’t take long for me to decide against staying. Dancing for death had never been my forte—even when the death was so well-earned.

I dropped my soaked clothing at the hotel, changed quickly, and headed out for a quiet pint. Even that was hard to find. Most bars were filled with the overflow from the party in Times Square, and escaping the patriotic revelry seemed nigh impossible. After a tenacious search however, I found a tiny little corner of nowhere, ordered something dark, and sat in silence to reflect on the moment.

Beside me—and quite possibly the only other patron of the joint—sat a weathered old man. He stared morosely into his beer, his eyes never moving up.

I don’t remember how I started talking to him—although my interest in strangers is naturally increased when away from home—but eventually I asked him for his thoughts on the scene outside. He said he didn’t have many, and none worth sharing.

He was an old Marine, he explained. He’d no doubt seen plenty of death in his day. Perhaps he’d danced the same dance that raged now outside many times before—for victories far more personal. Or perhaps not. Just now, he wanted no part of it.

We sat for several hours—most of them in silence. He’d ask me now and then about my home, and what I did. What I believed. What I didn’t. He seldom answered the questions I turned back upon him.

When I finally left, I remember having no clue what I was feeling. Sure, I was fine with the death of a known killer and terrorist, but I didn’t feel any safer. I had no illusion that the world would be a better place now. More bombs would be dropped, and new leaders would rise on both sides—all intently seeking further death and destruction.

The people who fought the hardest for peace appeared to benefit from it the least, while those who hadn’t worked at all for it danced as only those who’ve never known loss or toil can. The people who proclaimed most fervently the superiority of their nations seemed to be the ones who’d never left its borders.

I suppose there are a lot of things like that in life. It’s easy to be enthusiastic when we are young and foolish and know no better. For the wise and weathered—for the warriors who have seen the cycle come back upon itself time and time again, there are no songs of joy or dirges of sorrow. There’s just another day, with nothing more to say.

Every year, I feel more like that old marine.

-Brad OH Inc.