Tag Archives: love

Single Serving Stories Series- ‘Of Pipers and Pigs’

Posted on by
Reply

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This project will culminate in a couple of heretofore unpublished Single Serving Stories, so even the most dedicated of readers will have something to look forward to.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 third Single Serving Story, ‘Of Pipers and Pigs’. This one was always a favourite of my father’s. I was very proud of that.

The thin metal barricades were all that separated us from them. Judging by the press of people facing us, it was anybody’s guess how long that alone would be sufficient. I gazed down the line—right and left—to the determined men and women by my side. They stood resolutely shoulder to shoulder, as was their duty, and the resolve on their faces did much to conceal the doubt in their eyes.

I saw my own uncertainty mirrored in theirs. It wasn’t so much a question of whether the barricade would hold—such tides had an inconceivable ability to lay waste to even the most thorough plans of men—but how they would react when it did give. The answer would be different for each of them.

With a turn of my head, I brought my attention to the people before me. They were a mixed lot. They wore all manner of clothing, having come here from every walk of life. I saw furious men in fancy suits, raving college kids with gaudy t-shirts, topless folk with body paint…and cameras—so many cameras all aimed at me and my colleagues. They were as eager to judge our course of action as we were to settle upon it.  

The railing, which reached to my midsection, swayed violently against the upheaval. It threatened now to collapse in against us, then to topple over upon them. Many of the onlookers were angry—the sort of anger that occurs only in those who have known great comfort, and now perceive it being denied to them. I felt their breath against my face.

One man loomed up right before me, pushing and shoving as if vying for position on the floor of some mad rock show. Jerking and wheeling, he made his way to the fence, holding up a blindingly bright sign and seeming to scream in tongues. The letters were too close to form words, but danced before me like the disjointed stars of some unfamiliar constellation. What does he want?

A sudden surge brought the mass forward, and the metal joints of the fence screeched in distress. Instinctively, I threw my weight forward to counter the assault, and felt my efforts validated by those beside me working in perfect unison.

Amongst the crowd, some fought harder. Like dogs chasing cars, their desire for action far exceeded their comprehension of the potential results. Others retreated quickly, slipping backwards and leaving in their wake only curses, insults, and more of their kind to fill their place.

Accusations flared in their eyes, confusing me, as I was usually looked to for comfort. Wasn’t that the idea?

Upon my left breast, my fingers drifted absently across my badge, as they did so often in moments like this. It felt the same as ever—the familiar surface that read like brail ever since the day it was first given to me. Each bump and scratch brought back the words of the oath I’d taken so long ago. They would never be forgotten.

So much has changed since then.

Shouts clawed at me from beyond the barricade, but were muffled by voices resounding in my head from much, much further away in time and space.

“What are you going to do about it?” my father had asked me.

I didn’t know, and kept my silence.

“Are you afraid?”

Yes, I knew. “No.”

There was blood on my face, my shirt…my hands.

“It’s all right to be,” he said, leaning down. He was a large man, and wore a rough old wool sweater as he set me upon his lap. “Smart men know when to be afraid.” He always knew how to comfort me.

“But everybody’s blaming someone else. Evan even blames me.” My whining was piteous, but at that age the strength of another is the surest route to vulnerability in yourself.

“That’s the way of the world,” he replied with a knowing sigh. Even in my hardest days, he expected me to find the answers for myself. There was no learning in being told what to do.

“But if no one really knows what happened, how can I know what’s right?” I pleaded, hoping for any bit of inspiration to help me resolve the insignificant playground conflicts which then seemed to be the focal point of all the world’s stress.

Then I saw it. Looking up over my shoulder, I watched the wisdom fade away. The certainty and resolve I’d come to depend on flowed like ice melting in spring, and the sun of confusion shone upon his face, illuminating the deep lines and off-coloured spots of the long years he’d seen. His eyes glassed over, as with a deep recollection he would not share. “I don’t know.” He’d answered.

“I’ll figure it out,” I’d assured him, wrapping my small arms around his shoulders, and losing myself in his familiar scent.

My fingers moved back down from my badge as my gaze wandered out to my left, chasing the sudden sounds of struggle. Farther down the fence, I saw a large throbbing black shape as several officers pushed together. A shouted chant was rising up and spreading from the area, but the words were lost to me.

At the heart of the mob, I could make out Jason, my oldest friend on the force. His uniform was splashed with paint, and he was yelling loudly, pointing at one of the men in front.

Ahead of me the crowd continued to heave and push, frantic to go someplace they didn’t know, and perhaps had only dreamed of. A sudden yell brought me back to the struggle, and I saw them dragging away the protestor Jason had indicated. The man kicked and lashed out; fighting desperately to be free from what he’d so passionately sought mere moments before.

“Just hold your position,” directed one of the other uniformed men beside me. “They’ve got it under control.” I’d never met him before.

The scene was dispersing now—most officers returning to their former positions as Jason and three others carried the man away. He was docile now, smiling innocently at the flashing cameras as my friends dragged his dead weight along. Passing behind me as they went, Jason whispered, “’Right and true’, buddy.”

I felt a subtle smile force its way across my lips. “Right and true,” I mouthed, but he was beyond hearing now. With the departure of my three colleagues, the line shifted as the remaining officers spread out, widening their stances to cover the gaps. I followed suit.

“Fucking pigs!” someone yelled. It made no difference who. Tension stiffened the limbs of those standing beside me as my own spine straightened with indignation. Did they come here today just to pick fights? Many looked as if they had.

But anger was not the only emotion worn by the people before me. They yelled and chanted. They shook the railing and they held up crude signs with uncertain meanings. But as they looked back at us, I could see in them the same fear I concealed in myself, the brooding question as to how this situation would end—what an ending to it would even mean.

The anxiety on their brows told me they knew their danger as well as I did, and were entirely aware that their absent friend was not the exception—that the same could happen as easily to any one of them. Gazing upon their strange looks of apprehension stiffened with resolution, I found myself wondering if their greatest fear was not that they might be arrested today, or that the barricade would break and their flood sweep over our breakwaters. It struck me that perhaps their real concern was that nothing at all would happen; that the tide would pass, and things would remain unchanged, and that they’d need to be back here again some other day.

Each face held a secret judgement, and again my fingers flashed briefly over my cold metal badge, assuring me that I was on the right side of the line. But ‘right’ is a funny word, and with my experience, I knew how to read its presence. Beyond all the anger, beyond the anxieties and fears, beyond the trepidation and dissent, I saw the ‘right’ in every one of them—an absolute certainty, as if they held some truth which I lacked. They believed in their cause absolutely.

It’s a strange thing, that two sides can line up so neatly, and stand in opposition to men who they may have peacefully passed on the street only a day before, yet both be so thoroughly convinced of the sole truth of their own position.

Right and true… I reflected, and I remembered Jason standing proud beside me the day we’d been given our badges. He beamed as the applause took hold of him, while I stood straight and calm by his side. We’d finally made it.

Later that night, we’d sat together in solemn reflection—drinking beers and speaking of the future.

“So, now what?” I’d wondered.

“Now we finally get to begin.” Jason responded as if the path we’d been seeking was laid out before us—forever free of forks or detours.

“Yeah… begin.” I acquiesced.

“Listen,” Jason put his hand on my shoulder. He was three years older than I, and had been a mentor to me as we’d come up through training together. “We’re officers of the law now. No matter where we find ourselves, we’ve got to remember that ‘right’ is on our side.”

I smiled, certain he was correct. Still, there was unease in me, remembering conversations from long ago… people long gone. “What if ‘right’ isn’t always clear?”

Jason took a long pull from his pint glass, emptying it down to suds as he rolled his eyes. “Jesus,” he’d said. “It’s your first day as a cop, and you’re already having doubts about yourself? Shape up man; you’ve reached the Promised Land. That badge you got today—that means ‘right’. If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll remember that. What’s got you so down anyway?”

It wasn’t an easy thing to describe, especially in the face of my friend’s confidence. I sat awkwardly, taking noncommittal sips from my glass as Jason stared straight through me. His focus was astounding when he was intent on a subject. “I guess the whole time I was fighting for this, I felt like it would come with some solution. They got me ready for the job, trained me physically and mentally. Yet today, when they pinned it to my shirt, it seemed so heavy.

“Now all the expectations are on me, but I’m still the same person. The same doubts, the same uncertainties, the same ability to see different sides of an argument. I thought it would come with answers…I don’t know—I just expected to be more sure of the truth is all.”

“You’re never going to find any truth outside yourself buddy,” Jason grinned as he spoke, revelling in his perceived wisdom. “But you’ve come this far because you know enough truth already. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Remember all those clowns who started with us. Where are they now? You have a great honour here man; your duty is to serve the people, to do what’s right. That’s the only truth you need.”

“You’re right,” I agreed, finishing my beer.

“Right and true!” Jason smiled.

A deep roar shattered my reverie, returning me to my post. The crowd was shifting, as if the masses were a single great beast breathing in for the charge. It swelled, pushing against the fence, testing it…seeking the breaking point.

Again I threw my shoulder against it, and again my fellow officers were there in unison. We stood as one resolute blockade, convincing ourselves together that the direction of the few could outweigh the determination of the many. Then the beast exhaled, the chants rose up again, and the moment had passed.

Straightening up, I gazed about me—the instant of reprieve allowing me to look out over the sea of humanity and take in the entirety of the scene.

They stretched back as far as I could see. There were people of every imaginable ethnicity, all ages and backgrounds. They all stood packed together in a sprawling, sweaty mass. Some were pressed so close to others they seemed barely able to speak or move, but remained as a number—one amongst many—and that was enough for them.

The square was packed from end to end; the traffic had been redirected well in advance. Somewhere in the distance I heard the beating of drums and tambourines, banging and clanging not with the heavy rhythm of an army on the move, but sounding more like a folk festival; a strange, displaced cultural jamboree tearing down the ritualistic order of our city.

In odd corners and assorted empty pockets amid the human sea, tents had been erected, and here and there circles of protestors danced with looks of joy on their faces, as if oblivious to the chaos around them.

Many held signs, each made by hand and bearing its own unique interpretation of the mob’s intent. I read them skeptically, trying to glean some idea of what exactly that intention was.

Some bore only curt slogans about change, while others featured well known logos and images of public figures, each altered and contorted to share their intended messages.

One logo I spied was instantly familiar. It came attached to my family’s healthcare receipts—the ones which got accepted at any rate. Another one, though it was partially covered with bright red lettering, I recognized to represent the corporation in charge of my pension. I’d heard they weren’t doing so well.

High up all around the square, the same logos—pristine and fresh—looked down accusingly at the scene. Each promised its own deliverance from the daily grind: ‘Fresh Food at Cheap Prices’, ‘Cars to Suit Your Class’… special offers to ‘Buy $100 Now for $120 Later’. Many of the biggest billboards bore bank logos so common amongst the signs of the crowd that it was easy to forget their actual origins.

A scuffle to the right stole my attention, and looking, I saw a ragged protestor in a dull fleece sweater trying to wrestle his sign back from the hands of two of my colleagues. Though torn and bent, on it I could distinguish the defaced countenance of the man who signed my paycheques.

Right and true. The words echoed in my ears, seeming as naturally fitted to one another as polar ends of a magnet…as ‘Us and Them’. I was surprised to feel my fists wrapping themselves around the metal railing before me. It had none of the old etchings of my badge, yet still my fingers clung to its sleek bars as my mind raced.

The uncertainty in the faces squaring off against each other was the only visible balance. I stared at the people beside me, then at those in front of me. Each group stood upon their respective side of the metal barricade, looking to one another as if to ensure the plan hadn’t changed.  Everyone had come here with some expectation, but all stood patiently now, just wondering how it was going to end.

The railing jerked under my hands.

Right and true were sundered by doubt, and the smooth surface of the shifting rail assured me that I was as guideless as the rest—left to draw my own conclusions…though there was still the badge. All lined up beside me, my fellow officers remained strong, doing their duty. Each had undoubtedly reached this position with intentions similar to my own. What are they thinking now?

A sudden urge took me, and I felt my body turn. There was a hand upon my shoulder, though I couldn’t tell if it belonged to an officer or protestor as my vision turned away from the bustling mass behind me and settled upon the ornate building now in front. It stood on our side of the barricade, fenced entirely by my friends and colleagues as suited men passed in and out unhindered.

Your duty is to serve the people, to do what’s right. That’s the only truth you need. Jason’s words rang through my mind as a tremor passed down my spine. I turned back around, and set my shoulders squarely in line with the fence.

The chants and screams were growing louder now, and the heads of the people beyond me drifted side to side wildly as the crowd surged about like boats unmoored against a rising storm.

My right hand drifted towards my chest once more, closing around the cold metal over my heart. My left remained upon the railing as it jockeyed wildly about, threatening to fail at any moment. Which way will I face when it does?

Right and true. I felt all things at once now: the barricade before me, the badge upon me, the gun at my side, and the surging mob pushing towards me. The fence bounced and jostled—the frail division line between us ready at any moment to collapse upon itself. Then we’ll all stand together.

I imagined the protestors struggling over the wreckage of the barricade, pondered the responses of my fellow officers…and of myself. ‘Right’ was a hollow spot in my chest, and ‘true’ was but a taunting memory. There was a lump in my throat I could not swallow, and I found my thoughts settling ultimately upon my own family at home, wondering what they’d expect of me.

Still the fence held, though I knew that whether here and now, or later and elsewhere, it had to break in the end. There were questions to be answered, and when the tides of society shifted, there was no barrier sufficient to stand against the flood.

I straightened my back and waited, knowing I had a decision to make.

-Brad OH Inc.

Single Serving Stories Series- ‘A Conversation of Inconclusive Results’

Posted on by
Reply

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green Desklamp

In 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.

Starting today, 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 second story, ‘A Conversation of Inconclusive Results’, which the sharp-eyed among you may note was a heavy inspiration for my first novel, ‘Edgar’s Worst Sunday’.

The events of that Saturday night were ultimately a complete waste. Ethan had gone out with the sole intention of finding some means of distraction from the stress of his impending graduation, and failing that, had chosen to get exceptionally drunk. Sadly, his fixation on the future had accompanied him into his intoxicated state, rather than being alleviated by it.

With these distractions playing through his head, Ethan had chosen a bar far off campus, one seldom frequented by his academic peers.

So now he sat, absentmindedly spinning his beer around in the golden puddle spreading slowly out from beneath it as the small speakers mounted in each corner churned out muffled approximations of songs he’d never heard. It was an hour from closing time, but only minutes before everything really began going to hell.

“Everything’s fucked,” Ethan groaned.

Ethan was unhappy.

“Pretty much,” replied Desmond, seated comfortably to Ethan’s right.

“It’s not that bad,” Andrew chimed in to his left.

The room was mostly vacant- the dim light cast by the two battered old chandeliers barely reaching its furthest edges. Ethan’s table sat, somewhat lopsided, at the far right corner beyond the thick metal door leading outside. With his back to an old grey wall decorated with a strange variety of oddities and memorabilia, Ethan faced the bar at the other end of the room.

Made of polished redwood, the bar stretched from just beyond the entrance all the way to the far wall. A lone man walked back and forth behind it, alternatingly polishing glasses and running a sloppy grey dishrag over his workspace.

The tables were low and heavy- big wooden structures whose shine had worn off long ago. Each was lined with long scars and crags from years of drunken abuse, with small illegible etchings carved into many of them- forgotten declarations of eternal love, announcements of specific patronage, and assorted obscenities.

Few of these were populated, though one lone man sat near the entryway at a single table wedged awkwardly between a worn pool table and the hallway leading to the dilapidated restrooms.

An old disco ball sent a shower of light twirling around the empty space opposite the stranger- likely the only activity the dance floor had seen in a good while. The entire room reeked of stale beer and old eggs, though the source of only one was immediately identifiable.

“What’s left now?” asked Ethan, sprawling across the table as his brown and green striped polo shirt drank deeply of the beer still remaining from a spill hours prior.

“Nothing,” Desmond flipped a toothpick into his mouth with a grin.

“Everything!” insisted Andrew, casting an irritated glance across the table. Desmond took no notice.

Ethan peeled himself up slowly from the mess of cloth and booze, a long wet slurp accompanying his efforts. He glanced over briefly as a small group entered the bar and took one of the many empty tables near the dance floor. To Ethan’s chagrin, they seemed in fine spirits. “I don’t even know what I’m meant to be doing.”

“Isn’t that up to you?” Andrew leaned over the table, unconcerned about his elbow, which drifted precariously close Ethan’s little lake of wasted but unforsaken beer.

“Isn’t that the essence of his problem?” Desmond’s expression of innocent intrigue fit him as naturally as empathy on an alligator.

“It really is!” Ethan nodded his head enthusiastically, then let it roll in a long looping circle before finally bringing it to rest facing no one in particular as he resumed his woeful diatribe. “What do I have to look forward to? Now I’ll just get some job I’ll hate, raise kids who won’t appreciate me, and finally I’ll accept the cold embrace of death.”

“Well at least there’s that death part then,” quipped Desmond, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his hands behind his head. Desmond was tall and lean, and wore his shock of dark hair mussed up with intricate apathy.

“Don’t be morbid,” Andrew said with a sigh. He shifted in his seat, rotating to better face Ethan, or perhaps to better avoid facing Desmond. Andrew wore a vibrant t-shirt depicting a wizard riding a wild boar. No one really understood his affection for such irreverence, nor did it ever seem to fit his stoic demeanour. The shirt did fit his strong arms particularly well however, and was therefore seldom the cause of significant chastising. “I’m sure when you sober up you’ll look back and realise how rewarding your life has been so far.”

“I thought looking back at your life was exactly what death was for,” mused Desmond before taking a long swallow of his thick red ale.

Ethan laughed despite himself- a sloppy, frantic sound that sent a pale trickle of beer running down his lightly stubbled chin. “That’s just what I’d need- to endure a rerun of my sorry fucking life before I died. Do you think there’s any option to skip that whole to-do?”

Andrew pushed his chair against the wall with a long screech, leaning his large frame back and crossing his legs. On his face was fixed a baleful, disappointed expression. “Are you really going to sit here and lament everything you’ve ever accomplished Ethan? You’re being ridiculous. You’re a great guy, and have plenty to be thrilled about going forward. Can’t you think of anything you’re proud of?”

“Do keg-stands and courtesans count?” Desmond asked, but went ignored.

“I’m not trying to be an asshole here.” Ethan answered the first question put to him. Perhaps trying to mimic Andrews’s adjustment, he slid back in his seat, and then downward, slouching like a wax sculpture left in the sun. “I know I’m lucky.  I have a lot to be thankful for, I’m not arguing that. But right now, all that only makes it tougher. I know who I am, what I was given, and what I’m capable of. I know all the expectations on me, all the different opinions of what I might be. It’s just that I have no clue what I really want.

“It’s a lot to handle- I don’t know how you guys are so calm about it,” he finished.

“Well that’s what good company is for, isn’t it?” Andrew reassured, swallowing back the last of his beer.

“No, that’s what beer is for. Happily, good company serves good beer. Isn’t it your round Andy?” Desmond asked with a smirk.

“I told you not to call me that. And no- in fact it’s your round Desmond, if you’d be so kind.” Andrew slid his empty cup across the table.

“Damn.” Desmond rolled his eyes back and placed the back of his hand to his forehead in a faux expression of grief. Standing, he spat his gnawed toothpick into an empty glass and turned to make his way to the bar with a merry declaration- “Be right back Drew!”

With a chuckle, Ethan stared down into his empty cup, sighed, and began to drag his finger back and forth through the spilled beer in front of him, leaving little yellow lightning bolts zagging towards him and dripping down onto his legs. “I know what you’re gonna to say Andrew. ‘This is only the beginning- an exciting new chapter in my life.’ You’re right too. But all that talk about having your life flash before your eyes- that ending point really gets to me. It’s been pretty great, I’ve had a lot of laughs and experienced nothing but success. But I’m not sure how much of that was me and how much was predetermined. I’ve been on a direct path for so long- now I have to begin making my own decisions. Now it’s all up to me to fuck up. ”

“Well maybe you need to consider this flashback differently. You’re not dying tonight to the best of my knowledge. You’ll die a long time from now, and this choice will just be another one of the many events you look back on then. The question is, how will you feel when you look back on it?”

“Hopefully better than he did when we reminded him what he did last time he got this drunk… What are we talking about?” Desmond interrupted, speaking primarily for his own amusement, as usual. Sitting back at the table, he divided out the drinks. A short, stout glass filled with thick red ale for himself. For Ethan there was a tall glass of pale beer, and for Andrew, a thin, colourful drink with a melon wedge sticking out of it like the mast of a sunken galleon.

“You’re such a fucking dick Desmond.” Andrew complained, dredging out the melon and tossing it at Desmond, just missing his shining white grin.

“That’s a pretty mean thing to say to your friend Andrew.” Desmond stared across at the bigger man, holding his gaze until he saw the expected blush creeping up his neck and reddening his cheeks. Andrew could never hold his ground if he felt someone else may have been hurt by his actions. “… Christ you’re a pussy.”

“I guess that’s one way to look at it.” Ethan refocused the conversation, taking a small sip of his new beer. “It certainly doesn’t take the pressure off it though- if I fuck up this decision, not only will it ruin the rest of my life, but I’ll have to reflect on how it all went wrong before I kick it. Jesus, would time ever drag looking back on that!”

“You’re focussing on the negatives again Ethan. Maybe we should switch drinks- this one seems a bit more… fun?” Ethan laughed again, while Desmond cast a cautionary glance to ward against any unforeseen drink switching. “Take your time with this decision, do what’s right for you, and time will fly by. Think of how amazing it would feel to look back at that, and all the other times where you just kicked ass in life. It sounds like a pretty good way to go!”

The smile that spread across Desmond’s face now was not one of mocking insincerity. His lips curled into a self-satisfied sickle as he leaned over the table, examining each of his companions in turn. “Happy memories or not Ethan, time is hardly going to fly. It’s your fucking deathbed we’re talking about here. Death! The one, absolute thing humans are evolved to avoid. That’s the pinnacle of unpleasant right there.”

“He’s right.” Ethan slouched back down in his chair and took a long pull from his cup. “Shit… if time slows down when we’re having a bad time, and death is the worst thing that can happen- wouldn’t time stand still when we die? I mean, think of it graphically- wouldn’t death form an asymptote where the experience of time is infinite in that one single instant?”

“You know why you’re always so down Ethan?” asked Andrew.

“Because he’s the kind of asshole who goes to a bar with his friends and uses words like ‘asymptote’?” Desmond smirked momentarily, but caught himself at the severity of the topic, and bit his lip to fight off the temptation of further heckling.

“No!” Andrew was getting frustrated. “Because when he looks back on his life, he only looks for negatives and regrets. It’s no use living with your mind fixed on what’s already done. You need to look ahead.”

“At the very least, it’s a helpful perspective on life.” Ethan mused absently.

“What?” Andrew asked.

Desmond smiled in silence.

“Think about what we have here,” Ethan’s voice rose in excitement, his hand grasping tightly about the stem of his half empty glass. “Here we are, imagining me at the second of my untimely demise. In that moment I’m granted, mercifully no doubt, an opportunity to look back on my life- all my successes and regrets.”

“So what will you see?” Andrew asked, sipping slowly from his long black straw and leaning forward in his seat.

“A close-up of the floor, smeared in your own vomit?” offered Desmond, leaving his sense of propriety where he’d found it.

“Shut up you idiots. Not only that, but we’ve agreed that time slows down when you’re having a bad experience, and that death is the worst possible experience. That means this event would theoretically- and certainly in the graphical sense- last forever.

“So, I lie dying- my experience of which is eternal- and look back at my life, reflecting on my decisions.”

“Heaven,” promised Andrew.

“Hell,” Desmond chided simultaneously.

“Jesus…” Ethan lamented, sliding further down in his chair as his eyes grew distant and glassy.

“Well does that help you make your decision?” Andrew swallowed the last of his drink, wiped his mouth with a napkin he’d had folded in his pocket, and leaned his weight onto his elbow.

“Or just further terrify you as to its magnitude?” Desmond asked, smiling as he held his glass up, tipped it skyward, and held it until the deep amber liquid disappeared down his throat. He belched loudly.

“What decision? Let’s get more beer.” A thin trace of saliva dropped from Ethan’s chin, down onto his polo.

“Last call is done buddy, but you can owe me for next time.” Desmond mumbled, stretching as he rose from the table.

“Oh leave him alone, he’s had a long night,” cautioned Andrew, rising and circling around the table. Evening off with Desmond, he stood patiently. Ethan leaned to one side, and then the other as his legs began to straighten in turns under the old wooden table. Leaning forward, he placed one hand heavily onto its surface for support, and slowly worked to elevate his midsection as he wavered back and forth under the effort.

Just as his ascension was all but achieved, Ethan’s hand slipped in the puddle of beer on the table, sending his mass careening forward onto its surface, taking it off balance and sending him pouring over its far end. He was left buried beneath the tables upturned frame.

“Holy shit! Are you ok Ethan?” Andrew shot around to one side, hooking his arm under Ethan’s as he heaved the table off of him.

Laughing hysterically, and entirely unable to catch his breath, Desmond did the same on the other side.

“Get out, you damned idiots!” bellowed the bartender.

Working together, Andrew and Desmond managed to hoist Ethan up, and began their way across the bar on the long trek for home. “What were we talking about just now?” Ethan’s voice was slurred, and came in fits and halts.

“You were doing some real soul searching Ethan, I’ll tell you about it in the morning,” Andrew assured him as he held the door open with one large hand.

Helping guide the human tangle over the threshold, Desmond could feel the cool night air against his face. “Now won’t that be a treat. Don’t worry Ethan, I’ll be there too. Wouldn’t want it to take too long, would we?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

Together the three friends made their way down the quiet streets. Ethan sagged heavily between them, but supported at each shoulder he continued to trudge along. A dying streetlight flickered above them, its efforts supported only by the dim light of the moon, hidden between buildings.

Ethan’s feet caught and dragged on the broken cement of the roadway, finally ceasing to move at all, causing the procession to halt long enough for him to empty the contents of his stomach down onto his shoes. Then, after a short bout of weary laughter, they continued on.

“Oh Ethan my wayward friend, why do we always need to carry you?” asked Desmond.

-Brad OH Inc.

Single Serving Stories Series- ‘As It Happened’

Posted on by
Reply

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.

Starting today, 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.

Starting with the first story, ‘As It Happened’, all the way through the most recent, 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.

So, without further ado, let us revisit my first completed Single Serving Story under the Brad OH Inc. banner, the strange and unsettling 2012 classic, ‘As It Happened’.

They sat together on the couch, the glow of the newscasters face from their small TV lighting up the room. How long had it been growing?

At the centre of the divide between them, their hands just grazed one another. It was a seemingly insignificant space, but through it blew the winds of change, howling with the desperate voice of a day that would not come. The woman on the TV was beautiful— even while telling them it was all true, and things would never be the same.

Soft cushions cradled each of them delicately, betraying their discomfort. The sun shone brightly behind the reporter, who delivered the news with an unrelenting drawl. Stone faced and tenacious, there was an understated bravery there.

The room was cold.

Repeatedly, the woman onscreen reassured the viewers that the events were isolated incidents, and there was no cause for speculation beyond the facts. Yet the camera showed another truth, clear as day. There was no reference made to the people running in the background. They weren’t doing it for the audience.

The images changed like the flickering of a dwindling candle as more and more reports came in. They all said the same thing. On the couch, nestled deeply in her cushion, she wondered what she’d say— how to express all the things she needed to, yet not reach what she knew to be the inevitable result.

She remained silent.

Before them, the screen pulsed with movement— the picture at times was clear as glass, depicting beyond doubt the finest details of all that transpired. At other times it jumped and crackled, the signal interrupted and the image distorted, leaving only the muffled voices and brief glances of scenery to tell the story.

With each change of the scene, their faces were illuminated— white, orange, blue, crimson. Occasionally the sound would rise up, pinning them in place with the force of its message. Then it would dip, and they could hear the gentle rumours of each other’s breathing in the cloying calm of the room.

She thought about the start, and how it had sounded like the promise she’d been waiting for. Her stomach groaned with hunger, but she remained quiet as she stared at the box of glowing light in front of her. The busy people on the TV only served to accentuate how terribly still she sat.

At the farthest reach of his periphery, he could see her, a dim evening star dancing heedlessly upon the razor’s edge of perception. It was a safe distance. Watch and record, note changes and variances, try to learn without direct intervention.

They both listened and learned— there was nothing else to do. They remembered the rumours passed about so long ago— all going ignored amidst the milieu of suspicion and doubt that peppered common conversation these days. Sometimes the greatest betrayal was the failure to see what was right before you.

What now remained to be done?

His eyes were fixed forward; dying lanterns passing down a dark trail. In times such as these, people had to keep their focus, lest the distractions and deceits of the woods lure them forever from their courses.

Everybody had their theories about how things got to this point: little narratives that tied the confusions together, small offerings of guilt— what might have been different if only this hadn’t been said, if only that hadn’t been done? But they all knew the source— the drive all people felt towards unity. People were born to love. They could love each other, love ideas; even love their country.

They used to tell each other that love was enough.

But when does something like that begin and end? How is the line drawn? It’s only a scratch that appears one day along the vinyl, and grows slowly until it’s impossible to distinguish the tune beneath the tumult.

There’s no fanfare at first, not until it’s already too far gone. Some will deny, rationalize, or accept. Others may reframe their entire perspective to accommodate the changes of the world around them, but that only goes so far. They stretch the lens; contort the picture until the blur seems normal.

It’s almost cute at first. But then there are things that cannot be explained away. Call them unbelievable mathematical improbabilities, divine signs, psychological decay—call them whatever fits.

Yet there comes a point when they just can’t be ignored.

None of that mattered any longer. This wasn’t science, and understanding the start wasn’t always a sure way to predict the future. Here they were, and as the lady on the TV continued to update— now listing chronologically the events speculated to have led them all to this terrible precipice— he already knew it was on the way out.

Fighting had never done any good. Some sorts of alliances cannot be fought for, with one side flitting away while the other chases, only to reverse roles at some point, all the while braving the pitfalls and sabotages of circumstance and society. Rather should any true alliance be pursued with undying ferocity, both sides defying or ignoring any odds with continual movement towards connection— for one approach is based in courtship, the other grounded in partnership.

Sometimes it almost seemed that it was truly attainable— that it was a tangible thing to grasp and hold. But hearts are not moved through the simple occupation of space.

The voices on the TV were quiet now, and he could hear his heartbeat clawing desperately at the safety screen of silence between them.

The scene was shocking. All they’d ever known had been stripped of the robes of artifice they’d helped in sewing. A sudden cacophony of competing cheers and jeers was the haunting dirge that led the gruesome parade through their home, and they couldn’t say now what part of the clamour was theirs to play.

A man was speaking on the TV, insisting in practiced homilies that people were only doing the jobs set to them, and that it was not the viewer’s part to judge.

The steel of the words was betrayed by the waver of the voice. It was ever the case.

They recognized many of the faces flashing past— each had made some promise, offered some hope. Looking back, every last one of them had claimed it was coming. Some for one reason, some for another. One claimed it was because of the first. But they all agreed— without change, this was inevitable.

Why had they all ignored it? How could so many people, with such a wealth of knowledge at their finger-tips, collectively fall into the lie?

Of course they had their ideas now. One could speculate, another hypothesize. They could chase each other in circles as the world fell out from under them. It made no difference.

The TV showed a blur, static scraping itself over cityscapes, and the words came pouring on, now muffled, now crystalline. A fire flickered from an alley, and a man in a suit was gesticulating furiously at the camera while ducking into a black car. A preacher stood in the street calling for apologies, and all around the crowd stared expectantly one to the other.

If she looked closely enough, she could almost make it out. Beyond the static, past the distortion of years were all the things she’d once held dear. With a squint of the eye and a trick of the brain the major details were all there— but it hadn’t been the big things that had changed. She could cradle the image in her mind, and nearly believe that it could still be. It flowed before her, a reflection in the river of time until some distraction shattered it like the ripples of a thrown stone. Then it was gone, relegated to its proper place on the shelf of her memory, with all the other things whose beauty was now remembered only by the light of a sun long set.

Still, everyone seemed to be missing it, all fixated upon their own illusive ideal.

The ideal never came.

They were left instead to wander blindly through mazes of ambiguous promises, seeing their own loss and confusion mirrored back in the eyes of those they’d looked to for guidance. Concepts like honour and loyalty— when the sources that defined them have dissipated like blood in water— quickly lose their meaning.

He remembered the first time the thought had entered his mind— that maybe all the things he’d grown to expect would never come. It had darted in one day unbidden and never left. When finally he’d heard the words, the doubts had been soothed. But they lingered like embers in the morning dew— forgotten fears smouldering patiently amongst the tinder’s of trust.

Even now the ideas would still spring up in his mind on occasion, hopes like secret castles in a child’s tale, which only existed as long as they were believed in.

He started to speak, and she opened her mouth. A bulletin blared across the screen, and they both sat quietly with their mouths agape.

How long had they sat back, waiting for that one perfect moment to find them; the flawless solution that would wash over them and assure them that everything would be ok? They were still waiting, as every other opportunity slipped by. Sitting and staring. Starry eyed and terrified.

Now a crowd was gathered on the TV. Someone was dying in the streets. They didn’t recognize the face shown, nor catch amidst the fury of the mob the narrator’s explanation of the dying man’s significance. It would’ve been irrelevant— all titles were equal once blood had been shed.

His eyes carved across the room, settling upon and holding hers. Not long enough at first, then suddenly, self-consciously far too long. He jerked his gaze away frantically, as if to avoid further rejection. His arms interlaced across his chest, leaving nothing but the still, cold air as her hand reached across the barren space between them, grasping only the ghost of what had been a moment before.

Lights were flashing on the TV, and packed tightly around a statue was a throng of cheering people. Through the crackling picture it was impossible to determine if they were truly deluded into happiness, or merely too afraid to take up the song that curled submissively at the backs of their throats.

They twitched in unison with the shared recognition of a building that appeared on screen, but the men entering it were strangers to them. Faint noises came from the window across the room— another jarring reminder that the world before them was the very one in which they now sat. Yet outside were only passing cars, filled with people going wherever they were needed most. The more significant events were smeared across the glass right in front of them, and that’s where their attention remained.

It wasn’t how they might have imagined it. The news was constantly changing, the truth of the events sorting itself out from the falsities like straining oil from water. They knew the facts would be blurred for a long time— but what they could see was sufficiently telling. Short clips played, sometimes repeated in increasingly close approximations to their entirety, at other times discarded indefinitely for developments of more immediate relevance. With every scene, the chill of the room grew more difficult to bear.

There were no bombs dropping. It wasn’t that kind of a revolution. There weren’t even any clear sides— just a big, bleeding divide.

Signal flare reasons filled the air— reaching out for certainty through the impenetrable fog of its absence. Time passed as they sat, still and quiet. The hours seemed of small account now— many things they’d come to rely on would lose their worth in the days to follow.

On the couch, their focus was inexorable. Ever as they watched, the despair cut deeper, as every misgiving they’d ever pushed aside was dredged up from the darkest corners of their psyches. Still, they couldn’t look away, as if the jagged rocks ahead were their salvation from the siren’s song behind.

In every other direction dangerous visions laid in wait— the home they had, the things they shared, and the memories held in each. Both of them could feel how the fabric of the seat was pulled by the weight of the other beside them, and photos decorated the walls on all sides with reminders of what wouldn’t be.

The distraction of the television offered little succour. The revelations being shown told them that things were unravelling fast. The mystery of the cause had been forgotten— searches for responsibility cast aside. Now the focus was single-minded— the rats had already left the ship, and solution was no longer part of the vernacular.

No one claimed to understand. No one even offered false assurances that everything would be ok. Things would be different— that’s all that could be said. Knowledge was a ghost remembered from childhood— its former certainty fading into doubt, and none remained so bold as to claim they still believed.

Thoughtlessly, instinctively, they allowed their eyes to drift together, repelling that same second like bullets off battered brick walls. The men on the TV were flopping about like beached fish; excuses and justifications the sand that came splattering out beneath them.

Everywhere, people were arguing— building skyscrapers out of conjecture, and then blasting them down to prove their point. The footage rolled on, endless as smoke billowing from the ashes of their aspirations.

Still, upon the couch silence reigned, and from the TV so far across the room, the newscaster returned to explain the choices that remained to them.

-Brad OH Inc.

The Bushido of Bogney, Part VI- The Final Chapter

Posted on by
Reply

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green DesklampBushido: (武士道) literally meaning “the way of the warrior”, is a Japanese word for the way of the samurai life, loosely analogous to the concept of chivalry in Europe. (Source)

 Bogney: A tiny dog, wise for his years.

Today, we once again combine the old and the new for a fresh perspective on life through the eyes of our classy canine friend. This is the daily living of a small dog. This is the extrapolated wisdom of the ages…This is the Bushido of Bogney.

-Click Here for Part I-

-Click Here for Part II-

-Click Here for Part III-

-Click Here for Part IV-

-Click Here for Part V-

Lesson 1:

One quiet winter night, Bogney was sleeping peacefully on the carpet by the door when he was taken by a sudden fit of shakes. Terribly concerned, I took him to the emergency vet. Waiting with terrible trepidation, I thought of the countless memories we had spent over the 15 years we’d known each other. I could not control my tears.

I hoped for the best, but the best did not come. When returned to me, Bogney kissed me happily and wagged his tail with unrestrained joy, heeding no words even as his Doctor described to me the tumour growing in his brain, and the pittance of time he had left. Still in my arms he wiggled and squirmed, eager to leave this boring place.

The years left had become weeks, or months if we were lucky. I thought again of the many moments behind us, and the sparse few we might have left. Somehow, they seemed all the more valuable.

At Bogney’s insistence, we went to the park. True wisdom is often found not in fearing the future, but in living the present.

Lesson 2:

Bogney struggles to move at times these days. He is old and stiff, sometimes disoriented. Rolling over is a struggle now, but when the treats come out, he is instead all the more eager to shake a paw. Undeterred, he finds a way to get what he needs.

We could all learn something from this tenacity.

Lesson 3:

Good days come, and good days pass. Without warning one night, Bogney was taken again by seizures, and was forced to spend a day and a night at the vet. When I was finally allowed to visit him, I found him confused, and his senses dulled. He could not see what was before him, and set his shaking chin in my hands.

Finally, he fell asleep, and his snore was a song of relief. For this moment, he is content.

This is my place. But it is not yet his time.

Lesson 4:

In these days of decline, Bogney and I sleep together on a mattress set on the living room floor. We cannot risk a jump up to any higher bed.

One evening, lying on the mattress, I heard his feet creeping towards me. With his tail wagging and a grin on his face, he happily approached for a kiss, when suddenly his expression changed, and his lips curled in a strange way. His tumour sprang to my mind, and a wave of fear overtook me. Then, Bogney’s mouth gaped open, and he belched loudly in my face. It was long and loud. Both of us stood shocked for a moment, then I laughed, and he resumed with his kisses.

There is great value in a moment such as this.

Lesson 5:

Many months have passed, and the dreaded time has come. Bogney left this world with grace and courage. He kissed me goodbye, then fell asleep in my arms.

For 15 years we walked beside each other. Now our paths are sundered, and I am alone. Alone with everything he gave me.

All these ancient alarms are still going off in my head. Walks to take, food to give, meds to provide. Now to no purpose. Klaxon reminders of a battle with no winning. I am undone, and bereft of battlefields.

The way of the warrior is beyond us now. There is only peace for him now, and in time, myself as well. With his final battle behind him, the wise old dog has taught me who I always was. His final lesson.

I always will remember.

I love you Bogney.

-Brad OH Inc.

Re-Share: A Ghost Poem

Posted on by
Reply

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green Desklamp

I’ll be away for the season of the pumpkin this year, so I will leave you with one of my favourite Halloween pieces, ‘A Ghost Poem’.

******************************************************************************************

A Ghost Poem:

I’m haunted still by visions past,

By ghostly wails and die long cast.

Porcelain smiles and ochre eyes,

Find me much to my surprise.

Sleeping, thinking, lost in mind,

I’m stalked by those I’ve left behind.

A ghostly whisper comes to me,

As I search for serenity.

There is no rest, no sure reprieve,

From the specters I believe.

A curling grin, a twisted brow,

An implacable stretch from then to now.

I toss and turn upon my bed,

These memories searing through my head.

I rise aloft and cross the floor,

A grinning vision at the door.

A flickering vestige of all I had,

To have and lose and then grow mad.

But ever smiling, turns away,

A promise that nothing untrue may stay.

Alone I stand on the edge of dream,

The perfect start to Halloween.

-Brad OH Inc.

Happy Halloween to the Readers of Brad OH Inc.

Posted on by
Reply

It’s that time of year again.

Our favourite time of year.

Halloween is a time when we can become anything we want. Whether that’s a creature from our nightmares, an angel from our dreams, something wild, whacky, frightful… or even something we’ve always suspected we really were.

We can wear it without judgement, be it without cause for explanation—without call for question.

We can be weird or dashing, scary or funny, bold or invisible, obnoxious, quiet, reserved, or zany. We can be ourselves, someone like us, or someone we’ve always dreamed of. Maybe we can find that last illusive spectre out there as well.

So, to all the ghouls, creeps, clowns, crackheads, werewolves, vampires, ghosts, goblins, mer-people, super heroes, super villains, regular heroes, crooks, lagoon-folk, sasquatches, Killer Klowns, gremlins, wooly whatsits, jesters, Juggalos, Jokers, mad professors, incubi, demons, elves, hobbits, serial killers, and freaks. To all the people I’ll pass without recognizing, meet for the first time, or never get to glimpse. To the people I’ve loved, lost, longed for, and those I’ve long forgotten… happy Halloween.

I hope you figure out exactly what you want to be.

-Brad OH Inc.

Re-Share: Ode to the Tavern

Posted on by
Reply

Because it bears repeating…

******************************

They say that behind every great man is a great woman. Well that’s goddamn sexist, and you should be ashamed for thinking it. But it may be true that behind every middling writer is a great drinking establishment. Therefore, we thought we’d take some time from our busy schedule here at Brad OH Inc. to acquaint you with the little pub that has been the birthplace to so very many of our greatest pieces: ‘The Tavern on Whyte’.

6- Ode to the Tavern‘The Tavern on Whyte’– Click the Pic to Visit their Site!

Now make no mistake, this isn’t some hair-brained scheme to establish the Tavern as a historical landmark. Not yet at any stretch. In fact, the staff here at Brad OH Inc. want to take this moment to discourage all potential stalkers and photographers from taking advantage of this profession of affection.

Rather, this is a simple declaration of love for an establishment which has acted as the de facto headquarters for Brad OH Inc. since the summer of 2013. The Tavern has seen the creation of the vast majority of articles here at Brad OH Inc., as well as the writing (by hand) of our upcoming novel, ‘Edgar’s Worst Sunday’.

And why not?

It’s comfortable, and quiet enough to think. It provides a fine view of Whyte Avenue without, and is always friendly within. So come by some time and have a drink—or enjoy any of the delicious selections from their unique menu. Chat with the staff and patrons, take in some fresh air on their patio (a true hidden gem of Whyte Ave.), and enjoy yourself.

Yes, the Tavern on Whyte has a lot to offer. But for this writer, it’s the staff that makes it the especially marvelous place it is. Now, it’s not just that they keep the ‘inspiration’ flowing, mind you. They do, no doubt—in fact we have to wait hardly a minute upon entering before we have an icy cold beer in our intensely focused hands. It’s the company as well—the conversations and inspirations. For truly the staff and patrons of the Tavern (past and present) represent many of the essential muses behind the writings of Brad OH Inc., and for that we are eternally thankful*.

*Disclaimer: This admission of appreciation is not to be taken as a legal acknowledgement of debt or the owing of royalties.

-Brad OH Inc.

When You Arrive

Posted on by
Reply

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green Desklamp

When you arrive,

My back will straighten,

My eyes will shine,

And pace will hasten.

When you arrive,

I’ll live once more,

Not for myself,

But to adore.

When you arrive,

I’ll build my home,

Which cannot stand,

For self alone.

When you arrive,

I’ll hear anew,

The sounds and songs,

That I once knew.

When you arrive,

I’ll play and laugh,

And drink deeply,

Of all I have.

When you arrive,

My fears will die,

When you arrive,

Then so shall I.

-Brad OH Inc.

On Commitment

Posted on by
Reply

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green Desklamp

‘Commitment’ can be a pretty heavy word. To ‘Commit’ means to give in trust or charge, or to pledge oneself (Source). If we consider some of the most common uses of the phrase however, we see that all too often, it bears some life-altering implications. People may commit a crime, or they may commit suicide. They may attempt to commit suicide, and then be committed to the hospital. We might commit to one another, and then we might break that commitment by committing adultery.

Of course, we also commit sin, as duly evidenced in plenty of the examples above.

The connotations of the word are often pretty negative, and all harbour the element of causing a permanent change in the life of those doing the committing (or having it done to them).

Of course, of all the different uses of ‘commit’, perhaps the most dreaded is the interpersonal commitment of loving relationships. Many a man will balk for as long as possible when the notion of serious commitment comes up. So will plenty of women. Evidently, committing to another person holds a special place among the most terrifying committals imaginable.

Understandably so…just as our previous examples illustrate that the act of committing can have life altering implications on a person’s identity or character, so too can the commitment of a relationship—for good or for ill. In this case especially, to commit is an act of faith: not only in ourselves and the permanency of our intentions, but-all the more terrifying to many—in the consistency of our beloved other.

It’s a gamble of sorts—a bid for potential value at the cost of immediate sacrifice or compromise. No doubt, the payoff can be far greater than the cost, but it remains an uncertainty, and hence presents a terrifying loss if the gamble does not work out.

Committing to another person is an act of giving with no guarantee of receiving. Indeed, the committer may end up bereft of pay-off, exposed and humiliated by their misplaced faith, and left to crawl back jaded and bitter to lick their wounds in dismal solitude.

For a time, they may commit only to themselves. But this isn’t such a bad thing either. All the forms of commitment we’ve discussed require some element of change—whether permanent and uncompromising, or merely a change in our priorities, values, or beliefs. Sometimes, it is merely the change from safety and comfort to risk and chance. But then, this is the case with all things worthwhile in this world. Sure, commitment in all its forms entails change and risk, but we must remember that the only thing worse than changing is the alternative.

The final form of commitment is commitment to self—and this is perhaps the most undervalued of them all. It may take the most sacrifice, and force one to endure the greatest amount of suffering—be that from working physically to change one’s lifestyle or environment, or simply from facing with an honest eye the unpleasant realities of one’s life, and committing to changing them one at a time.

Commitment to self can range from changing your lifestyle or diet in a healthy way, working to further your career, changing your circle of friends, or any other means of improving yourself: physically, mentally, or spiritually. It’s such a broad topic, you can find countless blogs on this very subject, such as that of our good friends over at the venerable ‘Fitness: Fact and Fiction’ (Link).

When it comes to commitment of any sort, more often than not, it’s simply easier not to bother. There is great safety in security after all, and to remain stagnant assures that no greater harm may come. When a child is lost, they’re typically taught to stay where they are—for if they wander about looking for rescue, they are apt to find themselves even more lost. But this isn’t about children, and true commitment requires a more mature mind than all that. There come times in all lives that a person will feel lost, and it may seem that all around them is nothing but open ocean and despair. Each way presents the risk of drifting further from the invisible shore. But if one does not commit to some course or the other, they will remain trapped in the doldrums of inadequacy and isolation. To commit to ourselves, or to another, is to seek the change we need. Damn the risks, damn the sacrifice! In the end, life is change, and it behooves us all to plot our course with confidence and hold true onto the rudder. There are a million ways to go, and countless treasures to be found. First though, one must take their leap of faith, set their eyes bravely on the horizon, and commit themselves to reaching it.

-Brad OH Inc.

Yours Truly

Posted on by
Reply

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green Desklamp

I’ve missed you.

I know that may come as a surprise, given my apparent absence. But you’ll have to trust that I’ve held you close in my thoughts, no matter how distant I may have seemed at times.

And it certainly has been a while, I won’t deny it. I’ve been quite busy, although explaining the nature of my work might be a little too heavy at the moment. But you’ve been busy too. Yes, you certainly have. Things have changed around here, even more than I might have imagined.

Not all for the worse mind you. No, I’ve seen some things since my return that have brought a much needed smile to my face—and that’s a rare thing indeed these days, I confess. The decoration I’m a bit split on, but there’s a lot beyond that to appreciate. You’ve had some great ideas, no doubt about it, and there have been moments when you really lived up to your potential.

…It’s just that they’re so damn rare.

Part of it may be my fault, I know—I’ve been derelict in my duties. In truth, I’d been hoping my presence was no longer quite so imperative.

I see now that I was misled. You’ve had a rough go of it lately. It’s hard to say where it all started to go wrong, but it’s far gone now, and it’s time we faced the truth.

I’ll start by apologizing once more for my distance. You deserved some assurance that I still remembered my promise. More importantly, you clearly needed it.

If I’m being entirely honest—and I am, without fail—I actually thought I’d left you with enough to get by. I gave you my word, and I told you everything you needed to know. I tried to make it as simple as I could, but even the clearest instructions grow blurry with the passage of time. And it has been a long time, to say the least.

You must have known I’d be watching though. If not, you should have.

I watched as you forgot who your family was, and turned your back on all the things which really mattered. I saw when you began to use me as a source of justification rather than strength. That’s really what hurt me the most.

What we had was a beautiful thing; at least I thought it was. But you’ve let your passion ferment into a bitter brew, and the intoxication it caused within you has become a blight on everything we once had. We never used to be about the fancy things, but now it’s all you seem to remember about me.

When I first laid eyes on you, I couldn’t help but adore your every fault. All your naïve desires were a wonder to me, and I revelled in your successes and failures alike, as each one made you more and more…you. The way you could be so content in your own head, the way you appreciated everything around you. I lived vicariously through you in some ways, and I adored your passion for creation. I could see myself in that.

But you’re so angry now, so defensive. It seems like whenever my name comes up, you’re ready for a battle. The constant anger is shocking—it’s almost like you wanted to keep me away. Things are different I know, but you can handle it without the blood and teeth and bile. I know you can, because I know you.

Still, I don’t blame you for being bitter. You needed more from me, when I only wanted you to find your own way. You called my name, and I didn’t answer. I tell myself that you needed to learn for yourself, but I know that’s only half true.

I’m not sure what I intended by reaching out again. When I left, I was certain that things could never change between us. Now, I only wish they could once more. You’ve grown unwieldy in my absence, and managed to become something entirely detestable to me. But it works two ways, and I know in truth that the change was at least in part because of my absence.

So what to do now?

It comes down to needs, I suppose. Needs, and wants. I want things to go back to how they were, but I know it’s unlikely. What do you want from me? I can scarcely imagine. Some assurance? Some comfort? I can offer neither. The road is long and hard, and I cannot carry you for all of it.

Maybe the cause is the cure as well. If nothing else, I’d like you to speak of me without the rage, without the need to do battle in the vainglorious hope of proving to others what you doubt in yourself. If that’s too much, then I’d rather you not speak of me at all.

Forget about me.

That’s all I can ask now.

We had a good run together. Great even, at times. But it’s clear we’re beyond each other now. The longer you hold onto the past, the greater damage you do to your present, and I worry that your time is growing short.

So let me go. Just pretend I never existed. Forget my words and burn my letters. Tell yourself you never needed me. Scream from the mountains that you’d be better off without me, that you are beautiful and worthy and glorious just because you are.

…Because you are.

Please, don’t ever forget it. And more import still, please don’t prove me wrong.

Yours Truly…

-Brad OH Inc.