cactusatsea

[cactusatsea]

“Oral history”

             (to be read aloud)

I am from the mud

I am from the mountain grass

From the village

From the countryside

From the famine

I am from the concrete

I am from the urban edge

From the nice house

From the suburb

From the Six

From the Scar

I am from the dragon’s belly

I am from the blood and the shame

From brother killing brother

From the death of the truth

From the outstretched hand to a foreign shore

I am from the immigrant success story

I am from the Canadian dream

From generational struggle

From sacrifice to repay

I am from the family dreams I carry on my back

Hey there! Long time no see. This poem was written at a writing workshop I was at a couple months ago. The prompt was to write about where I’m from.

[cactusatsea]

“The Hitchhiker”

         Being a professional time traveller, Eileen did not believe in fate as a general rule. She had spent too long treading the worn paths of time to see the universe as more than what it was: a mute and neutral expanse, sterile of anything resembling providence or destiny. Yet it was at times like this, as she slowed her car to a stop on the highway while on a routine trip to the past, and looked out the passenger window to find her twenty-year-old self looking back, that she felt most tempted to believe in some cosmic power.

        “Hey, thanks for stopping,” said the twenty-year-old Eileen as she casually leaned in through the open window. Current, forty-three-year-old Eileen could only stare back in shock. “You don’t know how long I’ve been standing here. Where’re you headed?”

        There was a heavy silence as the motor sat running. Briefly, Eileen contemplated hitting the accelerator and speeding away, leaving her past self in the dust. If she were a good, upstanding time traveller who followed the rules, that was exactly what she would have done. And yet—

        “Uhh, west. I’m heading west. I could take you to the next town? Just put your stuff in the back.”

        “Thanks Miss, I appreciate it…"

        Past Eileen tossed in her duffel bag as Eileen tried to settle herself down. Don’t interfere with your own past, was the number one rule of time travelling. But so long as Past Eileen didn’t recognize who she was, it would surely be fine.

        Eileen stole surreptitious looks at the woman beside her as they pulled back onto the road. It was the year 2026, they were in the middle of rural Alberta without another soul in sight, and some blind luck had crossed her path with her own wandering self. Slowly, she took in the younger eyes, nose, the curve of her brow — features which hadn’t registered when she chose to stop for the random hitchhiker on the side of the highway, but which were now unmistakable for anyone’s except her own. She watched Past Eileen curl up in her seat in a way that was deeply familiar. Eileen cleared her throat and decided to speak.

        “So where are you headed, kid?”

        “Nowhere in particular,” she easily replied. Eileen could not for the life of her get over the sound of her younger voice. “Ideally I’ll reach the coast at some point. But I’m zigzagging my way along.”

        “You on some kind of cross-country trip?” Eileen had always been a traveller, even before time travel had become an option. She wondered which of her aimless wanderings she’d caught herself on.

        “Something like that. And you?”

        I’m going to Calgary. I’m researching the environmental protests about to happen there. “I’m going to Calgary. I’m attending a research conference there.”

        “Research? Are you like, a scientist or something?”

        “That’s right. I’m a professor and researcher, and I—” Eileen couldn’t help herself. “I travel a lot for my work. That’s what I’m doing now.”

        “Oh cool, what university?”

        “MIT.” Past Eileen perked up, and Eileen stifled a smile.

        “No way, that’s my dream school!” I know. “What department?”

        Department of Time Studies, but that doesn’t exist yet. You’ll have to wait another decade or so. “Department of uh…Physics.”

        “Damn.” Past Eileen slumped back in her seat, and for a while the car was quiet. Outside the dry hills of the Alberta countryside continued to roll serenely by. Before them, the road stretched long and far.

        “Something on your mind?” Eileen finally asked. Past Eileen responded with a soft hum.

        “Yeah. It’s funny, I’m studying physics too. Nearly finished it at uni.” She looked down at her hands. “Hate it though, so I don’t know what I’ll do after I’m done.”

        “I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” said Eileen, wincing as the words left her mouth. Even to her, they felt empty.

        “Right,” scoffed her younger self. “Right. That must be easy for you to say.”

        “You’d be surprised.” Eileen flexed her hands over the steering wheel, and thought carefully about what she could say. “There’s a lot of things which don’t get magically better when you’re older. Money troubles. Figuring out your purpose in life.” She tried to remember what used to bother her at twenty years old — all the things the other woman left unsaid, which she knew better than she could ever imagine. “Family problems. Loneliness. Pressure to succeed.”

        Past Eileen eyed her curiously. “Well damn, there goes my remaining optimism. Or am I just catching you in the middle of some midlife crisis?”

        You have no idea. “What I’m saying is…most people never get to a place where it’s all figured out. You kind of have to keep working on it. Things get better, and they get worse. Over time you start feeling more comfortable in your own skin.” She glanced cautiously at Past Eileen, who gave a little yawn. “And eventually, you’ll look back, and realize how much you’ve managed to change.”

        “I know. That’s what everyone says. I just don’t know if I’ll ever get that far, you know?”

        Past Eileen continued asking her questions, mostly about her life in Boston, which Eileen tried to answer as innocuously as possible. Eventually Past Eileen got bored and dozed off, and as Eileen watched over her from the corner of her eye, she thought of the years which separated her from the woman beside her. She thought of the good memories the other still had to savour, and the hard times ahead which she’d now survived. She thought of all the other so desperately wanted which she had now achieved. She thought of all she still had yet to do.

        An hour later, they arrived in a quiet little town. Past Eileen stirred awake as they pulled into a parking lot.

        “This is where we say goodbye,” said Eileen. Past Eileen started getting out and grabbing her things. “Hey kid. What’s your name?”

        The other woman paused and gave a brilliant smile. “Eileen.”

        “Eileen.” She took a deep breath. “Good luck on your life ahead. Trust me when I say, I think you’ll be just fine.”

        “Thanks. Hey, travel safely okay? It’s hard out there, for people like us on our own.”

        Past Eileen shut the door and walked away. Eileen watched her until she was out of sight, before driving out the parking lot and continuing down the road.

“The Hitchhiker” was originally published in the student magazine Incite (Vol. 21, Issue 1) in November 2018.

[cactusatsea]

“June 18th, 2062″

March 3rd, 2062

Dear Betha,

How is your mother?     Right now I am  I’m going to die         I love you    I

I’m going to die in 3 months, 15 days, 2 hours, 4 minutes.

I love you.

March 6th, 2062

Dear Betha,

Do you remember when we were first told? It was three years ago, you were probably too young. I hope you remember though, because then you’d remember at least something of the time before, and I want you to remember a time before tanks and shipyards, before red lights and passes. I want you to remember when skies were a little clearer, when people didn’t know for sure and so were a little more scared, but at the same time a little more hopeful.

Your mother probably didn’t believe it at first. We used to laugh at all those doomsday theories when we were teenagers. She was the sensible, questioning type. I can see her standing in the doorway, one eyebrow cocked as the officer explained the situation and handed her the papers, only for her expression to fall when she realized that this time, it was for real.

I didn’t question it. I wasn’t that type.

On February 27th I drove out of the city with Barry in the backseat. Do you remember Barry? He was just a puppy when your mother and I stopped seeing each other. He’s grown up now, a shaggy Labrador with a big smile. The streets were empty, and I could see the officers going to all the buildings making sure everyone was out.

At the shipyard gates they were stopping people and making them get rid of luggage. There were requirements on how much you could bring, but when you tell people they’re never coming back they always bring too much. There was an elderly woman crying as the guards emptied her bags of dresses and old vinyl records. It was terrible; Betha, I hope you didn’t see anything like that. I don’t know why I’m describing it to you now. Maybe when you’re older you’ll read this again. They threw everything into a big pile, and it reminded me of those black and white photos of mountains upon mountains of shoes.

When it was my turn at the gate, the guards told me I couldn’t take Barry. I didn’t understand; there was nothing about pets in the guidelines. One of the guards held out his hand for Barry’s leash. I told them I wanted to release him myself, and stepped out of line.

We got in the car and I drove us out into the countryside. I didn’t mean to go far but I kept driving past every turning, my mind somewhere else.

I found myself at the little cottage we lived in the first two years after you were born, up on a hill in the woods. Its new owners had already left. I got out and let Barry loose, and then sat on the porch. The sun was shining. Birds were singing. Nobody but me cared that the world was ending.

Time passed. Darkness fell. I went into the house and found that most of our old furniture was still there, and spent the night.

And the next.

On March 1st the first ships departed. I watched from the porch as they rose into the air before flying away and out of sight. On March 3rd the last ships twinkled in the night sky.

Betha, I missed my flight. I’m so sorry, darling. I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other for a while.

Love,

Dad

April 22nd, 2062

Dear Betha,

I’m getting used to the cottage. It’s always been quiet here, but when you know there’s nobody else it gets so much quieter. Barry keeps me company, and I don’t know what I’d do without him. Thankfully I can keep both of us fed; I’ve gathered batteries and canned food, and I think we’ll be fine until for the next few months.

Betha, I don’t want to go.

I sit on the porch sometimes, and I think about my life. I haven’t done much, but I’ve been a good man, I know that. But I could have been better. I could have done so much more. I know exactly when I’m going to die, and if I’d known before, I

I know I left you with a good mother. You’ll be okay.

Love,

Dad

May 30th, 2062

Dear Betha,

Happy birthday! I can’t believe you’re turning seven. I hope they have cake for you up there; your mother’s with you to make sure it’s nut-free and vanilla-flavoured, so I’m not too worried. Today Barry and I walked down the highway to a field and I used stones to spell out a birthday message for you. Maybe a satellite will take a picture of it and send it to wherever you are.

When it was finished we decided to spend the rest of the day there. The grass was soft and warm, and the air was fresh and smelled of wildflowers. The sun hits your face and you breathe it all in, and you feel alive for the first time in ages. I don’t think they have stuff like this up in the ships. When you’re in the city you know why we had to leave, but out here you wonder if we could have saved this planet.

Every day my mind goes up into the stars to where you are, and I hope you’re safe and happy. I hope that wherever you end up you’ll do a better job than we did. I hope you have a beautiful, wonderful life.

Love,

Dad

June 18th, 2062

Dear Betha,

I’m sitting on the roof with Barry as I write this. I wanted to be closer to you. I hope they don’t have a countdown on the ships to when the bombs go off. That would be cruel. I hope your mother covers your eyes.

The stars are bright and beautiful. My watch lies on the roof beside me. The stars are diamonds twinkling in the night, just like the old song. They take my breath away.

I’m going to die in 2 minutes. Goodbye, Betha. I love you.

- Dad

Thank you for reading my first story ever posted on this blog! More will be coming over the next several months and hopefully beyond, so keep an eye on this page. 

“June 18th, 2062″ is a short story which I originally published in the student magazine Firefly (Vol. 1, Issue 3) in March 2014. It’s strange to think that I wrote this over five years ago. Still, it continues to be one of my favourite pieces in my archives, and so I wanted to share it here.