The Man Sitting Next to the Idiosyncratic Gentleman and the Unflappable Woman

Three people sat around a table - a man, a gentleman, and a woman. The gentleman, a short, weak specimen, was clutching a glass of champagne tightly. His socks were pulled up over his pants and his argyle sweater was caught on his belt. His back was completely rigid and one of his ankles snaked behind the woman's legs. The woman was alert, like a pointer dog, waving a wad of cash over her head. She was slender, like a willow tree, and had eyes like deep blue puddles. The hand of the man was slowly creeping up her thigh. In his other hand was a piece of ebi halfway to his mouth. He looked at her with a mixture of boyish lust and cunning, as if admiring a painting while stealing it. At his feet was a doctor's bag. The bag had belonged to his father, now deceased, and the man had pledged to never disturb a single thing inside. The stethoscope was now hopelessly tangled around the thermometer, which in turn was jammed into an empty bottle of iodine. There was a pile of unopened bandages scattered around the bottom of the black leather bag, and hidden in a small compartment was a turnip-shaped object wrapped in cloth. The man had noticed it, but had never unwrapped it, for he knew what it was - his mother's wedding ring. His father had carried it around in his bag since his wife had died. And now they were both dead, and the bag and the ring belonged to the man with his hand up the skirt of the unflappable woman sitting next to the idiosyncratic gentleman.

Harrison

Under covers
Sipping tea
Rain on window
Seeping in
I'd rather be
Nowhere
Nor in snow
Except under trees
In wind and rain
Gracefully
Dance in ankle deep mud
Out by the Tarzan rock
Except seep
Heat
I'm in hot water
Next to snow
Flakes on my cheek
Hail on hair
Wind on skin
Button up tight
Wander creeks
Peace
Or steep hills
Walk in ankle-deep mud
In pouring forest
Then steep
Like tea
Under covers

My Great Tragedy

Imagine if I was the daughter
Of a Roman Emperor
Or an Egyptian pharaoh
Or a Phoenician trader
I would tour the ancient world
See things long-hidden by time
I could find my way anywhere
If someone asked where a road led
I'd know
And imagine the adventures I'd have

Imagine if I lived in England
In 1066
Or 1566
Or 1866
Or lived in France during the Revolution

If all that was possible
I could be a bootlegger
Or a pirate
And if I fancied being a duchess
I could be one as easily as I could be a serf

But until all the physicists smarten up
And build me a time machine
This is the great tragedy of my life
That I cannot change where, when, what I am at will
But this great tragedy is also why I have an imagination
(Coincidently, it's also why I want to be a physicist)

Come Back to Me

Abracadabra
Abracadabraabracadabraabracadabra!
It isn't working
Magic words said to empty air have no meaning
I mumble like a schizophrenic
Trying to talk to you
But I have a hunch you're already gone
Magic words don't work
Neither do magic poems
Perhaps some antique ritual could summon you?
But no
You're gone
I regret most of all that I only knew you for one week

The Witch Hunter

Dear Mum,

We burned three witches today. Two of them were old spinsters with cats and suspicious moles, but the third witch didn't look like a witch. She was only about twenty, but she was already a widow. That was our first clue. My master, Mr. Tallis, is quite adept at his job, and has devised a number of ingenious machines to assist us. The one we used to test them is at the height of science. We placed the witches on a giant set of scales, and then placed a variety of objects on the other end of the scale. We were able to balance them using three spellbooks and a cauldron, so they were clearly guilty. It was a shame, though, the young witch was quite pretty. The other two women were screamers, but even as the flames licked her feet she remained quiet. She was rather brave, for a witch.

Your Loving Son,
Billy

The Cafe

INT. A CAFE - DAY

A woman and a man sit at a table. JENNY, 27, is pale and weak, with stringy light blonde hair. ANGELO, 23, is muscular with thick black curly hair and a cherub-like face. Jenny nervously dithers over a menu while Angelo leans back in his chair, relaxed. A waiter hovers over them.

ANGELO

Are you going to order anything?

JENNY

(to waiter)

Give me a minute. I still need time deciding.

ANGELO

We’ve been here for 20 minutes. 

JENNY

Just give me a minute, okay?

Waiter leaves.

ANGELO

What is it?

JENNY

I can’t decide between the steak frites and the mussels. I don’t know if the mussels are fresh, but I like my steak cooked to very exact specifications and-

ANGELO

No. Why are you so nervous?

JENNY

Well, it’s not exactly like I’ve been out to a restaurant recently.

ANGELO

Recently as in?

JENNY

Five years.

ANGELO

What? Why?

JENNY

Are you kidding? It's terrifying!

Angelo laughs.

JENNY

You shouldn't mock me. I’m agoraphobic, you know. Agoraphobic, hoplophobic, taphophobic, aviophobic, scopophobic, and nephophobic.

ANGELO

That’s quite a collection.

Jenny stands up angrily.

JENNY

I said don’t mock me!

Jenny notices that other people are staring at her and sits down quickly, staring at her plate.

ANGELO

Alright, calm down. You’re not very timid for someone who’s afraid of everything.

Jenny glares at Angelo. He shrugs.

ANGELO

Just tell me this. If you’re afraid of strangers and going outside and the rest of it, what are you doing?

JENNY

Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe I felt sorry for you.

ANGELO

Can’t blame a tourist for being lost.

JENNY

Still doesn't explain it. I can't believe I'm here.

Waiter re-enters.

WAITER

Have you finally decided on something, Miss?

JENNY

Are the mussels fresh?

WAITER

The very finest, brought in from Leicester market today.

JENNY

I suppose I’ll have to have those then.

WAITER

And for Sir?

ANGELO

I... I’ll have what she’s having.

WAITER

(writing)

... And another order of mussels. I’ll be back with your meals in a few minutes.

JENNY

Didn’t you want the minestrone?

ANGELO

Yes... Yeah hold on a minute.

Angelo gets up and walks over to the waiter.

ANGELO

Actually can I change my order to the... (looks at Jenny)

JENNY

Minestrone!

ANGELO

Yes. Minestrone.

Angelo walks back to the table.

JENNY

Are you okay?

ANGELO

Yeah, I’m fine. I just have a headache.

JENNY

Are you sure? I’ve got some great herbal stuff back at my apartment. We could head back.

ANGELO

Sure, let’s go.

They both get up. Angelo helps Jenny into her coat, avoiding eye contact.

EXT. A QUIET STREET OUTSIDE CAFE - A FEW SECONDS LATER

Angelo and Jenny walk quickly down the road. Jenny looks concernedly at Angelo, who is still looking away. Angelo tries to lead them down a side street but Jenny stops.

JENNY

This isn’t the way to my place.

ANGELO

Sorry. I guess it’s in the next block.

JENNY

No. (pause) But it’s okay! Can’t blame a tourist for getting lost.

ANGELO

(sighs)

Look - I’m not a tourist. I was born a few miles away from here. I just can’t find my way around that well.

JENNY

Huh?

ANGELO

I can’t remember anything that well. Even after a few minutes I'll forget everything. And now I'm starting to forget other things too. I forgot my cousin's name yesterday.

JENNY

But that’s - I mean - that’s awful.

ANGELO

Yeah.

JENNY

Why? Did something happen? Could you have hit your head or something?

ANGELO

I don’t know. Or I don’t remember. Either way, I can’t explain it.

JENNY

Why don’t you go talk to someone? A doctor?

ANGELO

Why don’t you go see someone? About you not leaving your apartment in five years or something?

JENNY

I...

ANGELO

Exactly. I’d rather just live with it.

Jenny grabs Angelo and kisses him, hard. She then pushes him away and looks him straight in the eye.

JENNY

I’ll make you a deal. I’ll talk to a psychiatrist, you’ll talk to a doctor.

Angelo smiles wryly.

ANGELO

Fine. Deal.

Word Show Poem

Fireflies hide in city light
Fly in polluted skies
Invisible, to us, as the stars
They are washed out, superfluous

Brawl Breaks Out at Charity Gala

Jack, Donald, and Stephen Headliner injured as their family feud reaches a boiling point

Jack (left) and Stephen Headliner, along with younger sister Miranda, in happier times

Harsh words led to flying fists last Friday at the Veronica Rivers Association Gala. The fight broke out between brothers Jack, Donald, and Stephen Headliner after Donald challenged Stephen's decisions as the Vice-President of Headliner Inc., the newspaper company started by their father, Harold Headliner.

Jack, who has often acted as a mediator between the brothers in the past, stepped in to Stephen's defense, but was turned on by Donald. Jack's role as heir to the company fortune has been a matter of some contention in the past, as Jack is the youngest and least experienced of the three.

The fight quickly escalated into a brawl, and security had to be brought in. Stephen left with a broken nose, Donald with a bruised fist, and Jack with a finger so badly broken that it had to be removed.

In a statement from the hospital, Jack said he "had hoped that the bad blood between (the three) had been forgotten", but that he "understood Donald's frustration". Headliner Inc., once a highly successful company, has done very poorly since Stephen's appointment. The company has dropped 128 points already this quarter.

When asked about his father's unconventional decision to name him the heir, Jack reported that he was also "completely confused", but that it might be due to Jack's role as a "diplomat in the family". The Headliners are no strangers to schisms, with numerous other feuds existing throughout the large family. Jack also said he is "disappointed that we cannot put aside our differences" and that he "misses his family".

Stephen and Donald were both unavailable for comment.

(Photo taken from http://tantawan.no/2009/06/16/charlotte-casiraghi-at-5th-business-luxury-summit-gala)

Where My World Began

There are experiences which can change your life. Experiences you can never forget. Experiences that can hurt you and experiences that heal you. Experiences that other people can try their hardest to understand, but never can. And sometimes the worst experiences in the world can lead to the best ones.

I was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin lymphoma when I was nine and a half. Cancer. I went from being a normal child to a prisoner, locked in a hospital bed, tied to my IV ball-and-chain. I was my own jailor. Already shy before my diagnosis, I used it as an excuse for self-imposed exile. It wasn't that I was scared; I was too young to be scared. And I suppose I was lucky, compared with some of the other kids I met at the hospital. I was in and out in only a few months, but I left completely shattered.

While I was at the hospital I met someone named Dan. I often saw him in the playroom, while playing Mario Karts against my nurse Sandy or Kristina the child life specialist. He told my mom about a summer camp for children with a history of cancer and their siblings. A camp where a kid like me could feel normal again.

When Dan and my mom showed me the camp video from the hospital archives, I scoffed at it. I thought the processions of singing, smiling faces childish and stupid. I mocked the name, Camp Goodtimes. I was angry and obstinate - suffering from early onset teenage angst brought on by too much time spent in a hospital environment. However, my dad was dead-set-against sending his still-sickly daughter away for a week, which meant I was determined to go.

On the first day of camp I was driven to the Canadian Cancer Society office by my mom. I grumbled like an old woman the entire way there. When I arrived, I met my counsellors, Kirsten and Cookie, and I made a name tag, which I dismissed as beneath me. We went outside to the parking lot and I said goodbye to my mom. While we were waiting, some of the skips formed us into a circle and starting singing "Tarzan". I was already bored with camp, but the song was easy enough to follow, so I begrudgingly began to sing along.

Being a camp song, "Tarzan" was extremely silly. I tried to remain aloof and bored, but every so often I would smirk at one of the lines. I quickly hid these mistakes by frowning extra-hard for the next line. When the song ended, I thought I was safe. Instead, they started on "Telephone". Kirsten called out my name, and I was forced to sing two lines by myself in front of all the campers. Betrayal.

On the bus, the offensive singing continued. I watched the campers much older than me and labelled them fools for joining in. I tried blotting out the noise. I tried staring out the window. I tried glowering at the faces across the aisle from me. Instead of listening to my pleas for quiet, they started singing new songs. "I'm a Little Stinky Skunk". "There Ain't No Flies on Us". The most ridiculous camp song ever invented, "Chicken Train". I had to sing that one. From that point on, I sang with the rest of the camp for the remainder of the bus and ferry ride. And as much as I hated to admit it, I started to have fun.

The rest of the week was filled with insanity. I woke up to laughter instead of to the whirring of hospital machines. After the first day I gave up on wearing my bandana, something I normally held on to like a security blanket. More importantly, I swam off my island of Elba and started interacting with people again. The seemingly solid walls I had built crumbled like Jericho. I made friends. People I normally would have judged I accepted, because they accepted me. I had stopped behaving like an ice queen the moment I started singing.

That year, I went kayaking for the first time. I danced under a fire hose at the mashed potato fight. I made and received my first friendship bracelets. And that was only one year out of eight. Things I had previously thought childish I embraced, because I had finally remembered that I was a child. I shook off the jaded personality I had assumed since my diagnosis. I was watered and sprinkled with dirt, and like a bean I grew.

I left camp that year able to interact with others again. When I went home, my family was introduced to a completely different girl. I could go to school again without fear: not that I wouldn't be teased because I had no hair, but that I wouldn't care. I had found a place where things like cancer didn't matter. A place like that is a gift, and despite what I had to go through to find it, I consider myself lucky to have something like camp in my life.

At Pass the Stick, people often mention the difference between the "camp world" and the "real world". The real world can hurt you, and the camp world heals you. In the camp world, there is acceptance and love everywhere. It is where I met some of my truest friends and where, over many years, I learned some of the most important things I now know about myself. It is where I learned the true meaning of the phrase "for the kids". And it is where my own personal world began.

Laura

I'm so good at ignoring things
We all are; it's human nature
Turn the other cheek and protect
Out weaker sides, the sides that can feel

We ignore the profile pic changes
Statuses of "Rest in Paradise"
Ignore the vigilante fathers
Sharpened hockey sticks protecting their doors

If you know the people on Facebook
If vigilantes work with your dad
It might hurt you, that they're hurting
But what can you say that could help?

We ignore the newsreels and pictures
The baseball fields covered in cops
We pray that next time we'll be spared
And we hope that someday it will stop

C

Like a heart carved onto a tree

You stuck a knife into my soul

And in the process of leaving me

You broke something which once was whole

I say "leave" as if, one time

There was more to us than friendship

Only in dreams were you ever mine

Hours spent in imaginary courtship

You've grown up, and so have I

Grown up, apart, whatever

Up, apart, I say goodbye

To something meant to last forever

Showbiz pt 1

Stanley was late again. You'd think that after six years I'd start to get annoyed by his constant tardiness, but that's just a part of his personality; you have to love it. It was part of my routine - open the theatre, usher in the cast, and wait a few minutes for Stanley to run in, mumbling apologies. He always said that he couldn't conform to any other societal norm, so why should it be any different with punctuality? He was just that artistic.

"This production is going to be fantastic, I can just feel it!" Stanley announced when he finally walked in. He was right, of course. Everything he directed was brilliant. This was different, though; it would be truly extraordinary. Our male lead had been discovered working in a pharmacy, and he was made for the stage. The songs, costumes, sets, and dance routines would be better than anything ever seen. Stanley had even brought in the local Philharmonic Orchestra to play. It would be a show of galactic proportions.

That day, I had to meet with the group of investors who would be funding this production. Though technically I was still the producer, I needed the backing of several local businesses to fund something of this expense. They were waiting for me in the office at the back of the theatre.

There were five investors. Mike Jones, who ran a chain of successful green grocers, knew nothing of the arts. He only wanted to see his logo on a program, and didn't care about what we did apart from that. Harry and Isa Hart were an elderly wealthy couple who liked the idea of funding starving artists; it was a way of showing off for them. John Morrison, owner of the nearby bank, was married to an artist, and she was the one who had persuaded him to fund our shows. These four were easy to manipulate, and took no hand in backseat directing. The investor we had continued problems with was Katrina von Tussel. She was a famous European ballerina who had moved to New York after she grew too old to perform, and she was still bitter about it. Stanley and I needed to convince her about the genius of our show, or else the entire thing would never fly.

"So tell me about this season's production, Roger. What are you doing?" Katrina was the only one who ever asked questions.

"It's a musical," I replied, "about a small town boy in a big city who finds himself through dance."

"Really, Roger, hasn't that been done before?"

"I suppose, but Stanley's really outdone himself this time. I've never felt more sure about a piece before. This is going to be a hit."

"I don't care whether it's a hit or not, Roger, I care about the art. I do not want this to turn into another pop-culture fad piece that's too risque and with no real dancing."

"Stanley's just choreographing the big finale number now. Why don't you take a look at it?"

It was always inevitable that these meetings would turn into tours instigated by Katrina. I led them out of the office, through the aisles, and into the front row. Stanley was onstage, creating another one of his masterpieces. The dancers flowed across the stage like water, leaping and twirling and lifting, a picture every second. Then their movement would go from graceful to awkward, and they would collapse and flail with sharp, angular motions. Then they would go back to floating across the stage. It was a contemporary wonder.

"Interesting, but I really don't think you could consider this dance. Where is the technique?"

"Katrina, Stanley is a visionary! Nothing like this has ever been created before!"

"I suppose you would think that, Roger. Stanley has you so bedazzled."

"I know that this is a great piece of art!" Katrina laughed at this. A cold, condescending laugh.

"What could you possibly know about true art? I have starred in Don Quixote, Carmen, Giselle, Swan Lake! You simply hide behind Stanley's coat-tails, advertising his work as genius without knowing what  real genius looks like!"

The dancing onstage had stopped. Everyone was tuned into our argument; makes sense, their jobs were on the line. I looked at Stanley. He was completely crushed. Stanley had always been extremely self-conscious about his work, and I knew he would take this harshly. He could never stand up for himself, though. He could never answer back to Katrina. She terrified him.

Surprisingly, it was John who spoke up.

"Katrina, perhaps this is what dance looks like now. It's the latest craze, this contemporary style. And Stanley's pieces have always been successful." I had never been more grateful to John. He was normally so meek; for him to speak up, Katrina must have been way out of line. Surely she could see that now?

"Roger, I cannot put my name behind this garbage. Come back to me when you appoint a real choreographer. Goodbye."

We were screwed.

Weeds

They call me a "weed"

I invade, I choke

Destroy

I am worthless, I suppose

There are 1001 ways to kill me

I keep coming back

Strong, resilient, persistent

Since when were these negative traits?

Hate

Is there a reason?

I suppose

I suppose I am ugly

My yellow petals gaudy

When compared with white daisies

And then the rare magenta ones-

A treasure

I am no treasure

I suppose

I am a three-headed monster

The hydra

Chop off my head and more will grow back

Unless you burn the wound

Scald me with chemicals

Wrench out my roots

Freeze my leaves

Salt the earth around me

Do anything you want

I am just a weed

I suppose