I'm especially pleased with this latest edition of Voices, and not just because of the beautiful cover design, either. I've been trying to get my latest contribution, "Incomplete," included for the past three years, but it kept getting bumped because of space issues...and because I kept winning their Write on the Lake Competition, so it wasn't all bad, I suppose... ;) Now it's finally made it.
To purchase your own copy, follow the link. Paypal is accepted.
http://www.google.ca/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CB8QFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.lakewinnipegwritersgroup.com%2Fvoices.html&ei=Xd9wVNL5NafjsAS89YG4DA&usg=AFQjCNGJsLw33VjmHdLgCi8FIg19tirclw&sig2=FnPyIyOigDwDQgoiLtueVQ&bvm=bv.80185997,d.cWc
I think that many people will get a lot out of this story, writers certainly will. So, without further ado:
Incomplete
Josh was bone
tired by the time he pulled into his yard, the day having already taken a heavy
toll. What with the electricians not having enough boots on the ground and the
flooring applicators mysteriously lost somewhere out in the ether, not to
mention his one and only carpenter, apparently understanding the workings of a
builder’s transit about as much as he did the handling of the space shuttle
(thereby guaranteeing that all the grid lines laid out today would have to be
re-laid again tomorrow) Josh had a pretty good idea that a shot or two of
whiskey was going to go down rather well. Trouble was, there was still work
waiting for him, so those shots would have to be deferred for a while.
A story
comes into his mind. A man, alone in his yacht circumnavigating the globe,
arrives at a primitive south sea island populated by beautiful, scantily clad
women, and fiercely savage warriors. Cannibals? Headhunters? Perhaps. He would
have to make some notes. Not now though. There was too much in the way.
He switched off
the truck’s ignition and climbed down from the cab, the greenery of the yard
and tranquility of birdsong lost on him. Such luxuries would have to wait for a
better frame of mind.
A furry patch of
orange burst out of the woodlot bordering his property, closely followed by an
even furrier patch of mottled charcoal, both loudly demanding attention. This
morning seemed a lifetime ago, but he vaguely remembered checking the weather
and deciding that Mr. Jinx and Belinda could stay out for the day.
“Hey you guys.”
At the sound of
his voice, two tails came up like flagpoles with shepherd’s crooks at the end.
“Ya get a
mouse?” Josh asked, expending precious energy to bend down to stroke Jinx’s
silken coat. He fancied he could hear his spine crack in the process. “How
‘bout you, Bel? Any luck in the mouse end of things?”
Neither cat
volunteered any information; possibly because there was some concern it might
interfere with their rations for dinner. Instead, they bounded up the steps to
the back door, clamouring to be let in.
“Alright, gimme
a sec.” Josh fumbled with his keys and found the one for the house. “You’re not
the only ones who had a hard day, y’know.”
Bart stood alone in the middle of Main Street,
Stetson pulled low over his eyes to protect them from the sun’s reflection off
the storefront windows. He loosened the heavy Colt in its holster just as the
saloon doors swung open and the lone, dark-clad figure stepped out on the
street to face him. It was time to clean the slate, time to take revenge for
what had been done to Jennie…
When the door
swung open both cats more or less boiled over into the kitchen, making a
beeline for their bowls. Dipping their faces in and finding both empty, they turned
to him with the same surprised expressions they wore at this point every day,
and sent up a generous chorous of protest.
“Okay, okay!
I’ll be right with ya.”
Wearily, Josh
went to the fridge and took out the can of food and gave each a generous dollop.
After checking they had sufficient water, he went into his study and emptied
the contents of his shirt pockets onto the desk.
Note pad, pocket
calculator, memo recorder, a couple of pens and a carpenter’s pencil. On top of
these, he unclipped a measuring tape and cell phone from his belt; layer by
layer, shedding himself of the day.
Keeping with
that theme, he went into the bedroom and shucked off his clothes. Naked now, he
traversed the short distance to the bathroom, turned on the faucet in the tub,
then back two steps to switch on the fan. The water now flowing hot, he flipped
the knob for the shower; each movement a carefully choreographed economy of
time and energy, perfected from long practice.
As always, the
shower helped, although at first, the shampooing and lathering were nothing
more than additional chores needing attention. Afterwards, when he stood first
with his lower back and then his head under the spray, he increased the hot
water and allowed himself the luxury of
precious seconds while he let the pulsating jets massage his lower
lumbar region, then his scalp. The heat helped his back somewhat, but whether
or not it increased the blood flowing to his brain, he couldn’t say for
certain, but he believed it did, and every bit helped.
A woman is jogging through the park late at
night. She isn’t aware of a malevolent presence hidden in the bushes ahead.
Instead, her mind is on the mysterious dark stranger she’d met earlier in the
subway. She had thought Daniel had died in that horrible plane crash three
years ago…
But the clock in
his brain refused to be silent. With evident regret, he switched off the water,
and grabbed the towel from its ring on the wall. While he dried himself, he
thought about a shave, but decided it could wait for a better day. He didn’t
want to invest so much time doing what was not strictly necessary. With luck,
there might be some left for himself when the day finally ended.
Post apocalypse. A man and a woman are the
last two people on earth. The future of humanity depends upon them. They know
each other from before – from their particularly hostile divorce. Would mankind
be saved? Interesting…
Back in the
bedroom, he slipped into a pair of shorts and t-shirt before returning to his
office and switching on the computer. While waiting for it to come online, he
opened the green hardcover diary, turned to the correct date, and began making
entries.
He wrote the
name of the project at the top of the page, the letters scurrying toward the
indecipherable in his haste to get them on the page, “Job #442.” Underneath, on
the left-hand side, he listed the names of his crew in a column: Gord, Rick,
Thomas, Denny, Lou and Sam. Last, he wrote ‘Me’.
From the middle
drawer of his desk he drew a sheet of paper titled ‘Labour Breakdown’, at the
same time clicking the mouse of his computer to the Start menu, then up to the
Email icon.
A man treads water in shark-infested seas.
He has a knife and telepathic powers. He sends a cry for help to his
frantically searching wife. All the while storm clouds are gathering to the
west, carrying with them the psychotic hit man the CIA has sent to silence him…
There was a
moment’s hesitation when the cursor seemed to settle of its own accord on
Office Word. Weary understanding of what that ‘W’ symbolized flickered in his
mind. That was the insulated place, the place where the stories were, the place
where he could become centered instead of flying off in the hundred different
directions that so accurately defined his every normal day.
‘Normal’. Christ, the word held no
meaning.
His mind gave an
irritated wrench, and he moved the cursor up to Outlook Express and clicked on
that. Wishful thinking was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Back to the
Labour Breakdown, a long list of duties, each with a corresponding code number
in the margin beside it, all of which was supposed
to represent his crew’s responsibilities for the entire project; although that
was seldom ever the case. Just by looking, Josh could tell it had been a good
long while since, whoever had made up this list back in Winnipeg, had run a
job….if he had ever run a job, that
is.
Extraterrestrials were invading the earth
with the intention of capturing all women capable of child-bearing. Laser
blasts from their giant ships scar the earth, atomizing all who dare defy them.
Only Lenny Torino, and his newly discovered knowledge that he was a coward,
stood in their way…
His pen hovered
over the page to the right of Gord’s name while his eyes impatiently ran down
the column of tasks. Layout, layout, layout…where the hell was ‘layout’?
Finally his diminished mental faculty understood. Of course there was no
layout. That was something that should never have been their responsibility.
Only the new wing was ready to go, and the surveyors were either too busy, too
lazy, too stoned or too couldn’t-give-a-damn to show up when they were supposed
to. Whatever the reason, they hadn’t been on site.
“Layout….layout,”
he thought. “We layout the lines so that we…can…excavate!”
Excavation was
on the list, the code number 131 typed neatly beside it.
Josh scribbled
the numbers beside Gord’s name with an exasperated scrawl. He was damn good and
sure there was no code number for ‘Botching the Layout’. The hours so wasted
would have to be back-charged to the surveyors. Given the number that was eventually going to take, he
could visualize a fight shaping up somewhere down the line; but no use worrying
about that now. On to the next.
A soldier comes home from war. His body is
unscathed, but he shows the symptoms of some dark and mysterious mental trauma.
Post traumatic stress? His wife wants to help him, but he finds it impossible
to explain. Only by accompanying him on his journey through his past will she
ever truly understand, and thereby have any hope of saving both him and their
marriage…
Beside Rick’s
and Thomas’ names, he penned ‘141’ from memory. Cribbing was second nature, and
he tacked on an extra half hour for each. There wasn’t often very much he could
do for good service, but he tried to whenever possible.
Beside Denny and
Lou he wrote ‘Absent’, his irritation causing the letters to be stilted and
crimped. Maybe their excuses were legit, but he didn’t think he was being
uncharitable when he allowed that they probably were not. Lou was young and had
yet to learn the meaning of commitment,
while the sides of Denny’s nose were an intricate pattern of burst blood
vessels; then, too, there were mornings his hands shook as if he’d become a
palsied old-timer overnight. An alcoholic was seldom an asset on a construction
site. Trouble was, Denny had experience – loads of it – and these days you
didn’t just toss that out the window without thinking about it good and hard.
Still, just like the surveyors, all the experience in the world didn’t amount
to a hill of beans when you were home sleeping it off while others took up your
slack. He’d have to make a mental note to have a word with him – that is,
whenever the bastard decided to make a showing.
Beside Sam’s
name, he inked ‘105’ which was code for ‘Labour For Site Services’ which was,
in turn, code for ‘Clean Up’, but that was only because there wasn’t anything
on that list that even remotely resembled ‘Dog Fucking’.
A husband and wife try to bring together the
tattered edges of their marriage. There has been an infidelity, a meaningless affair.
Will the strength of their commitment be sufficient to overcome the obstacles?
Will the third party stand aside and allow it?
Beside ‘Me’ he
scribbled ‘101’ for ‘Supervision’ although that wasn’t strictly true, either.
Several hours throughout the day had been spent hauling heavy metal doors over
broken ground into the almost completed first phase. That was supposed to have
been Denny’s and Lou’s job for the day, and was also why his back felt like a
psychopath had been at it with a dull axe.
Next, on to the
sub trades.
He wrote ‘JP
Electric’, then beside it, “rough-in G.L.’s A.0 – A.2.” indicating the task and
location which had been that trade’s work area today, beside which he listed
the number of men in their crew. He did the same for the plumbers and the
masons. Beside the flooring contractor he put ‘?’, and with cynical humour
thought of Jimmy Durante saying, “Good
night flooring fellas…wherever you are!”
His eyes flicked
to the clock on the wall. Seven-thirty – oh hell!
Two young lovers are starting their lives
together. The world seems to be their perfect oyster, but no one is aware that,
even now, an ICBM is arcing into the stratosphere. Its deadly nosecone lowers
its point until it is directed squarely at their home from thousands of miles
away…
Josh closed the
diary and replaced his copy of the breakdown in the desk’s drawer before
focusing on the computer’s monitor. Perhaps he would get lucky and have maybe a
half hour to jot some ideas down in his ‘Incomplete Stories’ file.
Oh, damn! There
were at least a dozen emails sitting there, waiting. The very boldness of their
letters – unopened messages – seemed ominously hostile.
“Okay,” he
thought wearily, “best get started.”
Arthur Hawking draws his saber, willing the
wind into the Golden Swan’s sails. At last, the Dark Ship is in sight. Also, at
long last, is his vengeance upon Don Pedro. So too are the arms of the lovely
Juanita….
He clicked on
the message from the head office secretary. This should be good. You never knew
what she was going to send.
What it was, in
fact, was a notice that it was that time of year again, and a complete list of
inventory was ‘requested’ to be sent
in. Useless red tape, in other words. Somehow he would have to find the time to
compile a list several pages long and send it in so that it could be
pigeon-holed and never read.
Next.
Jane felt the rounded firmness of her belly
with quiet happiness. Her world was so complete. A devoted husband, a career
that she loved, and now this child; there was only one dark secret that
threatened to destroy everything…
The architect
wanted site confirmation of the dimension between gridline 17 and the existing
brick face.
Josh clicked on
the ‘Reply’ icon and typed, “I believe I sent you that information last
Tuesday. Please check your files.” It wouldn’t do any good, of course. The
architect was a spineless creature who spent most of his time – and generous
amounts of others – doing nothing more constructive than making sure his ass
was covered. Nothing would do but that everything had to be checked, re-checked
and re-checked again regardless of how long it all took…until the next site
meeting, and the schedule was being discussed. Then wasted time was very much
the focus, except by then it would be Josh’s problem, not the architect’s.
He skipped past
the next one. It was from his sister out in Calgary and would have to wait.
The first two people, Adam and Eve. In their
genes and personalities lie the seeds of all the complicated creatures we have
become and will continue to become. What sort of people were they? What sort of
people will we be, say, a thousand years into the future?
Then there was
one from Jim, the young man at the office with whom he liaised. His was a query
about a bill the mechanical people had received for cleanup and to which they
where now strenuously objecting. Josh clicked on ‘Reply’ and laconically typed,
“They couldn’t be bothered to bring a broom,” before pushing ‘Send’. It was a
small thing, but they’d been giving him attitude lately. It seemed these guys
were just too good to clean up after themselves. Which was fine, let them give
him all the attitude they wanted, just as long as they understood that, one way
or another, it would have to be paid for. Fair? Who gave a damn? He needed to
stay on top - there was no use his showing up for work if he couldn’t; when
money talked, everyone paid attention.
Dorian struggles through the heavy drifts.
Behind him, the trail left by his snowshoes is filled in by the howling
blizzard almost as soon as it is made. He’s so tired that stretches of time go
uncharted in his mind, but he knows that to sleep is to die. He has to get the
message through to General Amherst – the Americans are on the Chateauguay…
The next six
emails were a forwarded running commentary between the electrical and
mechanical engineers, something about a two-phase switch for the ACU. Not an
item to require immediate attention, but best to keep it in the back of his
mind. Engineers could siphon off time like parasites siphoned off the very life
of their host – usually over the most inane things. On second thought, he
picked up his memo recorder and flipped the ‘Hold’ button. “Remember to have a
word with Sparky vis-a-vie ACU
switch.” Maybe it wasn’t immediate, yet it was best to have a talk with the
electrical foreman just to make sure. The unit wouldn’t be ready for some time
yet, but it was a good idea to know when a deadline for a decision needed to be
reached.
The drums sounded, and the banners came up,
waving boldly in the freshening breeze. The Old Guard – Napoleon’s brave
‘Mustaches’ – were coming, and all that was left to stop them was young
Lieutenant Crawford and the few broken remnants of the 30th…
The next one was
a cc’d inquiry from the owner asking a price differential from steel doors to
wood.
Jesus-fucking-Christ!
It never failed.
Josh clicked on
‘Forward’ and then on the estimator’s address. Best send this while the ache in
his back was still good and fresh.
First he typed,
“What the fuck?!” and studied it wistfully for a moment before hitting ‘Delete’.
It would have been sweet, but not productive.
“Be generous
with the zeros on the bottom line.” He wrote instead, “The steel doors are
going in tomorrow.”
The last one was
from his boss. Even before he opened it, he knew what it was going to say. It
was about that time – he got the same message every project.
“There is
serious concern over labour costs. Please review work progression and release
any employees deemed expendable.”
What the hell
did that son of a bitch think he was doing
all day, every day?! Did the cheap shit think he was the only one concerned
about dead weight? Okay for him, sitting in his air conditioned office, looking
at impersonal sheets of numbers. Let him get down in the mud and get his hands
dirty. Let him get to put faces to the names, then see what he says.
After the plane crash, Rory was lost in the
barrens with only the dog for a friend. Outside of the fire’s glow, hungry
wolves circled in the darkness. Thoughts of home and safety plague him
throughout the night; but when he slumbers, with death luring him seductively
in the wings, it’s visions of Annie’s face hovering before him that continue to
bring him back to the world of the living…
He didn’t bother
sending a reply. Instead, he clicked on ‘New Mail’ and Jim’s address at the
office. In the subject line he typed the job name and number, and then, as an
afterthought, cc’d the boss as well.
“It was expected
that Tuscan Flooring would be on site today. However, such was not the case,
nor were my phone calls returned. This is extremely detrimental to the schedule
at this time. Please contact Trent at Tuscan and stress the importance of
having his crews show up when requested.” Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t; it
was a crap-shoot.
After pushing
‘Send’, he clicked on ‘New Mail’ again, and once more entered the same
addresses.
The assassin waited patiently in the shadows
behind the curtains, the lamplight reflecting off the steel of his rapier. Soon
the beautiful Lady Emma would come into the room, and he would strike; but
while he waited, thoughts coursed through his mind. Was it too late, after all
of the evil he had seen and done, to have found love at last?
“I have grave
reservations about the low numbers of qualified electricians on site. J.P.
Electric is falling behind on all fronts, threatening interference with other
trades. I have spoken to their foreman, and repeatedly called their head
office, but without success. I believe a letter from your office might be of
some help.” It wouldn’t, of course. He already knew it was useless; the
schedule, unreasonably tight to begin with, was doomed to fall seriously
behind. The electricians he wanted didn’t exist, but the effort had to be made.
Josh paused to
stretch - trying to will the ache in his back to go away – before clicking on
the message from his sister. He glanced at the clock and saw, with a sinking
heart, it was now well past eight.
Lizzy’s message
was long and rambling. Starting with an inquiry as to why she hadn’t heard from
him in so long before veering off to the nightlife in Calgary, her job, her
divorce, and this new guy she was seeing. Several paragraphs later, she ended
with the hope that all was well with him, and not to be such an asshole and
write more often.
He sent her a
short note of apology and how good it was to hear from her, but that he was
tired and would get back to her later. A crippling fatigue had set in, making
even this simple message a chore. By the time he was finished, it was
eight-thirty.
McCurdy had never liked tele-marketers. With
the onset of his madness, he decided to make it his life’s work to track each
and every one of them down, to steal into their homes late at night, and drive
a wooden stake through their hearts while they slept…
He went to the
kitchen and popped a plastic container of left-over lasagna into the microwave.
After pouring himself a glass of dry red wine (the longed for shots of whiskey
now forgotten) he took his meal and settled down in front of the television to
catch the last of the evening news.
Trouble in the
Middle East (who would have thought?), native blockades in BC and Ontario. The
economy was in the toilet (again, what a surprise!) and record-breaking layoffs
were recorded across the country from the previous month.
Aruk,
the polar bear, stood on the rapidly melting ice floe hundreds of miles from
shore. Food was scarce, survival doubtful. His only hope was Jack Storm, a
young marine biologist serving on the ice-breaker, Wilfred Laurier, with his
beautiful but mysterious colleague Marie Tremblay…
Through it all, unable to detach himself
completely from the day, he chewed his food with unconscious haste while his
mind revolved continuously around the problems at work. The stories of pain and
suffering he saw on television were viewed unsympathetically, each forgotten in
turn as soon as the next one played across the screen.
With the end of
the news, he switched off the set. Gathering up the remnants of his meal, he
went into the kitchen and put his dish and wineglass in the sink. By the time
he’d prepared a pot of coffee – ready for the next morning’s flip of the switch
– his bed was calling to him like a long lost lover. Jinx and Bel, apparently
heeding the same call, had already preceded him.
He couldn’t help
feeling that it had been a day stolen from his life. Tomorrow, it would have to
be done all over again, and then again, and yet again.
On his way to
the bedroom, he passed the doorway to his office and half-thought of his ideas
file waiting impatiently in the depths of the computer’s hard drive – the
fanciful but sane place where the real madness could be left behind.
No…not today…way too tired….maybe tomorrow.
Besides, his
mind was as barren as a desert.
The End
CW
Lovatt – 09/02/09
