Tag: music

In the Quiet After Slaughter

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excerpt

Sgt. McManus, as promised, delivered Fender to hismotherwith the
promptness of a pizza. Mrs. Rhodes, when she opened the door that
night, thought she was hallucinating. Reeking of animal scent, face and
hands coated in a layer of slime, Fender had the beginnings of a moustache
and appeared to have grown a few inches. And though he had
been in hiding for most of the summer, he seemed especially vigorous.
His weight gain puzzled the policeman considerably.
It later came out that Fender had used the hour The Fugitive aired
on Tuesday evenings to switch hideouts, moving from one refuge to
another as the populace gathered around their TV sets. Employing a
stealth rare in one so young, he inhabited an abandoned car and then
a child’s treehouse. He camped out in the brambles that grew along
the banks of Still Creek and took advantage of the Bartons’ garage
hideaway. The night of his apprehension, Fender was returning to his
new abode, a raccoons’ lair under the school portables. In his pocket
they found peanut butter cookies baked by the Widow Nighs.
Fender Rhodes accompanied the social worker Lois Daniels to the
group home. He stayed two years. It was said he learned to tolerate
the routine there and that he became a talented billiards player.
Eventually, however, the approach to mental health care evolved. It
was now thought progressive to integrate Fender into the community
that had formerly sought his detention.
A young man now, tall and broad in the shoulders, Fender has
returned to his old street corner. He has re-established business relationships.
I understand he leaves telephone poles alone, although he
has been seen anxiously eyeballing the heights of an old favourite.
If you take a drive through the Project you can see him most days.
He’s probably there now. Maybe you’ll find him discussing hockey
standings. Or — not that anyone would believe him — describing
what it’s like living with a family of raccoons.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562874

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00731WSPE

Still Waters

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excerpt

“I know, but I suppose because he’s a classmate’s big brother I
thought of him as a brother, too.” Moe spooned cocoa powder into
a mug and turned the gas on under the kettle. “Enough about me.
How was your evening, kiddo?”
“Unsettling.”
Moe jerked her head around to stare at her roommate. “Why?
What happened?”
“He proposed.”
Moe, her mouth hanging open, plopped onto a chair facing Tyne.
“Wow! And?”
“And what?”
“And what? You know and what. What did you say? Did you ….”
Tyne put her mug on the table with a definite thump. “Oh, come
on, Moe. We’ve only been seeing each other for what – four months?
I hardly know him. Besides, I’m not ready to make that kind of commitment.”
Moe raised her eyebrows. “I see. You hardly know him, do you?
Four months of dating at least four times a week, dinners at his parents’
home, picnics in the park, walks by the river, long drives in the
country, dinner in classy restaurants ….”
“And not so classy restaurants.”
“Okay, sometimes not classy, but dinner nonetheless. Late night
coffee, early morning breakfasts, lunches in the hospital caff. I estimate
you’ve been together, let’s see … four times four times four … at
least sixty times.”
“You make it sound like we’re practically living together,” Tyne
huffed.
“Pretty close.” Moe got up to pour boiling water into her chocolate.
“Tell me to mind my own business, if you like, but do you have
that kind of a relationship?”
Tyne looked up, fully alert. “If you’re asking if we’ve slept together,
Moe, the answer is a definite no.”
Moe shrugged as she stirred her chocolate. “Well, if you like being
a twenty-two-year-old virgin, I guess that’s up to you.” She turned to
the door, carrying her steaming mug. “Well, goodnight, kiddo, I’m
off to bed. But if you want my advice … and you probably don’t …
think seriously about Cam’s proposal. You sure could do a lot worse.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763068

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume II

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A Little Sleep
The distant voice of the lottery vendor. The swaying of the tree.
A canteen steadied in the sand.
The west is burning. A purple reflection over the seashore.
The few houses painted crimson, silence and sundown.
You have a summer handkerchief in your pocket,
a sorrow you left behind on the ledge
like the ripped shoe of the spring that was left on
the rock
when the last group grabbed three meters of sea
and left stooping among the tents of the wind.
How fast the sun goes down in your eyes;
your coat is already smelling of moist,
you put your hands in your gloves like the trees
get in the clouds.
Where the tempest stops your glance is re-ignited
where the sky ends your song and your whole face
are reborn.
There is a yellow star in your silence
like a small daisy on the side table of the sick man
a little warmth on every yellow leaf that turns
the pages of time backward.
It is enough that you know. The other communication
doesn’t end at midnight.
The line is continued from deep inside and from afar
with a few stops, interruptions, accidents,
it continues
and autumn finds shelter on the railings of the station
or the fence wall of the Orphanage,
it listens to the call for silence on the damp roofs and
to the gramophone of the seashore bar,
that the moon turns,
a scratched vinyl, a very old tango. No one dances.
But you, turning the moon to its other side,
beyond midnight, further from the ledge,
you listen to the great music while you saunter
in the harbour with the twelve boat masts
like a speechless restaurant server who cleans
the autumnal tables
folding carefully the napkins of the night,
gathering the stack of plates with the leftover
fish bones.
The sea and the songs continue.
All these that the locked people left outside
belong to us:
the hurrah of the wind in the darkened rooms,
the music that descends in big waves and hits
the window shutters,
the silence that opens its purse and looks at itself
in her square little mirror,
and the woman who wraps herself with the army blanket
and sleeps next to her bag
and you too, as you light your cigarette with a star
over the calm plain of your soul
like the guard who stays vigil over the sleeping soldiers
and thinks of his woman
of the sea
the city with the flags
the trumpets
the sun-dust and the glory of men.
And next to you, you know it,
this big smile
like the circular alarm clock next to the asleep worker.
It’s time to sleep a little. Don’t be afraid.
The clock is properly wound up. It’ll get you up on time
with the bucket of dawn that draws water from the well,
with the crawl of a proclamation that noiselessly sheds
light under the door of your silence. Be assured.
It’ll wake you up.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562968

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0851M9LTV

The Circle

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excerpt

BEVAN LONGHORN is in his office Monday morning, his desk covered in
paperwork that he has to get through before the day is over. His personnel have
just adjusted to Matthew Roberts’s absence and Bevan has been left with only two
middle managers to handle the work of three. He considers promoting one officer
to Matthew’s post, but there are twenty-odd people to choose from, all qualified for
the position. Bevan must give it more serious consideration.
He wants to make major changes to the structure of the office, but he has to
fight with the rest of the brass, particularly the ones well-connected with the
administration and the state department. He cannot put up any longer with the
way things are done and the way things they produce are used by the hawks in
higher places.
He has his own circle of people who would agree with him on certain
things; it would just be a matter of rallying the troops. His friend Jerry
Wolverton is the best example. He retired as a three- star general and left the
army seven years ago with pride and a sense of accomplishment after working
in Iraq for five and a half years, in charge of the reconstruction of public
projects that accommodated all Iraqi government personnel of various
departments. Jeremiah Wolverton got his extra star and a very good severance
package, and although retired, can still pull a lot of strings both in the state
department and within the ranks of the army.
Bevan decides to call him.
“Hello, Bevan, my old friend. Are you still in service?” Jerry jokes when he
hears who’s calling him.
“Of course I’m still in service. We cannot all retire at the same time; the army
wouldn’t know what to do without us”
“You’re right about that, my good, old friend; what makes you remember
me? Trouble?”
It’s Bevan’s turn to laugh at the general’s comment.
“No, no trouble at all; just the need to say hi to my good friend and see what
he’s up to these days.”
“Well, I’m doing okay. I play the odd golf game here and there, I walk a lot,
still take holidays with the old woman; other than that, nothing much.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562817

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186524

The Circle

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excerpt

“Have you talked to Ibrahim?”
“Yes, I spoke to him this morning. He sends you his greetings and says he
would like to see you soon, also. He says he understands. You and my uncle
obviously go back a long way if you talk to each other in your secret code.”
Bevan laughs at his comment, “We don’t talk in code, however, you are right,
Ibrahim and I go back a long way. You have to understand, Hakim. I owe a lot to
Ibrahim; he’s been my guardian angel, having helped me a number of times over
the years and the last time was just a little too close.”
“When was the last time, Admiral?”
“Please call me Bevan. Admiral is too official and it’s not my style. Bevan is
good enough. The last time was during the war with Iran. I was there for a while
providing intelligence liaison within certain army units. Once, while traveling, I
was abducted and held in a dark place for two and a half weeks by a group of
fanatics with no specific affiliation or demands; poor guys didn’t know what they
wanted to accomplish, if anything. They kept me imprisoned until your uncle
discovered my tracks and got me out; don’t ask me how. Maybe he paid a ransom
or maybe he used other means, who knows? He never told me how he did it,
although I’ve asked him a number of times. The result is I’m alive today, thanks
to Ibrahim. There were a lot of beheadings in those days, as you probably know.”
Hakim sees another side of his uncle that he was not aware of until now. The
Admiral continues.
“He knows what I do, where I am, where I come from, and everything else
and I know a lot more than what you think you know about Ibrahim. It’s a
two-way street; he trusts me with everything and I trust him the same way, 100
percent.”
“What would you like me to do or tell him?” Hakim asks.
“Only do as he tells you, nothing else,” Bevan says, looking into the young
man’s eyes.
“That’s no problem. Am I going to see you again, Bevan, before you go?”
“No, I don’t think so; however, if you ever need me, you know how to find
me.”
“Yes, I know. By the way, perhaps it would be nice for you to come and visit
at some time after I move into my new apartment. That will be around the end of
October; better yet, I’m planning to have a housewarming party when I move in.
I’ll call you to come and have a drink with us; is that okay?”
Bevan smiles, “I’ll be very happy to do so, Hakim. Please call and let me know
when.”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562817

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186524

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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excerpt

trying to meet you for years,” he said. Gruber carved decoys, many of
which had made their way into Ken’s extensive collection. “Our paths
have crossed many times,” he said. “But somehow we’ve never met. Now,
unfortunately, we have to meet under circumstances that aren’t the best. I
work for a credit company, and I have to cancel and pick up your gas card.
I’m awfully sorry to do this.”
“That’s fine,” Ken said. “You’re just doing your job. Come over now.”
They talked, while consuming an entire bottle of Scotch, and became
friends for life. Ron and his wife lived in a big house near Jericho Beach,
that had separate living quarters on the ground floor. When Ken told him
he had just lost his house, Ron suggested he move into their ground floor
suite, and a few days later, Ken loaded his possessions into his truck and
drove to Jericho Beach.
Revenue Canada sent a letter demanding a large sum of money in back
taxes on his real estate investments. Because he had never taken the money,
but only reinvested it, it had never been taxed. Ken put the letter on his
bureau. Another letter arrived and then another, until he had accumulated
seventeen progressively threatening tax notices. The final one informed
him he was being sued. Ken took the notices to his accountant who was as
puzzled as Ken. Each one demanded a different sum of money.
When they went to court, the lawyer for Revenue Canada made his
statement. The judge turned to Ken. “Guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty,” Ken said. “Impossibly and completely not guilty.”
“How so?”
“Your honour, if I may be allowed to approach the bench and present
you with the situation in writing. But, before I do that, may I ask you a
question in order to help clarify the situation?”
“What if one were walking down the street,” he asked, “and came across
a car lot, and spotted a car he fancied, and wanted to buy it, and the salesman
didn’t know how much it cost? And what if he went to his sales manager
and the manager, also, didn’t know how much it cost? And what if
he went to the owner of the car lot and the owner didn’t know how much
the car cost – would one be able to conclude a satisfactory transaction?”
“Clearly not,” the judge said.
“This would appear to be the same situation,” Ken said, handing the
demand letters to the judge. “There are seventeen different notices here,
which are completely confusing. There is no way, even according to the
accountants I am acquainted with, to make head or tail of it. Every single
one has a different figure on it: that makes no sense at all.”
The judge studied the demands, his frown deepening.
“As far as I’m concerned, I don’t owe the money,” Ken said.
“I think you’re absolutely correct,” the judge said. “This is disgraceful.”
And he threw the case out of court.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

He Rode Tall

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excerpt

Maybe, thought Joel. But, on the other hand, what price can you
put on a palomino filly that allowed a young girl to find herself?
“Sorry, Mr. Schwartz. I appreciate your offer, but the filly is no
longer for sale.”
Joel quickly jogged the buckskin to catch up with Tanya, who
was way ahead of him by now. When they got back to the barn
they gave each other big hugs and lots of words of celebration,
telling each other how well they had done. Their section of the
barn, which until now was a very quiet and practically abandoned
aisle with no other horses and no traffic, all of a sudden filled
with lots of people to congratulate Joel and Tanya and take a look
at the horses.
And that was just the start. With Friday being just the first of
the three-day show, Tanya and Joel continued their success.
Tanya took first-place on both Saturday and Sunday to sweep the
show. And Joel came in as the runner-up both days.
After the show was over, Joel could tell that he had witnessed
something special. This really wasn’t the end of a show for his
young partner, but the start of her career. With her momentum,
he wondered how far she could go.
It was late on Sunday when they loaded up and pulled out of
the show grounds. Joel guided the old truck and the trailer out of
Great Falls and then they realized that they hadn’t eaten since
noon; they were both running on adrenaline. It would be a few
hours before they would even be home for a midnight snack, so
they decided to stop at the diner at the last gas station on the edge
of the city. Even though it was late, the kitchen was still open and
there was one waitress on duty. Joel’s finances were tight and he
had to figure out his next move soon, but for now, they both
deserved a decent celebratory meal.
Over dinner, Tanya said, “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask
you: as you came out of the ring on the first day of the show, what
was that conversation that you had with Mary Lou’s husband?”
“Oh, nothing really,” replied Joel.
“Come on now. You can’t do that. What did he say to you?”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897955

Swamped

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excerpt

Eteo’s thoughts took him back and forth between this pleasant
Vancouver afternoon with its sea whispers and almost imperceptible
sounds of the people around him and the lonely days of his childhood
when his father was far away and he and his brother struggled
to understand why. He was on the way back to his car when Logan
called to ask whether he should dispose of all the shares of the underperforming
real estate company that another client, Tom Batsas,
had in his account and switch Tom to Platinum Properties or keep
some of the real estate shares and buy Tom just a few of the new company.
Eteo advised him to tell Tom to sell all the underperforming
shares and put all the funds into the new company, which would give
Tom a good chance of making something out of this one.
When he had almost reached his car, Eteo spotted Frankie again.
This time the promoter was with two other people, Sandra Wilson, a
well-known Hollywood actress, and a young man he did not recognize.
Frankie gestured for Eteo to join them and introduced him to
the actress, whom Eteo had already recognized, and the young man,
who was introduced as Ricardo. As they shook hands, Frankie told
his companions that Eteo was an investor and a good supporter of
Lionsgate Entertainment.The others responded politely, but what impressed
Eteo most were the simple manners of the famous actress.
She spoke to Eteo as if she had known him all her life, as did Ricardo,
even though the encounter was brief and they only exchanged the
usual pleasantries.
All the same the encounter made Eteo want to find out more
about Frankie’s new venture into the realm of Hollywood and of actors
and actresses who were paid at the level of Sandra Wilson. He
knew she was one of the most highly paid actresses in the world. Perhaps
it would be a good idea to invest some of his clients’ money in
this new company, but he hesitated. He was unfamiliar with the industry.
Recommending Lionsgate Entertainment would be taking a
chance unless he delved into the details, especially the earnings potential
and success rates of such ventures. Of course, he knew very
well that every time someone put money in a company it wasn’t …

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WP3LMPX

Jazz with Ella

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Excerpt

the civil rights movement would make headlines in the Soviet Union. It would probably be couched in the language of the state extolling how the slave masses had risen up against the capitalist oppressors or some such jargon. She realized she had not seen a single black person since her arrival in the country, although Moscow University reportedly attracted African students.
“Excuse me. I am naïve,” he went on. “I must ask a very important question. Promise me not to laugh?” She nodded. “Is it only black persons who make jazz music in Canada or America? Or can white people like me make jazz?”
She tried not to grin at his earnestness. “Why would you ask that? Lots of people of all colours play jazz! You’re safe there to play whatever music you want…” She could see his discomfort, so she continued more gently. “It’s true, jazz has its roots among black musicians, that’s for sure. Many of them grew up singing in church choirs, like Aretha Franklin, for example. She’s my favourite. Do you know her?”
“No, tell me.” They spent the next while with Jennifer dredging up anything from her memory that she had ever learned about jazz, gospel or blues in the west to share with Volodya. While they were engrossed in this, Alya tapped on the door and entered with a bottle of brandy, some cheese, bread and a cut-up cake that she served. She settled herself comfortably with an air of possession. When the three were seated, the woman’s eyes swept up and down Jennifer appraisingly. She asked the usual questions in broken English. Where did she work? Was she married?
Jennifer responded more quickly this time on the marriage question. She had decided to answer questions with the vague, “My husband and I no longer live together,” rather than a more elaborate explanation.
Volodya switched on a radio that played American swing music. “It’s time for Voice of America,” he told her. “Reception is good at this time of day.”
“They must be broadcasting from somewhere outside of the Soviet Union?”
“Military base in Germany, I think.”
“Please eat,” said Alya, who was not having any of the cake herself.
Jennifer was just getting ready to ask Alya about herself when the woman swung toward Volodya in a gesture of approval. She rose, made her apologies, and left the bedroom with a significant glance at the bed.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

Savages and Beasts

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excerpt

encounter in life are shared by all only to a different perhaps
level of intensity from one to the other ultimately to be left with
that Pandora’s gift to the universe: hope. And upon this hope
one commences all over, like a new Sisyphus pushing his rock
towards the hilltop.”
“You speak of very wise things, Dylan, and I don’t hesitate
to say that I enjoy your philosophical views,” Anton smiled at the
old Irish man.
Anton’s side view caught Migizi with a young girl coming
towards them. When they neared Anton and Dylan the youth
introduced his sister Miigwan to Anton.
“My sister,” the boy said proudly and his cheeks turned
red as much as his sister who lowered her eyes and didn’t say any
word.
“Good to meet you Miigwan,” Anton said to the girl who
whispered something, which only her brother Migizi heard.
Anton realized that it wasn’t meant to hear what the young
girl said and who continued to look at the ground and kept silent.
Her brother smiled at Anton and Dylan, pulled his sister
by the hand and walked away. Soon they were among all the other
children who walked around the grounds in bunches of two or
three, until the school bell was herd and Father Nicolas who was
on duty with Mary gathered them. They were put in rows of three
and slowly walked into the school for their morning porridge.
“Another day in Paradise,” Anton thought and smiled. Yes
another day to work in the laundry with the old Irish man.
The skunk was buried today while the sun played hide
and seek with the ones who looked up high and noticed, those
few who had perceptional vision of that kind. The skunk died
and took along with him the stench of those days, bad days as
Dylan named them; yet were today’s days different and if so in

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763602