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Saturday, December 19, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Cremation of Law
This was for an English class that I wrote in high school. We were assigned to write a parody of a nursery rhyme. When the first one that I'd written, Ode to Frank and Bill, was threatened with a failing grade, I wrote this instead.
Frank and Bill went up the hill
Two totally single men
They wept to the skies, not to their surprise,
All law is against them
Without any sound but tears on the ground
Along with the Charter of Rights
All they will teach is against freedom of speech
New days are cold, cold nights
No you may not say what you want
In this fascist democracy
Yes this is dumb all this freedom
But it's a prison, don't you see?
Some don't accept the reality and depth
Of our modern day and age
They hide and run under our black sun
And bottle up all their rage
We can have no free will, Constitution be killed!
But destroy my Canada too
I was born as free as my family tree
Give shackles 'cause shackles aren't due
The pain, the pain, the deafening rain
Pours down on us and we drown
My rights be denied, I might as well die,
But I shall not without a sound
Frank and Bill went up the hill
Two totally single men
They wept to the skies, not to their surprise,
All law is against them
Without any sound but tears on the ground
Along with the Charter of Rights
All they will teach is against freedom of speech
New days are cold, cold nights
No you may not say what you want
In this fascist democracy
Yes this is dumb all this freedom
But it's a prison, don't you see?
Some don't accept the reality and depth
Of our modern day and age
They hide and run under our black sun
And bottle up all their rage
We can have no free will, Constitution be killed!
But destroy my Canada too
I was born as free as my family tree
Give shackles 'cause shackles aren't due
The pain, the pain, the deafening rain
Pours down on us and we drown
My rights be denied, I might as well die,
But I shall not without a sound
Ode to Frank and Bill
This was from my English 20 class so many years ago. The assignment was to make a parody of a nursery rhyme. When this failed, I had to rewrite it.
Frank and Bill went up the hill
To make love in the hay
Their mums came up and with a great shock
Found out that their sons were gay
The two flustered teens pulled up their jeans
And tried to explain to their mums
They said, "now boys you have a choice
But properly use your bums."
With a kiss on the mouth they went down south
Where homosexuals can be wed
Frank wore the dress and soon they were blessed
And hurried right off to bed
Now, Bill was a trans with masculine hands
And that really appealed to Frank
A man-about-town, Bill slept around,
And slowly turned into a skank
Frank finally heard and without a word
His anger became less mundane
So later that day, in a feminine way,
Frank promptly blew out Bill's brain
Frank and Bill went up the hill
To make love in the hay
Their mums came up and with a great shock
Found out that their sons were gay
The two flustered teens pulled up their jeans
And tried to explain to their mums
They said, "now boys you have a choice
But properly use your bums."
With a kiss on the mouth they went down south
Where homosexuals can be wed
Frank wore the dress and soon they were blessed
And hurried right off to bed
Now, Bill was a trans with masculine hands
And that really appealed to Frank
A man-about-town, Bill slept around,
And slowly turned into a skank
Frank finally heard and without a word
His anger became less mundane
So later that day, in a feminine way,
Frank promptly blew out Bill's brain
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Tic And The Toc In The Clock
By Michael Lagace, written for young people on Jan 20, 2008.
My sister once told me what that ticking sound in the clock was. I thought it was something like a hammer moving back and forth to keep track of seconds, but I was wrong. It was dwarf-elves – tiny little people, the size of a ladybug, with little green hats and big black moustaches. I didn’t believe her, so I investigated, using the Junior Spy kit I’d gotten from Santa Claus. I took the magnifying glass and I took the notepad and I nearly took the fingerprinting kit, until I remembered how small their fingerprints would be.
I watched that big wooden clock all Saturday morning, then all Saturday afternoon, then part of Saturday evening when mom asked me what I was doing.
“I’m looking for the dwarf-elves,” I said.
“Dwarf-elves?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Yes,” I said, “dwarf-elves. Helly told me there were dwarf-elves in the clock.”
“Michael,” she said, “there are no dwarf-elves in the clock.”
I was sad. I wanted to see their tiny little big black moustaches.
“Not any more, anyway,” she said, “The dwarf-elves moved to the egg-timer.”
My sister lied to me! I should have known! So I took my magnifying glass and I took my notepad and I went to the kitchen to find the egg-timer. It was not where it usually was – the back of the stove, right between the salt and pepper. I asked mom where the egg-timer was, but she hadn’t seen it. Thinking that anyone who might have taken the egg-timer would be, if nothing else, timing, I listened for a trail of tics and tocs that I could follow. I listened carefully… very, very carefully…
Tic.
Toc.
I crept towards the sound, trying not to let the floor squeak beneath my steps.
Tic.
Toc.
I was nearly in dad’s study.
Tic.
I peeked inside the doorway. He was sitting at his desk.
Toc.
He stared at the egg-timer, the one with the dwarf-elves.
“Dad?” I asked, only as a warning that I was about to interrupt him no matter what. “Are you done with the egg-timer?”
“Shh!”
Clearly no. I crept closer. He’d look at the egg-timer, then at his watch, then at an hourglass spilling its sand into the bottom, then back at his watch. I asked him again if he was done with the egg-timer, and this time I didn’t get shushed.
“Oh Michael, you made me lose count! One of these faulty old things is off and I’m going to find out which!”
“Dad, I just need the egg-timer for a second. I want to see the dwarf-elves inside.”
“Dwarf-elves?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Dwarf-elves?” he asked again.
I nodded again.
“Why would you think that there are dwarf-elves in the egg-timer?” He shook his head and chuckled. “No, the dwarf-elves are in the VCR.”
“Really?” I asked. He nodded. “But the VCR doesn’t make a tic toc sound. Isn’t that what the dwarf-elves do?”
“Yes, of course,” dad answered, tapping the last bit of sand into the bottom of the hourglass, “but a VCR has to stay clean, so they take off their shoes. They’re very quiet in socks.”
It seemed to make sense, so I left dad’s study so he could compare the egg-timer and the watch and the hourglass, and I went to the television room. The dots on the VCR flashed and the numbers slowly changed. I kneeled in front of it and I listened carefully… very, very carefully…
And I heard a noise.
A sneeze.
I poked the little cassette door open and looked inside. There were spindles and reels and levers and everything else you’d see inside a VCR, but there were no dwarf-elves. I shook my head.
Of course there were no dwarf-elves! It was all a prank! There were no dwarf-elves anywhere, let alone in the clock, or the egg-timer, or the VCR! I was so embarrassed that when I closed that cassette door, I never again believed in dwarf-elves, not even when I heard a mouse-like voice from somewhere inside – by a spindle or a reel or a lever – whisper ‘Is he gone?’ followed by a distinct shush.
My sister once told me what that ticking sound in the clock was. I thought it was something like a hammer moving back and forth to keep track of seconds, but I was wrong. It was dwarf-elves – tiny little people, the size of a ladybug, with little green hats and big black moustaches. I didn’t believe her, so I investigated, using the Junior Spy kit I’d gotten from Santa Claus. I took the magnifying glass and I took the notepad and I nearly took the fingerprinting kit, until I remembered how small their fingerprints would be.
I watched that big wooden clock all Saturday morning, then all Saturday afternoon, then part of Saturday evening when mom asked me what I was doing.
“I’m looking for the dwarf-elves,” I said.
“Dwarf-elves?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Yes,” I said, “dwarf-elves. Helly told me there were dwarf-elves in the clock.”
“Michael,” she said, “there are no dwarf-elves in the clock.”
I was sad. I wanted to see their tiny little big black moustaches.
“Not any more, anyway,” she said, “The dwarf-elves moved to the egg-timer.”
My sister lied to me! I should have known! So I took my magnifying glass and I took my notepad and I went to the kitchen to find the egg-timer. It was not where it usually was – the back of the stove, right between the salt and pepper. I asked mom where the egg-timer was, but she hadn’t seen it. Thinking that anyone who might have taken the egg-timer would be, if nothing else, timing, I listened for a trail of tics and tocs that I could follow. I listened carefully… very, very carefully…
Tic.
Toc.
I crept towards the sound, trying not to let the floor squeak beneath my steps.
Tic.
Toc.
I was nearly in dad’s study.
Tic.
I peeked inside the doorway. He was sitting at his desk.
Toc.
He stared at the egg-timer, the one with the dwarf-elves.
“Dad?” I asked, only as a warning that I was about to interrupt him no matter what. “Are you done with the egg-timer?”
“Shh!”
Clearly no. I crept closer. He’d look at the egg-timer, then at his watch, then at an hourglass spilling its sand into the bottom, then back at his watch. I asked him again if he was done with the egg-timer, and this time I didn’t get shushed.
“Oh Michael, you made me lose count! One of these faulty old things is off and I’m going to find out which!”
“Dad, I just need the egg-timer for a second. I want to see the dwarf-elves inside.”
“Dwarf-elves?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Dwarf-elves?” he asked again.
I nodded again.
“Why would you think that there are dwarf-elves in the egg-timer?” He shook his head and chuckled. “No, the dwarf-elves are in the VCR.”
“Really?” I asked. He nodded. “But the VCR doesn’t make a tic toc sound. Isn’t that what the dwarf-elves do?”
“Yes, of course,” dad answered, tapping the last bit of sand into the bottom of the hourglass, “but a VCR has to stay clean, so they take off their shoes. They’re very quiet in socks.”
It seemed to make sense, so I left dad’s study so he could compare the egg-timer and the watch and the hourglass, and I went to the television room. The dots on the VCR flashed and the numbers slowly changed. I kneeled in front of it and I listened carefully… very, very carefully…
And I heard a noise.
A sneeze.
I poked the little cassette door open and looked inside. There were spindles and reels and levers and everything else you’d see inside a VCR, but there were no dwarf-elves. I shook my head.
Of course there were no dwarf-elves! It was all a prank! There were no dwarf-elves anywhere, let alone in the clock, or the egg-timer, or the VCR! I was so embarrassed that when I closed that cassette door, I never again believed in dwarf-elves, not even when I heard a mouse-like voice from somewhere inside – by a spindle or a reel or a lever – whisper ‘Is he gone?’ followed by a distinct shush.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Lovesong
As published in Other Voices June 2008.
She was singing from atop a jut of rocks not a sea mile off port when I was coming in after another long wasted day. It was her song that first caught my notice, it carried across the water with steadfast harmony. As I approached the rocked area, all I could see was her golden hair, long and wavy, her naked back to me.
I threw my anchor out into the rocks and called to her. “Hullo there! Do you need help?”
She turned towards me and she was, for everything I know, the most beauty I’d ever seen. She smiled, but with difficulty. It wasn’t the spray of the water on her face, she was crying.
“Thank-you, sailor, but I do not need help. I am in mourning for love.”
Her voice carried like a song I must have already known. It struck me deep and took root, the way songs do when you’ve heard them enough, when you believe in them. I never wanted this one to end.
“Please, miss, let me take you to shore, I will get you home safely. You should never travel alone on a broken heart.”
“My home is not on shore. And the love I mourn is not my own.”
After she said this, I was close enough to see she had no legs; instead, there was a long scaled tail, and where her feet would be were fins splitting off to the sides. She seemed part fish and part woman, and I didn’t know quite what to think, but for my life I couldn’t take my eyes away from her. She turned from me again and continued to sing.
I returned to my ship, took my largest net, and threw it over her. I would take her with me knowing love would not let us be apart.
We did not speak, and she did not sing, on the way home or afterwards, and it would be a long time before she sang again. Our love was a troubled affair, for she never quite believed my life was entirely for her. Every day that I went out to sea and returned empty-handed, I knew that when I unlocked the door, she would be there waiting, as beautiful as she ever was.
One day, months later, I realized she was no longer as beautiful as I remembered. She said the beauty was never hers, it was the reflection of the sea, and without it she would die. She asked to come out with me the next day, so she could sing and catch me a fortune. I would no longer be poor and I could release her and soon meet my true love and be happy forever. It seemed like such a beautiful song, and I would indulge her, though I knew I could never let her go.
We set out early in the morning, going deep out to the sea, as far as my ship dare. True to her word, she sang her song, and I cast my nets over the side. When I pulled them up again, they were full. In no time
at all, I had a month’s catch, but it wasn’t enough to let her go. Because I loved her.
So she cried and sang her song once again, louder than before. I covered my ears but it wasn’t enough. A single fish jumped onto the deck. And then another. And then dozens, and hundreds, and thousands, and even after the entire ship was full, she did not stop singing. In minutes, the weight was too great, and the wood split, and we sank below the water.
She swam over to me, kissed me once with her salty lips, with all the beauty of the sea reflected within them, and then left me forever. Alone.
And now, here I wait in the water, holding to a piece of my ship, telling my story to the sea, hoping it will carry to her and she will sing it and be beautiful once again.
She was singing from atop a jut of rocks not a sea mile off port when I was coming in after another long wasted day. It was her song that first caught my notice, it carried across the water with steadfast harmony. As I approached the rocked area, all I could see was her golden hair, long and wavy, her naked back to me.
I threw my anchor out into the rocks and called to her. “Hullo there! Do you need help?”
She turned towards me and she was, for everything I know, the most beauty I’d ever seen. She smiled, but with difficulty. It wasn’t the spray of the water on her face, she was crying.
“Thank-you, sailor, but I do not need help. I am in mourning for love.”
Her voice carried like a song I must have already known. It struck me deep and took root, the way songs do when you’ve heard them enough, when you believe in them. I never wanted this one to end.
“Please, miss, let me take you to shore, I will get you home safely. You should never travel alone on a broken heart.”
“My home is not on shore. And the love I mourn is not my own.”
After she said this, I was close enough to see she had no legs; instead, there was a long scaled tail, and where her feet would be were fins splitting off to the sides. She seemed part fish and part woman, and I didn’t know quite what to think, but for my life I couldn’t take my eyes away from her. She turned from me again and continued to sing.
I returned to my ship, took my largest net, and threw it over her. I would take her with me knowing love would not let us be apart.
We did not speak, and she did not sing, on the way home or afterwards, and it would be a long time before she sang again. Our love was a troubled affair, for she never quite believed my life was entirely for her. Every day that I went out to sea and returned empty-handed, I knew that when I unlocked the door, she would be there waiting, as beautiful as she ever was.
One day, months later, I realized she was no longer as beautiful as I remembered. She said the beauty was never hers, it was the reflection of the sea, and without it she would die. She asked to come out with me the next day, so she could sing and catch me a fortune. I would no longer be poor and I could release her and soon meet my true love and be happy forever. It seemed like such a beautiful song, and I would indulge her, though I knew I could never let her go.
We set out early in the morning, going deep out to the sea, as far as my ship dare. True to her word, she sang her song, and I cast my nets over the side. When I pulled them up again, they were full. In no time
at all, I had a month’s catch, but it wasn’t enough to let her go. Because I loved her.
So she cried and sang her song once again, louder than before. I covered my ears but it wasn’t enough. A single fish jumped onto the deck. And then another. And then dozens, and hundreds, and thousands, and even after the entire ship was full, she did not stop singing. In minutes, the weight was too great, and the wood split, and we sank below the water.
She swam over to me, kissed me once with her salty lips, with all the beauty of the sea reflected within them, and then left me forever. Alone.
And now, here I wait in the water, holding to a piece of my ship, telling my story to the sea, hoping it will carry to her and she will sing it and be beautiful once again.
Dolls
As published in Other Voices October 2008.
Julian always thought it would get easier to start over. It never did. A few days ago, he had been the youngest female executive ever to be promoted to Creative Director at Fiston Jennings Agencies, and now he was back to being an awkward teenager late for art class. He walked through the open door and took an empty seat at the back of the room while the class stared interruptedly. The woman who looked like she might be the teacher – if only because she might be two years older than the rest of the class – smiled politely and said nothing.
“We’re drawing what we’re feeling today,” the girl with the green scarf told him, leaning over so she didn’t have to speak loudly. “I’m using lots of red.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Julian spilled his satchel open onto the table, put his sketchbook and pencils to the side, then shoved the other things back in, among those things, his lipstick.
“Nice colour,” she said. “Not many guys keep lipstick in their purse, you know.”
“Yes, I know. Thanks.”
“Not many guys have a purse at all, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Julian said. And not many guys used to be a twenty-seven-year old woman. He stared at the blank page in front of him with an equally blank and expressionless face. He didn’t know what he was feeling today, except that he definitely didn’t feel like himself, whoever that might be. Maybe he should draw July, the woman he had been up until a week ago. She had already finished with this high school nonsense a decade earlier, found a very well-paying job at a prestigious firm, and was even about to marry a successful doctor. Yes, July’s life was full and promising, until one morning she woke up and found her shell had once again cracked open, and out of it stepped Julian, who now sat in some art class in some high school, and was being asked to draw what he was feeling. Like it was that simple.
Julian turned around suddenly, startled by the teacher’s annoyed sigh.
“Just draw what you’re feeling,” she said. “It’s simple, just… draw… what you’re feeling.”
“Yes, I know, thank you. I just don’t really know what I’m feeling at the moment.”
“Then just draw anything, I don’t care. I’m only marking participation on this one. And technically you have to draw something to participate.”
Julian nodded. He began by drawing an overweight man with long dark hair and a deep purple beret. This is who July had been before she was July. Then he drew a middle-aged housewife, a burly Statesman, an old gypsy woman, a young prince, an elegant actress, an archeologist, a fisherman, and a hobo; all people that Julian had once been. He drew all these people in no particular order, all over the page. It wasn’t easy to remember them all; it had been several hundred years of this nonsense. And all because of a slight misunderstanding during a wish. Julian shook his head.
After class, Julian went to the boys washroom, locked himself in a stall, and checked his waist carefully for cracks. No sense going through all this work for nothing, he thought.
Julian always thought it would get easier to start over. It never did. A few days ago, he had been the youngest female executive ever to be promoted to Creative Director at Fiston Jennings Agencies, and now he was back to being an awkward teenager late for art class. He walked through the open door and took an empty seat at the back of the room while the class stared interruptedly. The woman who looked like she might be the teacher – if only because she might be two years older than the rest of the class – smiled politely and said nothing.
“We’re drawing what we’re feeling today,” the girl with the green scarf told him, leaning over so she didn’t have to speak loudly. “I’m using lots of red.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Julian spilled his satchel open onto the table, put his sketchbook and pencils to the side, then shoved the other things back in, among those things, his lipstick.
“Nice colour,” she said. “Not many guys keep lipstick in their purse, you know.”
“Yes, I know. Thanks.”
“Not many guys have a purse at all, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Julian said. And not many guys used to be a twenty-seven-year old woman. He stared at the blank page in front of him with an equally blank and expressionless face. He didn’t know what he was feeling today, except that he definitely didn’t feel like himself, whoever that might be. Maybe he should draw July, the woman he had been up until a week ago. She had already finished with this high school nonsense a decade earlier, found a very well-paying job at a prestigious firm, and was even about to marry a successful doctor. Yes, July’s life was full and promising, until one morning she woke up and found her shell had once again cracked open, and out of it stepped Julian, who now sat in some art class in some high school, and was being asked to draw what he was feeling. Like it was that simple.
Julian turned around suddenly, startled by the teacher’s annoyed sigh.
“Just draw what you’re feeling,” she said. “It’s simple, just… draw… what you’re feeling.”
“Yes, I know, thank you. I just don’t really know what I’m feeling at the moment.”
“Then just draw anything, I don’t care. I’m only marking participation on this one. And technically you have to draw something to participate.”
Julian nodded. He began by drawing an overweight man with long dark hair and a deep purple beret. This is who July had been before she was July. Then he drew a middle-aged housewife, a burly Statesman, an old gypsy woman, a young prince, an elegant actress, an archeologist, a fisherman, and a hobo; all people that Julian had once been. He drew all these people in no particular order, all over the page. It wasn’t easy to remember them all; it had been several hundred years of this nonsense. And all because of a slight misunderstanding during a wish. Julian shook his head.
After class, Julian went to the boys washroom, locked himself in a stall, and checked his waist carefully for cracks. No sense going through all this work for nothing, he thought.
Memories
As published in Other Voices November 2008, under a pseudonym.
“I can manage myself, thank-you very much,” the woman said stubbornly, shaking the volunteered hand off her. “I’m thirteen, not incompetent.”
Her daughter sighed, patiently. “You’re seventy-five, mom. Remember?”
“Well, seventy-five, that’s what I said!”
Theresa took her mother’s coat and hung it in the closet. When she turned back around, she saw her mother opening the front door.
“Mom, where are you going?”
“Why, home,” she answered, “It’s getting late.”
“It’s not late, mom. You’re home now. We’re about to have dinner with the family.”
“Well, of course we are,” the gray-haired woman said matter-of-factly, coming back inside. “But I’m afraid I can’t stay for dinner, my mother is expecting me home soon. It’s Christmas, you know.”
Theresa took her mom by the arm and together they followed the smell of roast turkey and seasoning into the dining room. There were two empty seats around the large table, one at the head and the other next to it. Theresa helped her mother into the first then sat down herself. The four children all looked at their grandmother, unsure if she would be happy or angry or sad. They smiled nervously, but she did not smile back. She did not even see them.
“Sorry we’re late,” Theresa said, looking at her husband on the other end of the table. “Mom lost her medication. Actually, she threw it out, into the garbage, didn’t you mom?”
“I told you, I don’t have polio! It’s Sam that’s got it.”
Theresa gritted her teeth. “Mom, I told you, it’s not…” Theresa took a deep breath. “Mom, you’re not thirteen, you’re here with your family.”
“Well, of course I’m thirteen,” the old woman said, insulted.
“No, mom, you’re seventy-five! I’m your daughter! These are my kids, your grandchildren!”
“Be patient, Theresa,” Brian said. “It’s not her fault.”
“I know, I just…”
Theresa closed her eyes for a moment. This woman next to her was a stranger that she had known her whole life. Patience was getting harder. She looked at her mother and apologized for shouting, then added, “I love you,” but she did not recognize the person that she said it to.
“I can manage myself, thank-you very much,” the woman said stubbornly, shaking the volunteered hand off her. “I’m thirteen, not incompetent.”
Her daughter sighed, patiently. “You’re seventy-five, mom. Remember?”
“Well, seventy-five, that’s what I said!”
Theresa took her mother’s coat and hung it in the closet. When she turned back around, she saw her mother opening the front door.
“Mom, where are you going?”
“Why, home,” she answered, “It’s getting late.”
“It’s not late, mom. You’re home now. We’re about to have dinner with the family.”
“Well, of course we are,” the gray-haired woman said matter-of-factly, coming back inside. “But I’m afraid I can’t stay for dinner, my mother is expecting me home soon. It’s Christmas, you know.”
Theresa took her mom by the arm and together they followed the smell of roast turkey and seasoning into the dining room. There were two empty seats around the large table, one at the head and the other next to it. Theresa helped her mother into the first then sat down herself. The four children all looked at their grandmother, unsure if she would be happy or angry or sad. They smiled nervously, but she did not smile back. She did not even see them.
“Sorry we’re late,” Theresa said, looking at her husband on the other end of the table. “Mom lost her medication. Actually, she threw it out, into the garbage, didn’t you mom?”
“I told you, I don’t have polio! It’s Sam that’s got it.”
Theresa gritted her teeth. “Mom, I told you, it’s not…” Theresa took a deep breath. “Mom, you’re not thirteen, you’re here with your family.”
“Well, of course I’m thirteen,” the old woman said, insulted.
“No, mom, you’re seventy-five! I’m your daughter! These are my kids, your grandchildren!”
“Be patient, Theresa,” Brian said. “It’s not her fault.”
“I know, I just…”
Theresa closed her eyes for a moment. This woman next to her was a stranger that she had known her whole life. Patience was getting harder. She looked at her mother and apologized for shouting, then added, “I love you,” but she did not recognize the person that she said it to.
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