From Waste to Waste Read online

  ‘Now, understand this, old friend; I knew that I should have been happy, to see that small speck of humanity die within the child. But, like you at this moment, I felt the echo of holy light. It chimed and I, having always been an impulsive creature intervened…’

  Ronald was ten years old again, in his mind, reliving the lash of belt and crunch of fists. A daily affair at his house, but one that he’d endured…somehow. Vividly, he recalled the night it all ended, the night his father had been ended, and he'd set out upon the righteous path.

  ‘How was either of us to know that it would offer me such a delicious opportunity for physical evil?’

  I didn’t care who answered, when Dad’s belt was breaking skin. Jesus, Satan; it didn’t matter. I was ten, how could I have known?

  A string of bodies passed by his mind’s eye, stretching from coast to coast in an unending trail of horror, which he’d followed with a hound’s persistence. Only to end up here…ah, it makes sense now, why I’m up here. That nameless feeling, the one that pushed me up those steps and onto this ledge; I know now where it comes from…

  ‘Goodbye, Ronnie…’ the demon’s voice trailed away…

  The Storm, Wall

  A Story of Wasted Truth

  ‘It rained on the day my brother disappeared. We were out, near the back nine of my grandfather’s property. It was like another world out there. You ever been up north, Advocate? North of the Muskoka's, I mean. Well, it was a lot like that: trees and brush and rock and water.

  ‘We were out near the river, sitting on the crest of a drop with the water below when the storm caught us. Timber – uh, I mean, Tim – had a thing about storms. The thunder always shook him.’

  ‘Your brother was…eighteen and still afraid of the thunder?’

  ‘Yeah, no; Tim wasn’t afraid of it, I mean, he’d didn’t cry or run away or any shit like that. Not afraid of it, but it shook him all the same.

  ‘Look, this is all about to get real weird, real quick. I…Jesus. Can I have a cigarette?’

  ‘…Sure.’

  ‘Thanks. Light?’

  Flick!

  ‘Thanks…oh, that’s not bad. Where was I? The thunder, right. Anyway, we were up on the crest, smoking a doob when lighting started flashing and cracking. The thunder came only a minute later; it was like the sky cracked right over our heads. Then came the rains.

  ‘Now, I was pretty startled myself. That storm came from right out of nowhere. Hell, it scared me – not to mention pissed me right off: my fucking suit was drenched.’

  ‘I take it your brother was scared too?’

  ‘Fuck, you’d think so, after what I told yah, but no. Fucking Tim was laughing. Laughing like a goddamned madman. I thought, “Man, this must be some good shit”, but then, why wasn’t I tickled pink too?

  ‘… … … … His eyes… …they were messed up… …like… …glowing.’

  ‘Glowing?’

  ‘Yeah…glowing.’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’

  ‘How high were you?’

  ‘Not. That. High.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘He started talking.’ Shiver.

  ‘And, what did he say.’

  ‘He said: “I figured it out, Wally, I’ve figured it out!”

  ‘“What the fuck are you talking about, Timber?”

  ‘“The Storm, Wall. It’s me it’s afraid of. That’s why it tried to shake me, to scare me. It’s terrified, of me. That’s why it came, Wall, because I told it to. It listened because it knows that I am the master, that I am its king!”

  ‘Tim stood up then, lightning flashing and turning him into a silhouette. But the eyes kept glowing, like the lightning was caught in them. “Timber?”

  ‘“Goodbye, Brother.”

  ‘“Timber…”

  ‘… … …’

  ‘Mr. Wood, I’m sorry, but what happened next?’

  ‘Heh, I’m not really sure. There was lightning, I think; a big flash anyway. It blinded me, and I think knocked me out. I dunno, I might’ve hit my head. When I came to…Tim was just gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Yeah…gone.’

  ‘You mean, as if he vanished.’

  ‘I mean fucking gone!’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yeah…’

  ‘…Well, Mr. Wood. Thank you for your time, and for the story, but I don’t think it will hold up in a court of law.’

  ‘Yeah…I didn’t think so…’

  ‘Why don’t you just tell me what you did with your brother’s body, hmm? You’re young; a confession will ease your punishment.’

  ‘I just told you what happened.’

  ‘No you didn’t, Mr. Wood, and I told you that I will not represent you unless you tell me the truth.’

  ‘… … … …’

  ‘Deputy! I’m done here.’

  ‘… … … …’

  The Man Who (Unwittingly) Sold the World

  A Story of Wasted Foresight

  ‘Zooma,’ the oddly tall, gangly man in the faded red suit greeted Johnny with a smile that did not reach his blue eyes.

  ‘Uh, hey,’ he offered, shifting to pass him on the stairs. There was something familiar about the man’s gaunt face, but Johnny was sure that he’d never seen him in the building before. ‘Have a good one,’ he called back, deeply instilled politeness bringing out the pleasantry.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  Dammit. ‘Hmm?’ he paused between steps, looking back at the strange man.

  ‘You said, “Have a good one”, but I’m confused. What “ones” do you speak of?’

  What is this guy, from Mars or something? ‘Um, a good, whatever, I suppose.’

  ‘Whatever?’

  ‘Yeah, sure man, like, whatever you want to have that is good, have it…’ Johnny inwardly groaned at the gracelessness of his explanation, but the eerily slender man seemed brightened by it.

  ‘Why…thank you, Wumbah, thank you.’ The man smiled again and this time it reached blue eyes, as a long fingered hand reached out and Johnny felt the gentle pat on his shoulder. ‘I will, have a good one.’

  ‘Good, err, great. Like I said, have a good one.’ Johnny turned back to his ascent, eager to get away.

  ‘You have a good one too, young Fuuma.’

  * * * *

  WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

  Johnny started from where he’d passed out on the couch and crashed to the floor with a groggy curse.

  WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

  With an open mouthed frown of indignant consternation, Johnny squinted at the door.

  WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

  ‘Hold on a minute!’ From hands and knees Johnny started for the door, knocking over an empty bottle of Jack, tripping over his open housecoat. ‘I’ll be right there,’ he pled, rising to his knees, struggling with his belt.

  Jesus, I’m fuggered. Weaving along an awkward path, Johnny made it to the door in one piece. Working at his dry, stale tasting mouth, he unlatched the lock, yanked open the door and was greeted by an empty hallway, save for Mrs. Peterson and her little hellhound of a pug, Butch.

  I see you, you little muttley; I dare you to piss in front of my door again. I double dog dare you. But there, covering the stain created by years of Butch’s attentions was a surprise. ‘What the…’

  Shiny, black and encased in leather, the guitar case was topped by a note. Glancing with a glower at the pug waddling down the hall, Johnny snatched up the missive and quickly read it.

  Zooma Earther.

  Good Shateema to you!

  I wanted to thank you for your offer last night; most generous and unexpected! I had always been led to believe that the peoples of the Blue World were impertinent and Boruus (I apologize; you have no word which correlates with this term. I trust that you understand that it would translate into something rather unkind.).

  As a sign of my acceptance of your proposition, let m
e offer you this instrument as my Kapah in return. I hope you don’t mind that I touched you, but it helped me see just what “one” you needed.

  I fear, Earther, that it will be some time before we meet again, but I must return home and tell them the good news!

  It was a pleasure doing business with you,

  Ziggy

  P.S. Don’t forget your friends when you’re rich and famous! Zooma!

  ‘What. The. Fuck…’

  But Johnny forgot the strange letter (from a stranger man) when the smell of leather reached him. Kneeling, he felt a peculiar sense of reverence fill him as he unhooked the latches and opened the case.

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God…’

  Gleaming strings seemed to glow and silver tuning keys reflected the florescent light like moonlight caught in jewels, but it was the scene airbrushed on the Les Paul that gripped his attention most. A barren, red landscape, a wasteland beneath an ochre sky and crawling across it was a pack of spiders. Huge spiders that seemed to shift and move as he stared.

  The eccentric man and his confusing note were lost to him. Scooping up the gift, Johnny scrambled back into his apartment, slamming the door behind him and rushing for the beat up and battered old amp sitting next to the far end of the couch.

  Trepidation (or was it that reverence returned?) stayed his hand, fingers on the pick, the far out guitar strapped on and waiting. Closing his eyes he let his hand fall and the pick brushed the unsullied strings. The sound it produced, even through the antique tube amp was like the distorted voice of some cosmic god, singing happily from deep space.

  Froot, man; just froot.

  * * * *

  ‘OhmygodJohnny! Youweregreat!’

  ‘Thanks, Love.’ Johnny signed the album the girl was holding in her hand – his album (his fifth in as many years) – tuning out the wailing masses of young women and men who packed Dundas Square. They were there to help him celebrate the triple platinum status of The Spider’s Web of Mars.

  Success, status, money and fame: these were the orders of his life now. He was riding high on that wave of triumph and never wanted it to end…

  Frightened screams broke from the crowd of his fans and he saw faces turning up to the sky, which was abruptly becoming dark. The marker fell from his finger as he watched the saucers descend and jumped when the giant screens, used for advertisement, lining the square, leapt to life.

  ‘Zooma, Earthers!’

  ‘No shit…’ he knew that face, smiling from the screens.

  ‘Please, do not be frightened by the Blaxxky in the sky; they come in peace. That is to say, we come for peaceful acquisition of the Blue World. I beg you; help us make this an easy transition…

  ‘And wherever you are, my good Wumbah, thank you Johnny…thank you.’

  'For My Own Sake'

  An Absurd Story of a Wasted trip to Church

  The bells rang out no more from St. Mary’s Catholic Church, not since the Advent. After thirty years, Connor figured that time had left enough rust up there to prevent any soul from provoking them to shout out again and assure the world that the Son of God was still listening, still cared about his wayward flock.

  Standing in his Sunday’s Finest, much as he had in the early days of his life, Connor stared up from the sidewalk, recalling the games that he, Timmy and the Burk Twins would play; sitting in a line together on the lacquered pew, each of them desperate to get the others to laugh out loud, to see who could incur the wrath of teachers, the priest, God himself. It had been a game of pointless mischievousness, and they had revealed in it…

  But then the Advent came and they’d been informed, at an assembly in their High School’s Cafetorium, that in fact God was dead and, within the halls of school or church, there was no enlightenment to be found. Hearing this from once righteous men changed him, changed the others…changed the world.

  And yet, here he was at the foot of the St. Mary’s, dressed in suit and tie, ready to talk to his Lord one last time…and maybe, just maybe, get those bells ringing once more.

  Great oaken doors, the deep stain faded to a dull grey were closed, but not locked. They crashed inward at his ministrations, conjuring up a cloud of dust so thick that Connor was forced to wait out its settling.

  Hoodlums had torn through long ago. Inside, Connor found the stained glass windows broken, their beauty forever lost; he found the pews sundered or missing; the floor was layered in dirt and grime, he stepped in rat shit; and the altar, that piece that seemed to bring the whole room together had been burned. But he looked past the blackened, charred stand, to the effigy of the Son, crucified and hanging from the wall.

  ‘Jesus, you look like shit.’ Vandals had X’d out his Saviour’s eyes and drawn on him a moustache fit for a railroad villain.

  ‘Could be worse…’

  Connor started at that voice, yelping as he danced back. Did that mouth just move?

  ‘You should see my Mother.’

  Connor jumped now, his yelp becoming a shout of brain numbing fear.

  ‘Would you two keep it down?’

  Now he spun, catching movement from the balcony. ‘Mother of God…’ he breathed when he saw Her form perched on the rail.

  ‘Yes,’ she intoned from above, ‘indeed.’

  ‘Show him you’re beard, Mum.’ J.C. snickered from behind.

  ‘Oh, stop it already. If you would just get off that wall and find me some soap then we could both be rid of these…improvements.’

  ‘Just kill me already and bam! Three days later, I’ll get you your precious soap.’

  ‘Oh, stop that! You know I hate that kind of talk, young man.’

  Connor, who’d been caught by a spell of chaos induced helplessness finally found his voice. ‘Um, excuse me…’

  The bickering stopped and he felt inhuman eyes lower upon him. ‘Yes, boy?’ the Mother of God spoke down to him with a patient smile.

  Alright, what the hell am I supposed to say? ‘Are you…you know…really…?’

  ‘Who we appear to be?’ a sigh followed, and the sound of it cut at Connor’s heart. ‘What does it matter, Mortal One? We are here, now, as you see us. Are we abominations? Are we mistakes? What did we do to deserve such a fate? Who knows; the only One that can answer that doesn’t even exist anymore.’

  ‘So, God is dead…’

  ‘She never said that.’

  Connor turned to see the statue on the cross tilt its head, regarding him with a derisive smirk. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Mean? For My own Sake; that’s all you people ever what to know, isn’t it? What does it all mean? What it means is that He isn’t dead: he never existed.’

  That's ridiculous! ‘That’s ridiculous!’

  ‘Is it?’ Mother Mary barked down, sounding offended now. ‘You’re the ones that decided it, with your Advent. And now, here we remain, out of work. How am I supposed to support my child now?’

  Before reason could cast upon his mouth a filter, Connor spoke: ‘I thought he was a carpenter?’

  ‘Well,’ Mary shrugged. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear, boy. Now, tell us, lost sheep, what is it you want with us? And don’t tell me it’s for worship, I’ll have none of that!’

  ‘Well, Mrs. Mother of God, I think, in the end, I’d just like to ring those bells, you know, one more time.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Get out.’

  In Search of Payday

  A Story of Work Life in the Waste

  ‘Bogart, have you that damned thing running yet?’ Boris cried his exasperation, tripping over the foreign tongue. Despite his question, the clanking, clattering and cursing continued to fill the dry, sweltering air of the badlands. ‘Bogart? Bogart!’

  A clutch of grey crows, startled by the Russian’s outcry, fluttered away from their decaying meal with wings a’frenzy.

  The commotion from beneath the crawler halted. ‘Boris; that you?’

  ‘No; it’s pretty-girl, from v
alley of virgins, eager to know a man.’ Boris kicked at a rock, launching into the shadows of the undercarriage, where he heard it thump followed by his partner’s angry curse. ‘Of course it’s me; you have the rot-brain now or something?’

  Boris backed off three paces when Bogart, kicking up plumes of red dust, struggled his way clear of the crawler. ‘That’s not smart,’ he growled from the dust, grizzled face dark, from mood and grime. ‘I told you I was working on the transmission. What do you think would happen if that rock of yours got jammed?’ Bogart spat dust from his mouth, and wiped the thick tendril of saliva caught on his chin.

  ‘More work for you.’ Boris told the mechanic.

  ‘That’s right, you overfed bag of sheep-shit: more work for me, which means more money for me, which means…’

  Boris thought, not in search of an answer – he wasn’t stupid – but for a means to punish the man. Of course, he would have to be crafty, subtle, or Bogart would know it was he who-

  ‘…less money for you.’ The mechanic finished for him. ‘God, Boris; you’ve not been blessed with a quick mind. How did you make all that money?’

  He let the insult slide, thinking back to a time of deadly nights and hidden days. Letting a grin creep up one side, Boris gave answer. ‘I am…lucky guy.’ Bogart scowled at the wink he gave the filthy man. ‘Let us leave it at that, my friend. Just fix transmission, so we can cross this hell and make it to Ushu before snakes find homes in our boots and the buzzards return. I do not like the buzzards, Bogart. You know this. Why, four years ago now, this coming Thursday, is when I first told you-’

  ‘Enough!’ Bogart threw up hands in defeat. ‘Just shut up and let me get back to work.’ The mechanic started back under the crawler, but his mouth continued to motor. ‘Jesus Murphy; you’d think a guy who can’t speak English wouldn’t talk so damned much. But not Boris, no; goddamned lecturer this one is…’ The grumbling continued, but Boris was already walking away, leaving the foul-mouthed man to his work.

  The road through the badlands lumbered over a gentle rise, upon which the crawler had sputtered and died. Boris stepped to the edge of the flattish top, taking the cantina from his belt and drank deep as he considered the road ahead. The Deadman’s valley stretched before him, burning beneath the fires of an unrelenting sun. He studied the shadows cast by great megaliths, standing in awkward circles, milling in the great depression. Licking residual moistness from flaking lips, Boris decided that it was high time for a nap.