Start with one true sentence and let it flow from there.
Red is a colour. The colour of blood as it’s washed along down the gutter by the unrelenting flow of rainwater.
The rain comes down in heavy, pregnant drops, splattering itself across the body that lies sprawled on the curb. Another dead body in a city of dead souls. The rain cleans nothing, just moves the filth around.
Eventually someone will stumble across the corpse, but likely not for a while. This part of town is never a popular destination after nightfall, and the rhythmic pounding of the incessant rain certainly isn’t helping to draw people out of the quiet concrete warrens that they’ve nestled down in for the night.
***
And there it was again. Pain flaring as my solar plexus goes nova, hot neon arcs of pure neuro-electric coursing through my brain. The rending noise of broken bone fragments puncturing flesh. Sweet, sickly smell of bloody urine running rivers down my leg, and the rich earthy ooze of feces in my underwear.
One eye lolling lifeless and disjointed, I struggled to focus the other through the torrent of sub-tropical rain the fell like hydrostatic bullets from the heavens and the lymph and puss and blood that slowly exuded from the three-inch-long razor scar across my forehead.
With a muffled thwack, his foot made contact again, safe and dry in the relative comfort of his size-12 leather work boots with high-carbon steal toes and shanks. The beating was merciless and obviously the end result of some thing I’d done. Something ill-advised, to be sure, although I couldn’t remember what, couldn’t spare the thought required to remember, with every fibre of my being focused on simply holding on, pushing back the grey nowhere cloud of death that swirled wrathful around my consciousness.
Eventually, long after I’d given up any outwards sign of life, he tired of the pummelling and departed. My one good eye shakily followed his hulking figure as it slouched off into the slate of rain, then slowly closed with the peaceful fluttering of blessed relief, secure in the knowledge that although broken and bleeding, I would not die that night.
***
Dr. Gwen Turner was of two very distracted minds as she pulled up to the entrance of the St. Joseph Health Centre parking complex. Fumbling for the key-card that would get her past the wooden swing arm barrier, the right half of her brain was busy working its way through the possible arguments in the pending malpractice suit against her, while the left was working its way through last month’s emergency-room expenses, which had somehow ended up several hundred thousand dollars over budget. Thus confused, and with her head cocked to the side to swipe the key-card, she came within and inch of hitting an elderly man in a wheelchair who jetted out in-front of her, I.V.-stand in tow. The man, who seemed to have an advanced case of dropsy, cast her an unpleasant sidelong look, and continued on to the handicapped parking area. Gwen sighed and proceeded to her reserved spot.
The day was cool and somewhat cloudy, with a stiff eastern wind still blowing away the last straggling remnants of the storm that had brutalized the island the night before. Across the small nation, from the curving peninsula of white sand beaches in the south to the northern headlands, people were waking up to flooded basements and waterlogged gardens. Gwen, of course, had been up since the five a.m. sunrise, going through her daily morning routine, preparing for the hour-and-a-half commute that would see her to work for eight.
It had often been remarked upon by the other members of the emergency room staff, although never to her face, that an hour and a half was a long drive, especially for someone working the hectic hours of the assistant head of emergency room medicine at Barbados’ largest and newest hospital, but Gwen was content with her daily routine, and felt that as she received a salary suitable for maintaining a house in Redbank, the island’s most exclusive district, she ought to be able to enjoy the privilege. Of course, the malpractice suite was threatening to take that privilege away, but Gwen was still fairly sure she could find a way to salvage it.
****
When you get out of prison, it’s the little differences that never cease to delight you. Take, for example, a tuna sandwich. They give you Tuna sandwiches for lunch in the sweaty metal and masonry basement of City Hall. Bland, slightly stale sandwiches, white buns made with enriched flour and moist from the days they’ve spent in contact with the quarter-cup of sludgy tuna-and-mayonnaise-salad they contained. The sandwiches came wrapped in plastic that was disturbingly machine-sealed. The other option for lunch was a cheese sandwich, which had a lone piece of processed cheese in place of the tuna. I suppose option is the wrong word. Rather, there were two distinct possibilities for lunch – you would get a tuna sandwich or you would get a cheese sandwich. You weren’t often provided with the choice, as the mad animal mass of angry male prisoners who inhabited the holding cell would rush the attending corrections officer when he approached the gate with lunch. Sandwiches were flung about like feces in a monkey cage, many ending up half-eaten on the cold, dusty floor. Small wax cups of flavourless, un-naturally orange “juice” were also distributed, ostensibly one-per-prisoner. Lunch was the one break in an otherwise unbearably bleak day standing around in a locked cage with an open toilet facility.
But compare that sickly sandwich to the one I find myself sitting before now. The bread is French, and very good, a Bole bread to be precise, medium sliced and very lightly toasted. The salad, which lies an inch thick across the bottom slice, contains two very distinct mayonnaises, one rich and eggy, the other light and sharp. The tuna is fresh and hand-chopped, as are the medley of onions, celery, tomatoes and green pepper that are also in the mix. The salad has been salted and peppered, and the top piece of bread bears a garnish of mustard with lettuce, tomato and sliced pickle. This sandwich is served on a plate.
posted by OwenF at 7/21/2001 07:40:00 PM
Well, this is interesting: look what the server logs show under last 100 visitors:
31. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:22:36 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
32. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:22:26 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
33. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:22:03 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
34. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:21:43 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
35. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:18:45 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
36. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:18:14 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
37. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:17:47 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
38. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:17:28 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
39. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:13:51 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
40. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:12:11 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
41. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:06:05 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
42. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:03:41 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
43. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:03:30 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
44. Tue, Jul 17, 2001, 01:02:04 AM rcmp-grc.gc.ca
Looks like someone with the RCMP was up late doing a little nosing around my site. Funny getting that many hits from the same domain in such a short period of time. Looks like the possible beginnings of a harassing denial of service attack, no? ;)
posted by OwenF at 7/21/2001 02:45:00 AM
Wow - newsflash - I just checked the stats page, and I'm up to 106 unique viewers on the website this month. That's the first time I've broken into tripple digits in one month, and it's only the 20th so far...
posted by OwenF at 7/21/2001 02:30:00 AM
Some of you have asked what the little letters up in the header of this page are. They're simply little links that allow me to use this page as my home page, so I can quickly get to places I'm going (Slashdot, Google, Hotmail, Etc.) without fiddling about in my Favorites or typing in URLs.
posted by OwenF at 7/21/2001 02:22:00 AM
Went to the Ontario Science Centre Today - Lots of fun, although two of my favourite exhibits from my child hood - the moon lander video game and atomic pinball - were not there any longer, so I dedicate today's posting to their memory. Had dinner at the Friendly Greek - ordered the "Feast for Two" which was large enough for three of us to stuff our faces with lamb, quail, beef and more, and still leave enough leftovers for two additional meals. It was brought to my attention that more people than I think are reading this site, which is a welcome surprise. Hello, all of you. I just want to make it clear that there are no hard feelings re: the past year and coming eighteen months of my life. Water under the bridge and all that, for what it's worth. Hope to get some more fiction posted here soon (I've got about 300 pages of it in typescript, it's just a matter of getting it into the computer.)
posted by OwenF at 7/21/2001 02:14:00 AM
Well, one thing I'd forgotten, being out of Toronto, was how great TV is. I just watched Banzai on CityTV, and was blown away. What a cool show. I recommend it to all readers here.
posted by OwenF at 7/18/2001 11:05:00 PM
And in a hundred grubby bars, a hundred struggling bands pump out a thousand gleaming watts of sub-par music, while half a million sad and single people cast covetous eyes around the dark and smoky rooms before returning home to empty, unwelcoming beds. It's Tuesday night in Toronto.
posted by OwenF at 7/18/2001 01:51:00 AM
Well, the family reunion went well, and now I'm back in Toronto, looking for work. Anyone with any leads on jobs, feel free to let me know.
posted by OwenF at 7/16/2001 04:07:00 PM 