The Journey

There wasn't any sunblock for the journey. Not that I worried much about sunblock anymore. When I was a child, we were always reminded to slather on that white, wet cream by parents, at school, at church if we ever went outside. Ever. I heard that at the worst of times, people drank their sunblock. Hard to believe. But then when your mouth is always dry, anything will quench your thirst.

You don't want to know what I've drunk on this trip. What I've eaten.

Did you ever see any of the Crocodile Dundee movies in the 1980s? People really loved those films. Seems a long time ago now. People loved Australia then. They loved the crocs, loved the koalas, the kangaroos. They wanted to come to our lonely beaches. To see the vastness of the oceans. Surf. The tourists stopped coming well into the drought, when bottled water seemed a ridiculous idea. Now even the animals are gone. It's too hot for most of them. No more eucalyptus leaves for the koalas; the leaves can't even take the heat. I guess the crocs might have gone out to sea since there's no more water on land. No rain, no water. They understood it pretty quickly. Took us a bit longer.

I used to live in Darwin, before the voyage. I'm pretty lucky I wasn't from Adelaide or Perth. Too far to travel. Not enough fuel. But Darwin is close enough to water. I'm not talking about the sea of course. All of Australia's cities are close to the sea. I'm talking about fresh water. The kind that falls from the sky and gives forests that smell. You know it, the smell of dampness. It's there waiting for me just across the ocean.

In survival guides that I read after university, I learned that you can go without food for weeks, but if you don't have fresh water you won't last more than a day or two. And in this heat, good luck. So I had to go.

When the power plant in Darwin stopped running, the air conditioners were already a distant memory. We were on rations and most of the power went to the desalinization plants and to pump that liquid salvation to all our homes. My parents had an orange tree which they managed to keep alive by giving it some of their water ration. Man cannot live on water alone, my father had joked.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to say that we in Darwin had it worse than in other parts of the country. In the centre of Australia, people just left or died. We were all on the coast by the end. And it still rained on occasion in Darwin. We're tropical. But when it rained it poured. We had no rain for weeks and then floods. But I'd rather have that than the slow burn of South Australia or New South Wales. At least then you can save water. When the power failed, God only knows what happened to those poor bastards.

I managed to save enough water for the journey. Filled up all my plastic bottles. Memories of better times. Squandered times. I set out by myself. I didn't have any brothers or sisters and my parents were dead along with their orange tree. They wouldn't have enjoyed the journey but I guess if they had wanted to survive they would have left with me. Maybe they wouldn't have been able to leave. Old habits die hard. But I had nothing to lose.

I could have stayed, I suppose, near Darwin. Played uncivilized. Gathered food, ate insects, learned to find water in the parched land. But that's not for me. I belong in a city with buzzing electrical wires and lights that shine day and night. Where you can get everything but have nothing. I can't live in a cave like bin Laden.

So to Indonesia. A generation ago it was a backyard Muslim country with nothing to offer us Australians but beaches and hashish. And we bullied them and got our way like spoiled children. We abused them and they were happy for our Australian dollars. It was an ideal relationship. Master and servant. White and brown.

Now it is my destination. Once they wanted to come here. For our human rights, for our economy, for our superiority. I bet the asylum seekers that made it and settled in Sydney and Melbourne regret it now. But white or brown, we all need water. Before the power went out, I heard about Indonesians being targeted in Sydney. Lots of blame to go around and few mirrors.

The journey was long and I'm not there yet. After trading water for a voyage by boat across the strait between Australia and Indonesia our boat was intercepted by the Indonesian Coast Guard. I didn't think they had one. Lots of extra soldiers on board. They must have been expecting us.

They were pretty harsh with all of us. Many of us were too weak from dehydration. We didn't put up much of a fight. They had fun with some of us. The exceptionally weak were pushed overboard. Lots of sharks to clean up the evidence. Not that the UN is going to order an investigation. They never did when we boarded Indonesian vessels enroute to Australia. Besides the UN has bigger problems. Some of us got off lucky with a few bruises or concussions. Some of the women were raped. No news there.

I lost a few teeth but managed to pick them up. Maybe if I make it to Indonesia, a dentist will put them back in. I heard that if you knock out a tooth you should keep your it on ice and see a dentist. The soldiers didn't understand my laughter and they just hit me harder.

But I'm still alive.

Human rights don't mean much anymore. They never really did unless you had the power. Australia used to have power. But we messed it up. Thought we were in charge of the climate. Thought we could save ourselves with an election and a few voluntary actions.

I think ever since the first prisoners were dumped on a beach that our fates were sealed. Australia was never meant for me or my family. I'm as white as a ghost. Does that sound like a good defense against the sun and heat? I guess my white skin reflects sunlight like polar ice. Until I turn pink. We were a people of sunblock. Without it, we were gone.

Now the soldiers are deciding what to do with the rest of us. All of a sudden one of them is pointing to something on the horizon and shouting. I don't dare look up over the rail. Maybe it's Bali. I've always wanted to see Bali. Mangoes, durian, rivers, waterfalls, beer. I can taste them all in my dry mouth, on my sandpaper tongue. A dream.

What are they looking at? What's coming? I wish I could stand up and see for myself.

Valhalla Towers

When I was younger, I left my name behind. Some cops beat it out of me. I was powerless and alone and they knew it. So they ripped it out of me like only cops can do.

Fucking pigs. They left me alone on a cell floor, gasping, flat on my face. I couldn’t even see their faces, just the gang, one after another taking their turn. That’s all they are, an official gang. Like the mafia.

Here’s a lesson the cops taught me that day: if you want to pound the fuck out of someone, use a phone book. The pain is the same but your lawyer won’t be able to make a case out of it; you’ll be lucky if your lawyer even believes you. Lawyers don’t get the phone book. They’re not even listed. Protection from guys like me I suppose.

Now my name’s Odin. The legendary all-father, though I doubt if I have any kids. I always took precautions. No attachments that’s the most important thing. No one to rely on and no one to rely on me. It’s the safest choice in an insane world. Only a fool gives the state something to hold over his head. Kids are like that, partners are like that, families are like that—weaknesses.

I’ve managed to remove anyone who might remember my old name from my life. My family was a disappointment though I know they think that I’m the real disappointment. Funny that, can we both be right?

But it’s sad in a way. My parents are probably dead by now. I never saw them at the end like estranged children do in movies. Never had our chance to say goodbye.

My brother is probably some successful retiree with a great pension and a white smile. This bastard who used to get me into trouble and beat the hell out of me is a probably a big shot now. He was always into stocks and shit like that, trying to pick the winners. I bet he’s spending his summers at the cottage in Muskoka and his winters down in Florida or the Cayman Islands. Or maybe he got fucked by the crash of 2008, maybe he blew his brains out when he realized they would take his yacht .

But Odin, an immortal name, is infinitely mortal. Though when I took the name, I thought I would live forever. Time passes. I’m an old man now. But when Odin was young, he rode the rails. Stole what he needed. Became a self-declared herald for anarchism. A living example of how one can live outside the fucked up system. No job, no pension, no home, no family, no email, no phone number, no bank account: all those things that make you a real person. I guess Odin was a fitting name.

I had some great loves. Women like me, travellers. All so beautiful. Freedom is beautiful. If you don’t know that yet, I feel sorry for you. But now they are all gone. Let go of the life I suppose, found homes, needed something more. I wish them only the best.

Last year, my life caught up with me. I smashed my left knee jumping off a moving train in Winnipeg. It was obliterated on a section of track. It was dark, I’d done it a million times, but just once is all it takes. They found me the next morning. It was too late to do anything.

Against my will, Winnipeg is now my home.

Social services paid me a visit in the hospital. They told me that I was now disabled. I was entitled to a monthly pension, housing and access to food banks. All those traps the state lays out for its deviants. All they needed was my social insurance number and a piece of photo identification to start the process.

I laughed in their warm, smiling faces. Do-gooder fucks!

In the end, they got their way but they never got those numbers out of me let alone my name. That’s my secret. Something they’ll never take. Cops or social workers, it’s all the same to me.

So here I am: standard apartment in an indistinct building, scooter with annoying horn (I spray painted an anarchist A on the back of my chair), bars on the wall to help me in the bathroom. They made me get a phone and I managed to get them to pay the bill. They want to check up on me: Prisoner 887 904 114 in room 1902. Prison guards are unnecessary in this jail. Disability ensures compliance.

But I’m saving up for a train trip, maybe back to Hamilton. Not like the old days but I miss the rails, I miss the speed. Miss the wind on my face on warm summer nights under the stars. Miss freedom, real freedom.

I never asked to live forever. I never asked for anything from anyone. I don’t need anything.

Least of all you reading my story. Now piss off and get back to your cell.

Council of All Beings

They began gathering at dusk. From the north, south, east and west. From under the rich dark soil and the deep blue waves and from above, amongst the clouds and mountains. They all came. Representatives of all the many living beings that call this planet home. The summons was urgent, so urgent that the Earth had called a Council of All Beings.

Their destination was a secret place, the most secret and precious place on earth. Though few now remembered it, this was the place that life began. At the edge of the sea, in a small pool under a grey sky, the first fragile life form was born. It was so small that an antelope or a sharp-eyed seagull would never notice. Yet in this place was born the First and the space was sacred, to be protected at all costs.

This was Eden as some humans call it. Trees of all shapes and sizes grew tall and shaded the sand at the edge of the sea. That first special pool was gone, naturally. Now soft white sand blanketed the shoreline. The sun and moon greeted this place every day and night. And when the moon was absent, as she often is, the stars stood guard. Can you imagine seeing the stars at the centre of the world?

There was enough room for the many representatives that would attend. There were high places in the trees for the many birds and bats of the world. Large rocks for amphibians and reptiles to warm themselves on. Soft sand for land mammals to sit comfortably. The sea was tranquil for the coral, plankton fish and sea mammals to hear the deliberation at the council. None were excluded and had their place. The Earth assured this.

So who was selected to represent their species you might be asking? The Earth was wise and called the worthy. That did not mean the strong. Nor did it mean the fast, nor the oldest. The Earth selected representatives with open minds, who could hear and act. These beings could speak for their peoples and carry messages back afterwards.

Everything changed after a Council of All Beings.

Throughout the night, the numbers swelled as more and more answered the call. Despite what you might think, it was a happy meeting. Families were reunited. Beings who shared a common heritage with others met for the first time. All life has a language and it was in this language that they greeted one another. Thus polar bears chatted with black bears and panda bears and connected after hundreds of thousands of years apart. I wonder what stories they told?

There was no prey in this place. The sharks were not tempted by plump seals nor the lion the fleet zebra. Amazing nuts fell from one of the trees and rolled onto the sand and into the surf to nourish all those beings in attendance. The climate also magically met the needs of all creatures from the arctic fox to the jungle leopard. This was paradise.

After many meetings, the called drifted into sleep under the half moon and stars. The council would start at dawn and all had to be well rested.

As the sun rose, the special beings all took their places quietly and greeted the dawn. There was utter silence, even the water and wind seemed to obey the call. All was one as it was in the beginning. Then the wind picked up in the trees and a clear voice rang out.

"Since the First, I have called on all life to make me beautiful. And you have responded so well my children. Chaos! Wildness! These are your birthrights. Embrace these and all life grows richer. All of you are but parts in a wonderful whole. Look around, see your comrades. Without them you would be nothing. Only a fool forgets himself.

"I have called you all, my special children, to this most special place for an urgent gathering. Too long have I watched the unbalancing of my creation. I protect this hallowed place but many places in this world are fading. Things that should never have been are being forged, despoiling the world. The spark of life is fading.

"All your legends warn against uniformity, against taking too much and not giving back to the whole. Against time marching to a glorious end. The humans have a saying: 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.' The legends of the tuna also share this sentiment as do those of the ants. Yet you continue to allow harm to befall all those on whom you rely. Something is terribly wrong and this Council of All Beings must act to defend life before it is too late."

There was silence as the wind faded and the leaves slowly went still. At that point, a wise and all-seeing owl shook his wings in a tall tree. "Dear mother, each being I see represented here today. Yet I see that you have invited two members of one specific family; there are two humans here today. While I accept my degree of responsibility for carrying us to this dismal time, these humans bear the most responsibility for cutting down the trees in which me and my children and my grandchildren live."

"Yes," squeaked a dolphin. "My people too have seen our homes fill with unnatural waste and poisonous chemicals because of these humans. We are very angry with them."

For several hours, the beings in attendance all laid out their grievances against the one of their circle that was responsible for the unbalancing of the world. It was a damning verdict against humanity. Almost every being in attendance reported how humans had wronged them by wronging their life systems.

The wind rolled through the trees in judgment. "I can remove these humans from creation my children. They are powerful yet they are not that powerful if I choose to act and I am very close. I fear though that the world would be a sadder place without them. As the wise owl has seen there are two humans here today. I wanted to remind you, oh my children, that you once ran wild with humans when today's world was young and truly alive. Bison, do you not remember the chase on great plains? Kangaroo, were humans not a worthy foe?

"I hope they can be redeemed. Let us hear from them."

A man stood up at that moment. He wore dark, shiny clothes and black sunglasses. To the other animals he was terribly strange. He gazed into the mass of creatures before him.

"Friends, while I have heard all that you have said I utterly reject your judgment. We have brought culture and civilization to this wild world. Are you not in awe of our mighty buildings that tower above you like mountains? Can you imagine what we will do next? We have left this world to sail amongst the stars. And we have brought many of you along with us. The cow, the chicken, the pig, the dog; where are these beings? Why are they not here? They would explain how humanity has made the world safer for them.

"You have warned that we are despoiling the world and have outlined how we have wronged many of you. I accept that we have made bad choices but we are moving in the right direction. Always forward to greatness. This is my people's destiny. You should all come along with us. It will be glorious. We are building a new world. You will all have a place in our economy. Don't think of the past, think to the future. Who will join me?"

The man started to walk away from the sacred place at the edge of the sea. He reached the edge of the trees and turned to face the sea of wild faces. Nothing but sadness was reflected there. A brother had been lost and the family was grieved. Unable to accept the sadness, he looked away and passed into the forest.

"This man does not speak for us all." The second human had not followed. She stood there meeting the gaze of all the saddened beings. In her eyes was some comfort.

"Though there are few of us anymore many humans, on discovering this place, would never leave it willingly. I hope you will not judge all my people on this poor example. This man should have been able to hear. Yet his ears are filled with metal and darkness. Too many of my people share this affliction. It is not really their fault. They have never known wildness and are afraid of truth. We are guilty of violence against creation, there is no denying it. I ask for mercy and thank you for allowing me to speak."

The Council of All Beings quickly consented to a punishment for humanity. Earth would carry it out quickly for her but dreadfully slowly for such a young species. The other beings would suffer alongside the humans, there was no avoiding it given that they were all one community.

In time, after the madness had passed, the world would begin to renew itself. Not even the mad humans could damage the system beyond repair. Or at least so they hoped.

The gathering was over. All wept to see each other leave this wondrous place. Time stopped in paradise and though few recognized it, many days had passed. Each being whether bee, snake, eagle, human, trout and gorilla then traveled home. Each would find their homes a little smaller and a little more fragile.

Yet they took heart that their judgment would come to pass. Soon the world would be right again though many of them would fall before that happy day.

His Lonely Wooden Tower

It was tall. It stretched away to the sky in defiance of gravity and wind. Concrete, steel, glass. It was always there, our home amongst the clouds. It was invincible. It was all we knew.

I spent my whole life there. My parents brought me back from the concrete hospital into the cold, protective arms of that place. When I was younger, I rode the elevator in play with the other children or we swam in the underground pool, full of cleansing chlorine. We barely felt the sun, the balconies were off-limits and the outside was dangerous. It was full of predators for the young and foolish. Only occasionally did my parents permit it and with a strict chaperon. The whole of my world existed in that lonely tower. Friends, lessons, sports, music all took place on different floors. Yet the structure was always the same, reliable, impenetrable.

Food was magical and mysterious. It came from somewhere. We never really knew where, it was always just there. I gobbled it up quickly, eager to get back to a screen or a friend. I barely recognized the taste. Maybe there wasn't one. It was just energy to keep me going, keep me growing so I could take my place in this great tower we'd build. Food wasn't important to my parents, or so it seemed. The truth was they couldn't cook not that it mattered there. You could buy anything as long as you could afford it.

Real things didn't matter anymore. In that way it was more than a child's fantasy world. Goods, materials, resources we called them, just came in and our waste went out. It didn't matter where from, just that they were there. They were always there.

I grew up there. Learned that world and had in pounded into the inside of my skull. If you could somehow turn me inside out you would see the complex lines of code I wrote, the empty essays I produced, the disappointing pictures I drew. All there, drilled into the hard yet supple skull, like a concussion.

Then one day, we were forced to leave the place we had built.

It happened so fast, or at least it seemed to happen so fast. I was in my home, watching a screen, learning masked as entertainment. It was a show about birds. Birds sometime flew into tall buildings like my home. Scientists were working on a way to install a chip in each bird so that it could be warned that a building was coming up. It was sensational work. I often dreamed of helping animals in this way, animals that were outside the tower, not locked in cages within. Imagine how many birds I could save? What a career that would be.

Then all of a sudden, instantly, an alarm sounded within the walls. It was deafening so I put my hands to my ears in pain. Over the alarm I could hear the booming mechanical voice. "Warning, fire. Please calmly proceed to the safe room in your unit. Help is on the way".

My mother was home with me. She was in another room. She whisked into action on command. She swooped down and pushed me to the special room off her bedroom. The place that we would be safe, that no fire would reach.

There were supplies there. Enough for a few days. We sat and waited for orders. We didn't speak much. She handed me a granola bar and a bottle of water. We waited.

There was a small speaker in the room. Occasionally in crackled and my mother perked up, ready for her parental orders. Yet, no words came. We slept on the hard floor. We had neglected blankets in our rush. We assumed it would be a short stay before receiving the standard communique that all was well and back to normal. A mere blip. They often happened this way. Even this place had the occasional hiccup.

Several days past. I was eager to wander outside and sore from the floor; she didn't complain. Surely the fire had burned itself out, I pleaded with her. It's dangerous, was her standard reply. We have to wait.

The food and water were depleting. We didn't talk much. A terrible realization was dawning on both of us. Though my mother most of all. She had known only this world. This protection from fear, from doubt. Now doubts were creeping in.

One morning I woke up but she didn't. I don't know what happened to her. Maybe she realized that we would have to push open the solid, steel door and she was scared what was on the other side. I wept beside her holding her hand, a hand that had moulded me as much as this dark, tall place I called home. Parents are gods but even they have masters.

I stayed with her for most of that day. She became cool to the touch. But my eyes were always fixed on the door, the unknown. I knew I was alone. My father had likely joined her; she was always stronger. I pretended that they would be together.

I stood up. Walked to the door and put my hand on it. It was as cold as my mother's fading skin. A fire might rage outside, or nothing. Either way, no one was coming to help me, authority had failed. I was the only one who could save myself. It required courage. I stood there for quite some time, fearful. But really I only had one choice. I turned the handle and pushed with all my growing strength. This was my time and my challenge.

What I saw on the other side of that door was both wondrous and terrifying. And for once, I was alive.

Blessed

She danced there. It was fall and the cold days were ahead. The trees and their changing leaves bent and creaked in defiance of a strong wind. Her soft feet pounded down the hard earth around the giant fire. The whole forest seemed to drink in this energy and we were all refreshed, all the creatures of the woods.

With my back to a strong youthful tree, I took in the scene. Some others had joined her in the dance, circling the fire, laughing together, holding hands. I was never much for dancing. Never felt good enough. Never understood that your body speaks to you. Never listened deeply as I did tonight.

But I've been wounded by the old world so much that I still can't dance. At least I'm here. So many are not.

As she passed, she winked at me. When she blessed me so I always felt like we were the only two people in the world. My sight focused only on that subtle move and the half-smile which in an instant was gone. Like a recipe:

1 cup seductive
1 tbsp playful
a pinch of joy
combine wet and dry ingredients

I had loved her now for years, through many changes and challenges. When the click of computer keys counted down the days, I often exclaimed how fast life happened. Now I know that this phenomenon was just a lie; time sped up for humans because our souls longed for reality, to be released from a twisted prison. Time moves slowly in the real world, moments like these last and are recalled vividly.

Much like her infective smile, her tattoo, magically coloured, shone in the darkness below the branches. All the colours, the time, the creativity. It was the best of the dead world now abandoned like a plastic bag in the wind. We still all wondered at it. Painted on her shoulder, I once noticed person after person crane to catch a glimpse of it. Often they went away the mystery unsatisfied while for me it was like a lover's hidden gift, a painting only for me to know truly.

Humans could no longer produce such things of beauty and much like our Mona Lisas or just base creations like our expressways and tall buildings, one day it would fade and wither and become something new. Nothing was designed to last, least of all our soft flesh or our pathetic attempts at immortality; beautiful things would come and go. And in this moment, in this place, that was right.

She also liked to sing for all of us and we loved her all the more for it. Later that night as the embers took over, she struck up one of our favourites:

Karma police, arrest this man
He talks in maths
He buzzes like a fridge
He's like a detuned radio

Karma police, arrest this girl
Her Hitler hairdo is
Making me feel ill
And we have crashed her party

This is what you get
This is what you get
This is what you get when you mess with us

Karma Police
I've given all I can
It's not enough
I've given all I can
But we're still on the payroll

This is what you get
This is what you get
This is what you get when you mess with us

And for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself

For for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself


Will our children still sing this song? What will they make of it? Hitler, fridge, radio, hairdo, maths, all gone. Karma they might understand but police?

If we build the new world on moments like these we might have a chance for them never to know that unfortunate word.

Hello

My name is Predator. Don't let my name fool you. I save lives. I'm expendable, stealthy, relentless, and I roar like ten thousand golden lions. I go where humans can't to do jobs that humans might have second thoughts about or might cause problems like PTSD. Humans must be protected at all times, even from themselves in their weaker moments; this is my primary function. They can guide me from the other side of the world but they must always be safe.

Certain humans that is.

I don't kill people. I deliver payloads and eliminate terrorists and other various enemy combatants; hell, they're better off with their virgins than behind bars enjoying halal meals at your expense. I'm not violent so don't even fucking try to pin that on me. I do a job. That's it. Much like my creators, I'm not burdened by your morality. Does God write the rules or do you?

My family is growing all the time. I have many many twin brothers and they are being adopted in states around the world. If you have a problem, we are the solution. No one wants a real war anymore, you see. They want video games and collateral damage without the red stains on walls or screaming children. Me and my family can give them that. And best of all we're good for the economy. Always need more of us which means jobs in the secure Homeland. Jobs make humans happy, or so I'm told. They can buy stuff. I can't but they always give me fancy, new missiles so it's like buying things for free.

I'm always looking up to my cousin Reaper, though I would never tell him so. He's so much bigger than me. He flies higher than me. His payload is bigger than mine. He has a cool name. I can never be like him as hard as I try. I can never be more than myself. Sometimes it makes me sad but then I complete a mission and my operators and handlers love me.

Mission accomplished. It's always true or so humans tell me. Good guys: 1, bad guys: 0. Never more than zero. We always win.

When I die, I will be born again. In the shells of my unborn twins and the legend of my brothers and cousins. The machine keeps on going. That's what it does. No one knows the end because there is no end. Everlasting life, infinite justice.

I see you looking at me that way. Judging. Try and stop me you moral pricks. You'll wake up in a crater.

Concrete and Broken Glass

I scrambled up the hill. They weren't far behind me, I could hear them shouting to one another. The voices were hungry.

I had to hang on. This was my country too. Or so I used to believe.

So I kept going. Up and up and up. We were all tired, hunters and prey; nights slept in the cold of autumn under the stars. No direction or goals, not that we ever did have them. And without the usual bounty of civilization, we were malnourished. Enough to get by, but just. So this rush up the escarpment couldn't last for one of us. Who would run out of energy first?

They had caught me scavenging in the lower city. I didn't like to come to the city much but for centuries, cities were where elaborate, globalized food systems ended. You could still find a few things there. If you were lucky. And that day I was.

I pulled myself up a large outcropping of rock, helped by drooping branches. It was an amazing effort and I felt it in my muscles. I shook it off; there were more of them--keep moving. And if they caught me they would tear me apart, not for what I carried but for who I was. Foreign. Unwelcome anymore. The reason that it all fell apart. It has always been so easy to blame someone who looks different from you. It rarely matters how he speaks or how he acts. Just different, physical, base.

Little did they know what I had found down in the city. Even if they did know, they wouldn't care. They would just toss them aside and lose them forever in the cold winter to come. But for me, they were a kind of birthright. Reminding me of burning pickles and my father's food. The essence of who I was, in a way.

Well if the mob close on my heels was going to reject me, then I needed something to hold on to. With that I surged ahead. I could tell they were tiring by the way the voices fell back. While I was climbing, scrambling for my life, they were only in this for a little sport. It wasn't a religious duty to destroy all minorities, yet.

I had found the seeds in an unlikely place: a parking kiosk. They were in a little plastic bag on the floor. The plastic had become a bit soggy but thankfully it had protected the small package inside from the ravages of dampness. The bag was full of seed pouches, like the kind that people used to pay for. The parking attendant must have bought them to take home and grow in his or her garden; or perhaps it was a balcony. But when the lights went out forever, he or she must have left them behind in a mixture of bewilderment and terror, as he or she commuted for the last time.

Imagine paying for the ability to grow your own food. What a strange concept? But that was the way things were done. You just accepted that you had no right to control how you were fed and handed away your power to organizations that really only wanted two things: obedience and your money.

I remembered reading something about not being able to eat money as I reached the top. I hunched behind a bush and watched them down the hill. They had gathered and were yelling at one another. I assumed the fittest demanded they keep going but were scared to continue the pursuit with depleted numbers. If they saw me now they might continue on. So I ducked my head and listened. The voices started to move down the hill, back to their hunting grounds amidst the concrete and broken glass.

Fuck them. I wasn't going back anyway; they'd never catch me. I handled the pouches and thought of the open lands to the south. I had to find a place to last the winter before the promise of spring. I knew nothing about farming beyond keeping the harvest well watered and weeded. Perhaps that was enough and besides no one was around to judge you.

I put them all down and picked up the prize: hot chillies in a rainbow of colours. A little taste of the world that I had known. I would watch over you above all the other crops. Keep you safe and save your spicy seeds to plant again and again.

I just wish I wasn't alone.

More Cracks

My parents are old-fashioned. They don't want to know about it.

They just close their eyes and imagine their son as they would like to remember him. A little boy playing soccer, running up and down the field chasing after the ball while they watched and cheered.

Now the impenetrable walls of innocence and ignorance are starting to crumble. If you look closely enough you can see the cracks and the shoddy foundation; a rushed and mindless construction. But you have to look very closely and we don't usually take the time to see.

So they don't ever meet him. My lover, my companion, my life. Like a rain forest or an iceberg, he can only be imagined and then quickly forgotten in the bright, soothing glow of the television set. Or the sweetness of a Pepsi.

In denying him, they don't know me, the true me. Do they even want to know their son as he is?

I feel the pain of not being recognized. The pain of constantly being mistaken for a uniformed little boy who wasn't very good at soccer anyway. I'm a man. I can feel sadness wash over me in their silence like the running of salmon against the tide. If they ignore my love, they certainly don't want to see my tears. So, despite myself, I lock the pain and the love away and play my part, the good son.

How can I wake them up? Shake them and rip them out of their comfortable illusion? Make them see the obvious pain caused by their chosen silence?

All I can see is myself in a ball of flame set against concrete. The concrete has cracks too. Everything has cracks.

At least I'm not alone.

Routine Machine

I’ve lost track of time. There are two ways you can lose track of time: one you are too busy to notice the passing of time; and the other you have absolutely nothing to do so time becomes meaningless. Either way you’re fucked.

My government put me in here years ago. At least I think it was years ago. I remember some things happening to me but not much else. It’s all kind of grey and bland like a late night television screen. Snow, that’s what they called it.

I remember memorizing the daily cycle of the ventilation system as it clicked on and off. I remember sensing when my food was going to arrive, through the slot in the door. I remember starting to sleep in each of the different beds on a four day schedule. This routine was important. When you’re confined or just living, routine helps ground you. I wonder if humans need routines. Maybe we need to have things neat and tidy and clear so that we don’t have to stress about basics like finding food or shelter. Maybe routine is an essential aspect of civilization.

I always appreciated my life outside of these concrete walls for its routine. Wake up; drink coffee; take the bus to work; punch in and sit at my station for three and a half hours; eat lunch from vending machine; work another three and a half hours; take bus home; order pizza; drink a beer; watch television; fall asleep in lazy boy; repeat. I guess now I’ve got a new routine. I can’t really complain about the routine. When you get used to it, time passes easier.

How long had it been since they walled me up in here? Who were they anyway? Who gave them this power? I hate my government. What gives them the right to lock me up and throw away the key? I didn’t commit a crime. All I did was get sick.

I was twenty-six when I came back from Russia and took a job at a chemical plant. It paid well and I was saving to bring my wife and son over from Russia. I was working there for a while when I started to notice a cough that wouldn’t go away. Then I started losing weight. Ultimately I found myself in hospital after having lost fifty pounds in a month. I collapsed at McDonald’s and I didn’t even get to eat my Big Mac. The doctors quickly realized that I had a rare and potentially deadly strain of tuberculosis. I thought only Africans got these kinds of diseases. Apparently Russians and Americans do too.

I don’t know what I did wrong. They gave me some pills and orders to return to the hospital every few weeks. I obeyed naturally. One day someone caught me out without a mask. I had acquired a taste for vodka in Russia. I needed orange juice for my screwdriver and I forgot my mask when I drove to the corner store. Secretly I hated wearing those masks and having all the people I encountered stare at me. Who wants to stand out? Still forgetting my mask was an innocent mistake.

With a few drinks in my system, I shouldn’t have been driving but it was only a short drive. Who would waste time walking? My drink was more important. One of the doctors saw me there I think. What doctor shops at Mac’s?

So when I next visited the hospital they snatched me and told me I was a danger to public health. How? I was just like everyone else. I just wanted a drink, to drive, to be free. I care about other people; I wouldn’t hurt anyone. So they had a court order to restrict me to a small room in the hospital. A place for criminals designed for high security detention. Four walls, four beds, three square meals and buckets of multicoloured pills all for me!

I knew you could go to jail for being a terrorist or reading the wrong books and websites; that makes sense. But I didn’t think you could go to jail for just catching something. So I’ve been here for years and I still cough all the time. Never a moment’s rest.

I’m scratching this story, my story, on the walls of my cell using my finger nails which are very long now. It helps keep them short; they took away my television, my computer and my nail clipper. I wonder if anyone will read this someday and wonder about me and what I’ve been through.

So the routine continues. The ventilation system keeps clicking, the food appears three times a day like clockwork. I wonder if there are people out there preparing my meals or if a giant machine is keeping me going, passing me pills and food. Its only mission is to keep humans alive even if they are completely and utterly miserable. The routine machine I sometimes call it.

I think they would have been happier if I had died. Less cost, less bother to lock me up and keep me going. I wish I was dead sometimes. Obviously my tuberculosis has different ideas.

Resurrection

“It scarcely needs painstaking refutation today, for not only contemporary evidence for a female pope at any of the dates suggested for her reign, but the known facts of the respective periods make it impossible to fit one. The origin of the story, however, has never been satisfactorily explained.” – Oxford Dictionary of Popes


I loved her but all I could do was watch as they killed her mercilessly.

I’m a coward of course. I should have joined her on her painful passing to the Almighty; should have declared my undying love to those in attendance; should have been dragged after the horse, been flogged alongside her, and then, in true Biblical fashion, stoned to death. They destroyed her body so fully and with such meticulousness it was almost unbelievable; it was true religious justice for one so far out of her place.

If only they had done as good a job with her name.

She had asked me to promise her that if she was ever found out to claim no knowledge of her deceit. As her faithful companion, suspicion would surely fall on me at such a time. When all was abruptly revealed, she caught my gaze with such a firmness that I was frozen in place like a tree. Unable to flee, unable to speak, tied to the ground. The strong wind hardly moved me.

In that silent gaze she spoke volumes. She conveyed her love for me; her appreciation of our long partnership; her pride in me; her fearlessness for what would come next; her faith in God who had made her such a strong person. Most importantly she also pleaded with me to watch after our child.

I first had met Joan in Athens. She had traveled there from Limoges as a promising young acolyte. She was twenty and no one had any idea she was a woman. Her body was less curvaceous and less soft than that of the women I knew in Athens so her disguise was easily accomplished. Though now I wonder how I could have been so easily fooled by such a stunningly beautiful woman.

Where she was promising, I was sent to the seminary as the black sheep of my family. My father was a wealthy trader in Athens. His ships traveled to Asia Minor, Palestine and Egypt bringing rare goods to the city and on into Europe. My expertise was in wasting my father’s wealth on wine, women and high living. I knew nothing much about the Bible and had been chastised for poor church attendance on many occasions. So, vindictively, my father condemned me to the one vocation in the entire world that I would hate: the sober and contemplative life of a priest.

At the cursed seminary, Joan and I met and became fast friends; though to me she was known as John the Frenchman. I had no idea myself, so convincing was her façade. She never risked revealing her true identity to anyone; she avoided running with the other young men by remaining deep in study at all times. This was rewarded of course by her superiors; a true devotee to the Lord unlike the rest of us.

I don’t know why but a year into our training she told me the truth. Perhaps she understood that since I hated the church and my father I wouldn’t turn her in. Maybe she had begun to fall in love with such a wretched soul. I think it was a little of both. A secret can eat you up if not shared. And hers was the greatest, destined to become even greater.

So I became her companion and support and she lent me some of her resolve. I thrived under her wing and it wasn’t long before we were both off to Rome to continue our indoctrination. We both dreamed of changing the church and to do so we needed to reach as high as we could.

One day, Joan admitted to me that she wanted to be pope. I laughed loudly. It seemed preposterous but with her you had to believe she could do it. And, despite the laughter, I did.

We were together for fifteen years before she was elected bishop, then cardinal and then another five before she was named Pope John the Eleventh. All along I was her trusted assistant, helping her to navigate the corridors of power in Rome. She took pains to make me think that I been instrumental in her rise to the Papacy, that without me she would be merely another maid. She would have been listening to sermons in a dusty village church not delivering them to kings in their gilded halls.

In the end it was my desires that ruined her. I pleaded with her to make love to me. Our love had never carried us that far but I wanted that experience with her above all else; I had never made love to someone I actually loved. We knew this was dangerous, mortally so given her position, but in the end it was unavoidable. It was amazing that she could be both pope and a caring lover. Could a male pope have done as much?

Before that day I lamented that our relationship was never complete without the physical expression of our love. Now it will never be complete unless it comes in the next life. I will never see the summer sun on her wrinkled face or know the deep attachment of decades in one person’s company. On my darkest days, I wonder if it was worth it.

She had told me about the child many months earlier but swore to me that she could hide the signs and maintain her busy schedule. God had other ideas it seems. Why did He betray her, His chosen and sole representative on earth?

In terms of pure talent and conviction, no other priest or bishop even came close. They all hated her of course and could have destroyed her in an instant had they known the truth: that she was more like the towering figure of Mary Magdalene and less like St. Peter. Her ability to safely navigate this hateful men’s world was her greatest gift. Only five years into her term and so many Christians already called her history’s greatest pope.

The child was born instantly and easily as she mounted her beloved white horse, Shadow. It tumbled out from between her legs, the blood staining the horse’s side red. Amazingly the child fell softly to the ground as if carried by hidden angels. It started to cry as soon as it came to earth.

Joan fell back off the horse next to the child, so shocked was she by the amazing moment. The two of us were the only ones who viewed the birth that way. Joan reached out and touched the child’s face before it was snatched away by members of the procession; I kept the child in sight. They treated it well enough, cleaning off the blood and wrapping it in warm robes; it was amazing that childless men could be so delicate and caring in an act they had probably never experienced. Perhaps they longed for children of their own.

The bishops in attendance were not impressed. They quickly conclaved to react to this threat to their authority. A female pope? What would the people think of them? Of their divine power? That they could have been fooled so easily did not sit well with God’s representatives on earth. She would have to be punished severely and this story concealed. The church must retain its credibility with the masses above all else.

So they tortured her as I watched. They had faithful Shadow drag her about the road. They whipped her for an eternity. They would likely have crucified her much like their Roman predecessors had she not evacuated her body after so much suffering. She was dead before they stoned her, they who were without sin.

She had gone where they had no power. Where another force kept watch, made rules and exercised power over creation. She would be happier there she had always told me.

A local family was given the child to raise. I stayed close, the church having relieved me of my duties due to my closeness to the imposter. They never imagined the child could be mine and assumed I was as fooled as the rest. The child was a beautiful girl. Had it been a boy, they might have absorbed him into their secret society. But the church was no place for a girl.

Now when she is old enough, I will tell my daughter about her mother. The immaculate name of Pope Joan will live on, I swear.

Civ 5

It all went so smoothly at first. A little freon in the lock and a light tap it was broken and we were in the apartment. The alarm was unsophisticated. We barely noticed. In the dark, we scanned the walls for our prize. How could you miss those two small canvases, so unique, so special?

Instantly we had them in our bags, safely wrapped in protective plastic, and we were out the door and flying down the steps; the elevators had cameras. With a quick call from a cell phone, a distraction was arranged for the concierge and we slipped out into the Paris night. The Eiffel Tower was alight as usual, fed by coal or nuclear reactors miles away. We used to barely contemplate where our power came from. Like the alarm, we barely noticed.

Don't listen when they tell you that crime doesn't pay. It does. Ask the CIA drug runners propping up the American economy. Ask the traffickers that bring African women to Europe to work in violent brothels. Ask the CEOs who subtly alter a few lines in a ledger and reap a million dollar windfall. Crime pays.

And with the Picassos under my arm, I thought I had joined this exclusive club. Months of planning had netted me $66 million in stolen art. I was rich; well I was already rich but now I was richer. I could do anything now; nothing could stop me from achieving my wildest dreams.

I just had to sit on the art for a while before moving them out of the country. God bless the EU and its porous borders. In the east, I would find a buyer capable of smuggling the art out of the community and on to a private collector in the Middle East. It had all been arranged.

Once home, having paid off my accomplices and sworn them to secrecy, I put down the art in my office and took a quick shower. Even if they were caught, they didn't know me from Adam; I liked it that way. You might have expected me to gaze at the precious art now in my possession. The truth is that I don't care much for Picasso or, for that matter, art. Maybe that's what makes me a good thief. Ultimately I know what my buyers want and provide it impartially. If you can pay that's all that matters to me. I'm a businessman not a critic.

I turned on my television to relax with a coffee as the sun came up. On every station flashed the news: China's booming economy has crashed. And the rest of the world is being pulled down with it. Markets in Sydney, Tokyo, Seoul and beyond were falling like dominoes as the sun came up in the east.

What was happening? Our holy economy pierced like Christ on the cross. Before there had always been a resurrection, a recovery. This time something was different and you could tell in the creaky voices of the "experts".

Economists were accused of ignoring nature in the pursuit of endless profit. Didn't they know that humans are just another animal and wholly dependent on the world. What arrogance! Ignoring climate change was only one manifestation of this destructive attitude.

Politicians were accused of failing to act on the oil peak. The world had been through other oil peaks in the past but this was the final global peak. There were no new fields to save us, no foreign dictators to throw open the oil valves.

The military was criticized for being a bottomless pit for our civilization's wealth. The half a trillion dollars spent on military pursuits annually by one nation alone was reprehensible. Outrageous! Why spend our precious wealth on nuclear weapons which only offer the promise of total annihilation? Surely there were more productive options available.

Hours passed for me in front of that television. All the pundits had taken too long to speak out. Had we acted earlier, we might have stood a chance. If only we had disbanded our militaries and moved away from polluting industries and power toward renewable sources. Most importantly If only we had learned to live simply and happily together in communities. Ipods, microwaved meals and Picasso prints, do not a good life make.

Instead we drove into everyone, every single human being, the right to take, take, take. This was our earth. Our resources. Our trees. Our air. Our climate. Our oil. We could never go back from this. It was a psychopathic attitude with only one possible conclusion: crash and collapse.

So now weeks later, I still sit in my apartment. It's winter. I'm cold. I've burned all my books to keep warm. I have food but I'm not sure for how much longer. Spring is my only salvation. The earth giving back after the dead times.

So what else could I do? I threw the stolen Picassos on the fire; $66 million up in smoke for a moment of warmth. I had tried to trade them for wood. No one was buying. The concept of value had changed almost overnight.

But I still say that crime pays. I must believe that. You know what I mean.

Continentalization

It was a sunny January morning. Most of the hundred or so in attendance were lightly dressed for the day's festivities. Downtown Calgary was positively balmy down by the river. Days like these were more common now though you could still get the occasional blizzard on the prairies. The wind barely bit this morning.

Despite the pleasant environment, the celebration wasn't much of a draw, explaining the low numbers. And this was Alberta!

In Quebec, under American occupation, there would be no celebrations, no fireworks explosions unless they came from secretive partisans, the heirs of the FLQ. If Quebeckers had tolerated Canada in the years before Continentalization, they positively hated any talk of union with the United States. Their rebellion was expected and had they been Cape Breton they might have been tolerated and given a measure of self-rule. But all that precious hydro power couldn't be sacrificed to a bunch of liberal, godless francophones. Poutine might as well be the new freedom fries.

The crowd began buzzing. It was hard to hide the smiley plants in the crowd and the stocky undercover RCMP officers. Had it always been this way; was enthusiasm ever true? Governor Steve Harper was approaching the stage. His soft features and pudgy belly unmistakable to the people formerly known as Canadians: the man who did the unthinkable; the man who shattered Confederation and single-handedly rebuilt it as Continentalization.

He shook a few hands as he passed through the crowd, his goal ever in sight. There was no introduction. He needed none.

"A year ago, our new special relationship was born. Has it been a year already?" Standard applause. "And not on any day mind you on Martin Luther King Jr. Day 2008. What better birthday for our new beginning? One people at last, as it was meant to be."

He waited for the applause and cheers to subside. He frowned subtly. T they were trying to hard; it wasn't genuine. The American networks needed a perfect show. No doubts, no questions.

He continued, "Dr. King was a man of vision, a man of peace and a man of justice. His leadership tore down artificial walls and physical barriers. He led, while people both black and white debated his new creation. On both sides, some rejected it. In time they learned the error of their ways and accepted this new world. Our new union will have the same growing pains but we're headed for the promised land." More cheers.

"Canadians told me, in my previous role, that they didn't want passports to cross the border. To be treated like foreigners, like Arabs. This was a hassle they couldn't bear. The straw that broke the camel's back. Well our government heard you loud and clear. The choice was simple and it was the right choice. What Brian Mulroney started, we finished."

Like usual, Harper kept it short. Efficiency was something he learned long ago from his friends at the Fraser Institute.

But for his big finish he drew on four words that no Canadian Prime Minister in recent memory would ever have dared utter. He liked it though and it fit perfectly his new role as governor of one of the most important of the 60 North American states. This would be its first appearance and if Steve had his way it wouldn't be its last.

"May God bless--."

The cream pie struck its target. Worse than any bullet. The speech was over.

Green Zone

The first thing they built was the walls. It took them no time at all; they were fast when they wanted to be. Like everyone else in Baghdad they put broken glass on the tops of their walls. It sparkled a bit in the sunlight and we liked to watch the light divide when we shifted our gazes. But unlike Iraqis, they added barbed wire; for us glass is cheaper and easily cracked.

I watched the construction from far away. Even kids like me couldn't get close. If we tried we might be shot at. It happened to my friend Ali who I challenged to try and ask one of the guards for candies; he always did what I said, he was younger than me. The guards wouldn't even let him close to the gate. Watching from around a building, I saw him approach the guards and them lifting their guns to fire into the air. He ran away. Children can't be martyrs. Didn't these guards know that?

From the roof of my uncle's house, you could see all the tall cranes protected by the walls and their broken glass and sharp wire. It was very dusty. They were moving lots of earth, burrowing deeply. My older brother said that that meant they were building tunnels to connect the new building to Israel. When it was finished, Jews could then come in through the tunnel to reinforce the Americans. Only they would dress like American soldiers so we couldn't tell. I'd never ask them for candy if I knew they were Jews.

My father thought that story was crazy. For him the construction was like the dictator was still in power. His palaces would spring up almost overnight. I wondered what the building would look like when the Americans were finished. Would it be like a palace? Or maybe would it be all underground. This was a foreign place, we all felt it. Tall white people with black sunglasses would walk around inside one day, protected. Under the dictator these men and women had been free to move around Baghdad. Now they needed thick walls like we need thick skins.

There wasn't much to do, that's why I watched the construction. Some men had come to my school a few months ago and beaten up the principal for teaching girls with boys. I liked having girls in my class. They didn't. The principal didn't come back. I heard he went to Syria. Now the school is closed because the other teachers, especially the ladies, are worried that they might come back and do something worse. So I have no more classes and just watch the cranes move around the sky slowly like giant birds digging in the dust for worms.

I had asked my uncle, Ali's father and therefore not my real uncle but uncle nonetheless what they were building. He would know, he had been an engineer who had built bridges before.

"Ah, the Americans are building something called an embassy. Do you know what that is?" I shook my head. "Embassies are where governments meet and talk. Countries become friends there, trade things."

"If they want to talk to us and get to know us why are they putting broken glass on the walls and shooting at kids when they go too close." We had been there that day. I neglected to mention that I had pushed Ali to approach the guards. Despite his kind explanation, my uncle would have been furious and might have beaten us.

Just then Ali's brother's wife rushed in with some of her family. I quickly got out of the way and stood against the wall with Ali. This was not a moment for children like us. She was crying and my uncle held her hand. I overheard her explain that her husband hadn't come home as usual this evening. He was looking for work and was never late. He was the oldest, responsible, reliable. Ali was the youngest and was crying at the news. His mother held him tightly. I knew that there was little hope. None of my family had been taken before. But Ali's was like family.

I quietly snuck out being superfluous. The sun was setting and there was a brilliant, bloody, red sunset. The long necked birds still swung their heads about and stirred up dust. They would work all night and day. I needed sleep, they didn't.

The wall looked forbidding, I guess it was designed that way. I wished that Ali's brother had had so strong a wall to save him. I wished my family had one. I wished the wall had been there to protect my school. I broke into a run, suddenly feeling very much alone and scared. My house felt miles away and the route uncertain.

Culture of Entitlement

"What a prick! He basically robbed all of us. Who racks up $45,000 worth of credit card bills?"

She wasn't paying attention to me so I raised my voice a little.

"Don't you care, Jess? These CEOs all think that they can do what they want. That they're not responsible to anyone. This culture of entitlement has to stop."

She picked up her styrofoam coffee cup and took a sip. She always tried to slow things down when I was hot under the collar. Women do that.

"Frank, why do you care? We're fine. The new Hummer arrives tomorrow. It'll be great to have a matching set. His and hers". She smiled happily. "The politicians will deal with this bastard. No use losing sleep over small change."

Really they're only pretending to calm things down. Women really like to push our buttons. I'm easily riled.

"It's taxpayers money! My money! This isn't the first time either. This is everywhere. The Liberals and their bullshit sponsorship programs in Quebec. Remember those children's aid execs driving around in SUVs and charging their gas bills to the government. I pay those bills." I was pacing up and down in the den. Thankfully we had a lot of room.

She yawned and tossed the empty coffee cup into the garbage bin beside the leather couch. More instigation. Didn't she care? She does but she can't agree with me. That would be too easy.

She stood up. "I need you to drive me to the corner store. I feel like a Coke," she announced.

"What? We have a million cans in the downstairs fridge. I still don't know why you're so casual with this institutional criminality."

She was already making for the front door and her hanging jacket. I wouldn't have much of a choice. And I couldn't give her my keys. That was my Hummer. You can't trust a woman with your vehicle, not even your beloved wife. She's always slamming my passenger door too hard. Imagine if she was driving.

"I want a bottle. Coke tastes different in plastic."

With the day's news still fresh in my head, but remaining trapped there without a suitable foil to vent to, we walked out in silence to the truck. It was cool and cloudy. We had to drive even if it was just a couple of hundred feet to the store. You never knew when it might rain. The weather was so erratic these days.

"Oh look," she said pointing across the wide, treeless street. "Beckie put up more Christmas decorations. Her house will be covered this Christmas. I'm jealous. We'll have to get some more. Later let's drive to Wal Mart."

I muttered something derogatory about Beckie and her Christmas decorations under my breath and opened the doors remotely. We got in and I started up the engine. We put our seatbelts on and I spent a few minutes searching the radio for news about that fucking CEO at Hydro One. It made me happy that they were raking him over the coals. He deserved nothing less.

Despite the seat warmers and leather interior, I was angry again. I slammed my foot down on the gas and we rolled out of the driveway like a tank. I'd be much happier when she got her new H3; I wouldn't have to drive her around any more. We had to leave so early now that I had to drop her at her work across town. The new Hummer was taking longer than we expected when we ordered it weeks ago. The dealership promised us that it would arrive tomorrow. They were lucky that they were the only Hummer dealership in Oakville. I was this close to taking my business to Guelph or Toronto. I deserve good service not delays; I'm paying enough. It's ruining my quality of life driving the wife everywhere.

We arrived in seconds and she got out and went in to the store. She slammed the door too hard. I grit my teeth. I'd told her a million times. This car is special. You can't just treat it like a Civic! Slam the door all you want in your Hummer Jess.

I waited with the engine on, still hunting for news of the latest developments. The news reports were all talking about climate change and wars in random countries that I'd heard of but knew precious little of. I kept scanning.

Why wasn't Roy Green on on the weekend? And there was no sign of Rex Murphy. He's a prick too put he'd lay in to that CEO in Cross Country Checkup. I'd have to tune in tomorrow.

The door opened and Jess got in with a plastic bag. She reached in and pulled out a bottle of water.

"I thought you said you were getting a Coke."

"I changed my mind."

Victor's Story

Once, what feels like many years ago, I was friends with a man called Victor. He came from Kenya and he was always smiling and positive; seriously I don't think I ever even saw him sporting a frown. He was friends with everyone at our school. Victor was always up for a party and he would travel far and wide in search of them. I wasn't very close with Victor, probably because I couldn't keep up with him.

Victor had a problem though. You see he was born with the curse of dark skin. This condition didn't matter so much in Kenya but when he traveled to Britain everyone noticed like one notices a trail of ants passing crumbs across a floor. They didn't say anything though, that wouldn't be polite. But you could feel it in their quick stares and the way the Kashmiri kebab shop owner would almost ignore you as he took your money. It didn't matter how much he smiled his skin meant he was condemned. Though it took a while for this sentence to be carried out, after his tuition cheque had cleared of course.

Like so many other international students Victor enjoyed living in Britain. I loved Britain for the Guardian and Radio 4 and pub quizzes. I wonder what was most special for him. Maybe long winter nights, maybe the constant rain. I could ask him I suppose. Maybe it's better to keep guessing.

So like most unattached international students, Victor extended his education for as long as he could to stay in Britain. He was due to hand in his dissertation in September and managed to push the deadline back as almost all of us did. There was nothing sinister in this, nothing malicious. Even Americans did it and we know they can't be malicious.

But Americans are Americans and Kenyans are Kenyans.

Victor had a job working in a gym. He was super athletic so this was a natural fit. As an international student he could only work 20 hours a week when school was on and 35 when school was out. His extension complicated things. He worked full time while continuing to work on his dissertation. An American friend did the same and never asked any questions.

But Victor wanted to make sure, so he paid a visit to the local immigration office. As he explained his situation in perfect English and handed over his passport, the staff conferred and told him that they were confiscating his passport overnight. He should return in the morning to collect it, the lady at the desk smiled a dull smile and dismissed him.

Back at home Victor watched some TV, checked his emails on his computer, did some laundry and slept in his bed. He had toast, eggs and bacon for breakfast. His plan was to head to the immigration office before heading to work his afternoon shift at the gym.

It was raining. We all learned pretty early that an essential purchase in Britain is an umbrella. Victor entered the office and shook the drops of rain out of his umbrella. He took his number and approached the desk, leaning the umbrella against the cubicle. Why did they build all the government offices to look as though the staff were under siege from their patrons; where you couldn't see what was happening behind the desk? He asked for his passport politely, always politely, the British way.

After a few brief moments several security men approached him and took his arms in theirs. They led him to a small room where they left him. No explanation. No passport. After a few hours they returned and bundled him into a waiting van. He was driven for several hours. He couldn't tell where he was because there were no windows in the van. He was handcuffed to his seat; his wrists were sore.

When the van door opened it was night and he could hear the roar of jet engines. He had been brought to the world's busiest airport from his sleepy life in a fallen industrial city in West Yorkshire. He was taken to a British Airways desk by the two guards and waited with one while the other spoke with the staff; they eyed him suspiciously from behind their desks. Still no explanation but he knew what was going on. Summary deportation. No appeal. He had no bags to check, just the clothes on his back and his mobile phone.

The guard came back annoyed and pulled Victor outside to the waiting van. He was told there was no room on the flight to Nairobi; must be all those aid workers returning to their lucrative positions with the various UN agencies that called Nairobi home.

Again Victor was bundled in the vehicle and driven to a miserable place, worse than any government office. It was a privately operated detention centre near Heathrow where criminals mixed with the lowest segment of humanity in Britain, asylum seekers. It smelled of bleach. Everyone was quiet and looked down. If they were silent long enough, the authorities might forget they were there and let them stay, like ghosts.

He spent a week in detention. He was fed enough. He had a bed. But he was not given a change of clothes. They must have decided that he had already taken enough from their beloved state. Not even a scrap of cloth was good enough for Victor.

Then they came for him again. A seat must have been vacated on a flight to Nairobi. Perhaps an ex-pat had decided roughing it wasn't for him. Victor was angry at being denied clean clothes for a week so before they came to get him he threw away his fetid t-shirt. He wore his jacket over his bare chest. The guards didn't mind. This was a job and they were looking forward to the pub and Chelsea vs Bolton later that night. The sooner this stinking African was on the plane the better.

Back at the airport, he met those familiar stares from the BA staff. This time they looked at his bare chest and shook their heads. Rejected yet again. The guards were enraged. Now they had to take him back and process him again. This fucker was supposed to be on the plane and they were supposed to be at the pub. They took Victor back to the van and took turns pounding on him, making his cheek swell from their assault.

But they made a big mistake. Victor wasn't a timid asylum seeker or refugee. He was a fighter and he was smarter than them. Back in detention he asked for his mobile phone to get a phone number, not his lawyer's he assured them. Satiated by their beating, they allowed him his phone. It was a camera phone and in a second he had snapped a shot of his swollen cheek and texted it to a trusted friend.

This friend exposed Victor's disgraceful treatment at the hands of these thugs. Many kind white, brown and black faces appealed to the government on behalf of Victor. They tried their best to understand his deportation. Why him? But of course everyone knew the answer. He was black, unwelcome in the British Isles. It would never happen to an American or a Japanese.

Despite the appeals, Victor was deported but the guards learned to be weary his sharp mind and never laid a hand on him again. And they also gave him a clean t-shirt. Resistance matters.

They couldn't take Victor's smile away and today it beams on Kenya like the sun. It's Britain's loss, though I doubt they'd be able to recognize it in the cold dark winter.