The Lost Works: Part One

Pretexters
I have a nose for nostalgia so it is not uncommon for me to sift through drafts of writing from my former computer. This evening I present to you, my loyal and ever-so-daffy blog readers, two works: the first being a letter written to Dalers, that I do not recall writing, during the U of T depression of 2005/6. The second work being a vile short story written at age sixteen.

Forgotten work #1: The Letter

Dale,

Toronto is a busy place with many cars, and even more people. We all try to live in inter-racial harmony and we are fairly successful. Occasionally gangsters will shoot-up the streets, but usually this occurs in poorer regions of the city. Fortunately, I live by Bloor, which is a prosperous street, so I don’t typically deal with gangsters. Although, sometimes on my ventures down Younge, I’ll see groups of hoods loitering in front of the adult movie theatre.

The other danger you must be aware of are the homeless. Some are under the influence of extremely dangerous and terrible drugs. [Editors note: this previous sentence is clearly under the influence of a Hunter S. Thompson obsession.] Others are sober but are crazy. Do not go out late at night by yourself, even on Bloor. I’ve had the homeless stalk me demanding cash.

Once you learn some street smarts you may enjoy the city. A great thing is transportation. For the most part, if I have time, I can walk anywhere I may choose to go. If not, I take the subway. I really like the subway for some reason. It’s just great - always a fun ride. And it takes you anywhere in the city.

Now, where in the subway do I go? What is there to do in Toronto? A lot, unfortunately my life’s a little boring but here’s what I’ve discovered:

Much Music – Hilary Duff to Ashlee Simpson, what more could you ask for?

Food – Many restaurants to discover.

*Walking around – this is the most interesting option. Just wandering around up Younge or other streets that may have interesting sights.

Actually, the point is, you have to make your own fun. If you’re with a few friends then whatever you do will be entertaining enough.

So really, I don’t know what’s going on in Toronto, but that doesn’t really matter.

If you’d like to come down with Jim sometime, you really should. You can check out U of T and we can wander around Toronto.

All right, there you have it.

Bryan

Forgetten Work #2: The Short Story

It started like every other night. The weather was constant. The stars beamed down and reflected from my oversized minivan into oncoming traffic. It was not a night to rely on faith at first. The front, left hand side of my Taurus seemingly had no warning when it collided with a classic dark, heavily tinted large automobile and sent me in a 720-degree rotation. My initial reaction was panic, nothing out of the red there. I saw my reflection in the windshield as I spun and my thoughts were somewhat questionable. I saw my sunburn and wondered that if I died would my face still go white? What a horrific last thought to have before death, surely something about love and less sadistic would do. Thankfully before my brain processed more thoughts my joyride spin had reached its conclusion. I was startled yet relieved that I was still alive. I unbuckled my seat belt and sat in a non-deathly silence. A phone was ringing. With unease, I slowly climbed out of my van. The sleek black car had smashed into a hydro poll and had become a part of it. I walked closer, nervously and unsure. The phone kept ringing. Bloodstains were on the pavement now as I inched closer. Fresh human blood, and it was dark red. The wounds must have been deep. I came right up beside the car and the wounds no longer mattered. The driver, a woman, was dead. She had been nearly literally torn apart. I thought I would be sick, and I gagged trying to find some air. Finally, I regained some composure. The phone continued to ring. I wondered who could be calling her. Was it her husband? Maybe her child? I saw a cell phone beside her arm, anxiously waiting for her answer. For a reason that I couldn’t comprehend then or now, I decided to answer the phone. The phone was pale and cold to touch, suiting the female rather nicely. I raised it to my ear. “H-hello.” I stammered. The voice was deep and sounded dark.

“Wha.. Who’s this? Put Mary on the phone.”

“Uh..” Thoughts were pouncing every which way.

“Hey buddy, what you doin’ answerin’ her phone anyway? She didn’t fall asleep did she? I’m gonna kill her if she fell asleep. She has a job to do, once its done she leaves. I don’t care if your lonely you cracker jack. So what was it? You or her buddy?”

Frantically, I fumbled with words. I looked into Mary’s eyes and they were haunting my soul out of me. Her eyes were cold ocean blue, staring hard, as if looking for something. The voice in the phone continued.

“...I’m gonna come get er’ buddy and man, I’m gonna be crawling out of my eyes if I don’t see some satisfaction.”

I tried to make some sense out of this mess that surfaced faster than a U-571, another widowmaker, like maybe I had become.

“Look, it’s really...not what your thinking,..s-somthing has happened. Mary...”

The voice cut in, “ Alright...Mary...so you're at 2 Dudley Street West, that right wise guy?”

I wasn’t sure where he was pulling these addresses. I was on Dudley Street, but I was on the East end.

“How, how do you know this?” I asked fearfully.

“I think you know who this is. Clarify your location, or I’ll be clarifying your death.”

“We’re on the road...” I began. Interruptions were appearing common now.

“What? Say here buddy, gimme where you are.”

“I’m East on Dudley, side of the road, like I tried..”

“Fine,” The booming voice cut in, “I’ll be there in some minutes. You better have some cash filled explanation and don’t call the cops, Mr. McGregor, or you’ll be going down too.” Click.

At that moment I felt eternally destined for utter ruin. Mary continued to stare at me as if she was trying to communicate from the beyond. I tried to look away from her, maybe climb in my mini and escape. I should of just left, I knew that, but for some reason I was compelled to stay. Mary’s eyes would be too lonely if I left.

At last, a car’s beams lit up Mary and I as if an extra terrestrial force had come to save us from the impending doom. The door blasted open and without any thought I knew it had to be him.

“What the crap is this?” He demanded, storming out of his car. I slowly inched away from the car and the voice, in person now, inched towards the car. “Mary? Mary’s...dead. Why is Mary dead McGregor? And why are you not dead with her?”

Still slowly backing away, I managed to squeak out a light answer, “I...I wasn’t in the car.”

“Why? This is a sick game McGregor.”

“I’m not playing,” I replied while still tentatively backing off.

“Stop,” He commanded, and I did.

“I’m not who you believe I am, I’m not McGregor.” I was becoming delirious and this large dark character in front of me became fixated with the car. He began to walk around Mary’s automobile slowly, looking for...I wasn’t sure but somehow he found something, something that continued the eeriness the night had brought.

“What the...” He was standing near the trunk of the car and sticky, once foreign blood ran off his hands. He pulled open the trunk. “Oh, what has that devil done?”

I knew escape was still a quick option but once again, I was fazed, my head wasn’t operating right. I walked around to the trunk... The trunk had become a small pond of sickly blood. A man, with his hands and feet tied in knots, was in the midst of the puddle. Once more I gagged and figured this must be some sort of hallucinate dream but I was never so lucky. The dark character looked disgusted but it seemed like this wasn’t the first time he’d seen this. He reached into the blood and pulled out a wallet. He flipped cards for an I.D. and he discovered it was no one other than Timothy McGregor. “Holy blazes... that.... that whore double crossed me, that filthly nightwalker.” The man moved towards the front of the car glaring more death into her eyes. He yanked open the door and grasped her arm and threw her limp body to the ground. “You got just as you deserved, just as...” He stumbled, “as you deserve.”

Mary’s eyes told me my time was up. But my watch ticked untimely when the dark man grabbed me by the collar and began beating his fist into my flesh. At first my face stung and throbbed into severe pain, but after I was on the ground with his foot smashing my life away, I lost the feeling of pain. I gained a feeling that cannot be explained. I was lying next to Mary staring into those life filled eyes. She whispered something softly and smiled. Sirens began to fill the air and Mary and I walked away in our own kind of silence.

In Loving Memory...

An excerpt from my posthumous autobiography The Spoken Word, Dead and Still Speaking:

My career took off in a sleepy little deathtoll town on December 13th, 1995; the night of the Psychedelic Spoken Word Battle of the Bands at Uxbridge Secondary School. I warmed up my vocal chords with peppermint herbal tea, looked at my zinc-plated record hanging on the wall, and decided that, yes, tonight is my birth into the spoken world.

I arrived at the school donning a zebra furred coat, a beaver tail scarf, and a Cheshire cat grin. I took the stage and performed my chilling remembrance of endless spheres in the psych-sw anti-hit "Howl". People were moved, but none so much as me. That night I realized my ego was as inflatable as a cannonball.

Following my performance PETA converted me to animalism and I did a spread. I used my minor celebrity to pontificate my views that ice cream dealers should start tapping nursing moms, not cows. The backlash from women across North America hurt the sales of my first LP "Hey Mothers, Leave Those Cows Alone". My ego, rivaling that of Dirk Digger, had difficulty accepting the album's failure.

After being pushed from the spotlight I became a recluse in Thalia. I drove a '52 Chevy pick-up along the dusty roads and began an affair with an older woman named Genevieve. After these nothing years, I picked myself up and prepared for a comeback the size of a Buick. I went back to my roots and re-mixed "Howl" and began preparations to speak it in early 2005.

2005 was a rough year for me. I died. USS offered me the opportunity to play a reunion show and I eagerly accepted. As I sat on the stage and entered my psych-trance, I was divorced eternally from the spoken word by Genevieves husband's two-gauge shooty. Everything catches up to you in the end, but a bullet can make it seem real fast.

Remember.