No job, no house, no food, no anything.  He constantly wonders, “Why me?”  He’s young, no more than 23. He should have his whole life ahead of him, but when he hears the word “future” all he sees is a taunting blackness.  His greasy, stringy, long hair of an indecipherable color and his long beard, frame his face.  Empty, unfocused grey eyes sit in the hollows of his head.  He pulls out a cigarette. The nights are getting colder now.  He dreams of having a family, with a quaint little cottage and a white picket fence.  Children are running about the yard, laughing and playing with the dogs.  There’s even a cat curled up in the sun on the veranda’s railing, watching all that’s happening with disdain, but still content to lie there.  His thoughts shatter as he brings himself back to reality. He knows none of that will ever happen.  He looks down at his shoes. Through the large holes he can see that at least he still has his feet.  He shivers. His torn, worn away clothing doesn’t provide much heat.  If only he had some whiskey to warm him up.  He coughs.  It’s getting worse he notes.  He struggles to stand. He’s shocked by how weak he’s become.  Wobbling, he tries to regain his balance but he falls.  Then all is dark.

White, it means clean.  Sterile.  The pristine walls are closing in around him, forcing him to be.  Clean.  But only on the outside.  Nothing they’ve tried has been able to cleanse him on the inside.

Black, it means dirty.  Unclean.  In other words, what he’d been all of his life, the dirty, filthy, bastard son of a whore.  At least that’s what they told him. He couldn’t remember anything before he was five.  He knew there wouldn’t be much to remember anyway. He, himself is surprised that he’s managed to live this long. 

A nurse walks in, checks his vitals, and leaves without a word.  A doctor almost on the heels of the nurse comes in and begins explaining the situation.

“Son, we’re going to have to move you upstairs. It’s time for an operation.  If we don’t operate now the cancer will overtake you and then there will be nothing we can do.”

“But you haven’t been able to do anything yet!  And I’ve already had three, count them, three operations already.  What other part of my body could the cancer possibly reach?”

“Just listen, we want to try to help you and if that is in any way possible we want to try and do it.”

“And just how do you think another operation will help?”

With a look from the doctor he nods, resigning himself to having yet another bout under the skilled knife of the surgeon. He lies back in his bed and closes his eyes as they prep him for surgery.

The darkness surrounds him, leaving him breathless.  Looking around he sees no one as he walks into a darkened forest.  The tall trees cast long, eerie shadows that make him jump at every turn.  He wonders where he is. Examining his surroundings he sees networks of roots and a pink, mossy covered stump.  Maybe it’s a rock.  But he can’t tell.    

He wakes up, confused.

            “Oh good, you’re awake.”

“Ya, now do you think I could get rid of these damn tubes?”

            “Those are what’s keeping you alive right now.”

            “Get rid of them. Now.”

The doctor turns and strides briskly out of the room.  He’s left to his thoughts.  He closes his eyes once more, searching for Sleep’s relief. 

            It’s still dark.  It doesn’t seem to be getting lighter.  Alone, he searches for something, but he can’t grasp it.  It’s on the tip of his tongue, but saying the word creates an effort such that he’s never felt before.  It’s unbearable for him to even think it.  The only problem is, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be thinking or saying.  He surveys his surroundings. He once more notices the pink moss on the rock and networks of roots. There isn’t anything that can give him clues as to what he’s supposed to do.  Aiming his gaze towards the sky for direction he sees a bird fly over. And another. And another.  But where did they all come from?  As they continue to fly over, he notices that their colour begins to change.  Going from white to black.  There’s something in their claws, but he can’t tell what it is.  Each bird carries a heavier replicate than the one before.  The birds’ constant re-grasping gives the impression that whatever they’re carrying is slippery, making it difficult to carry.  He sees that the black birds are weaker than those that are of lighter color.  When one of the birds drops what was in its claws near him he goes over to investigate.  But whatever was there is now gone.  He goes down on his hands and knees to search for it.  He spots a small creature, black in color, melded with the ground, indefinable due to its wriggling form.  When it stops moving he notices that it has curling tentacles covering most of its body.  There is mucus dripping from its tiny fangs located on the top of its head. Confused, he turns away and is shocked by the sight of hunters.  Hunters, with bows and arrows aimed towards the sky.  Another bird flies over, but is soon on the ground with an arrow protruding from its neck. He feels a weight in his hand.  Glancing down he sees a bow and arrow that wasn’t there before.  He raises it towards the sky, but the bow has a mind of its own and aims itself towards one of the hunters.  With a will like no other, the arrow jumps out of the bow and flies towards a hunter.  With a piercing scream the hunter drops to his death.  The arrow had caught him right through the heart.

            He wakes up only to find Fear’s hands reaching down his throat and into his lungs, pulling his breath from him.  Sweat’s long icy fingers run down his forehead and down his shirt, chilling him to the bone.  Shivering he pulls the blankets up and over his head, closing himself off from the world.  It was as if he were in a place where nobody would remember to visit him or leave him flowers.  He tries to stay awake, too scared to shut his eyes.  Unfortunately for him sleep tightened its grip on him and pulled him back into what was supposed to be serene rest.

            Spinning in a circle he sees that he’s surrounded by more than a hundred hunters.  Each has an arrow trained on his heart.  He raises his bow and arrow, now in an attempt to fight for his life.  With constant fire on the hunters he manages to make a dent in their group.  This small victory doesn’t last him long, because the remaining hunters begin closing in on him.  In a last effort to save himself he raises his bow and arrow and once more tries to push the soldiers back.  As they advance on him, he falls to his knees.  Tears stream down his cheeks and he raises his hands towards the sky. He lies down on the cold ground, shivering helplessly.   Exhaustion secretes from all parts of his body.  He closes his eyes, searching for rest.  A fresh tear forms in his eye and starts to slide down his cheek.  Then all is still.  Even the tear. 

Tears of Rage

They dwell inside,

Just waiting to come out.

I can feel that they're there,

Nearing the surface.

Nearing the surface,

They simmer close to boiling.

Welling up inside they come,

Dancing at the edge.

Daring me,

To let them fall.

But I won't!

They can't!

I'm stronger then that!

But no they dance,

Playing with my emotions.

Never knowing if they'll fall or not.

I'll never know.

They dwell inside,

Waiting to come out.

Welling up inside they come,

Danceing at the edge.

Rage, anger.

Tears, sadness.

Tears of rage.

They fall.

                                         By: Shauna Loewen