2011 Retrospective - Tenderness (Spaghetti II)

Everything’s better with butter. The onions sizzle, slowly turning translucent, then golden brown. The aroma of sautéed onion and garlic fills the air, wafting up from the old copper-bottomed pot. I love that smell, and the ones that follow. Rosemary, oregano, thyme; all go into the pot and add their flavours to the air. My wife and I have been going through a rough patch, these past few months. That’s why I’m doing this, I thought I would surprise her tonight on our 13^th anniversary. She got cut up over the smallest thing, poor woman. I know this had been hard for her, soft and tender as she is. But everything is okay now, I’ve fixed everything. I smile through the delicious steam and attend to dinner.

I put the spaghetti on the boil and empty the tins of tomato into the pot. The cut edges of the can threaten me, but I manage to avoid bodily harm. There is danger here, in this kitchen of mine. With so much heat and so many sharp implements, it’s a wonder I’ve survived this long. The white scars on my hands spin the tale of many near misses. But I am long accustomed to the menace of this place. The kitchen is my domain, and after long experience the knives have become trusted companions.

My hands fly over the chopping board, neatly slicing zucchini, carrot and silverbeet, flicking them into the simmering red sauce one after the other. This was the first thing I cooked for her, when I coaxed her to my house all those years ago. As soon as I saw her, her smooth long legs, delicate arms and the graceful curve of her back; I knew I had to make her mine. Cooking was my weapon then, as it is now. I take a leg from the fridge and lay it on the bench before me. Surely this is the finest piece of meat I have ever seen. The skin parts from it with ridiculous ease and before I know it bite sized chunks simmer contentedly in the sauce.

I drain the spaghetti in the sink, setting it on the table next to the finished sauce and the salad bowl. A plate from the cupboard, a fork from the drawer, a single place at the table. I settle down with a sigh, spearing a mouthful on my fork. I breathe in the smell of it, then savour  the flesh melting on my tongue. I think this might just be the best thing I’ve ever tasted. We’ve been through quite a bit together, her and I. We’ve carried each other through sickness, floods and grief. Even when we were fighting, when the rage hot so hot I felt like I would explode and lash out with all my fury, not a day went by that I didn’t love her more. My lovely, tender wife. I put the leftovers in the fridge next to her other leg, her torso and her head, all neatly wrapped and labelled. 

I love my wife. She’s delicious.

2011 Retrospective - Spaghetti

Everything’s better with butter. The onions sizzle, gently turning translucent, then golden brown. The aroma of sautéed onions and garlic fills the air, wafting up from the old copper-bottomed pot. I love that smell, and the ones that follow. Rosemary, oregano, thyme; I throw them all into the pot and smell them flavouring the air. I look over at the table at my wife, radiant in her sapphire gown. It’s our anniversary, our 42^nd, and I’m cooking her favourite dish. She’s smiling, her beautiful blue eyes crinkling at the corners. I know those eyes well, and not just her eyes. I know every nuance of her face, the curve of her lips, her high cheekbones, the slightest hint of a widow’s peak atop her smooth forehead. I smile back through the delicious steam and attend to dinner.

I put the spaghetti on to boil and empty the tins of tomato into the pot. The cut edges of the can threaten me but I avoid bodily harm, being long accustomed to their menace, and that of the knives. The white scars on my fingers can attest to that. There is danger here, in this kitchen. With so much heat and so many sharp implements, it seems miraculous that I’ve survived this long. But the kitchen is my domain and I wouldn’t leave it. She understands that, and lets me have my way. To tell you the truth, I think she was relieved, for it let her get on with other, less mundane things.

My hands fly over the chopping board, neatly slicing zucchini, carrot and silverbeet, flicking them into the simmering red sauce one after the other. This was the first thing I cooked for her, all those years ago. This was the dish I wooed her with when I first invited her to dinner. We were both in college then.  Both so busy, with our hours of study and our part time jobs. Yet despite all that, despite all of the demands on our time, we always had managed to find an hour just to be together. Sometimes I cooked for her, sometimes we were both so tired that we just had cheap takeout. But no matter what our plans, we were always together.

I drain the spaghetti in the sink, setting it on the table next to the finished sauce and the salad bowl. A  plate from the cupboard, a fork from the drawer, and a single place at the table. Just one. I settle down with a sigh, looking across at her. We’ve been through a lot together. We raised our children, set them loose on the world and hoped for the best. We carried each other through floods, and sickness, and grief. No matter how hard it was, our love kept us together. Not a day goes by that I don’t love her more and more. I reach out and gently touch her face, still smiling in the mahogany picture frame. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her.

2010 Retrospective - Replacement

It all began with a quirked eyebrow…

It belongs to the face of my long-time roommate Leah, who is looking pointedly at the just finished tub of peppermint ice-cream that’s in my hands. Her ice-cream. She is leaning on the kitchen doorframe, her arms folded across her chest. I hastily put the empty tub in the bin and wash up my spoon, my cheeks flaming the entire time. I turn around and her gaze shifts to me. “I was going to replace it,” I say. “tomorrow.” There is a brief silence.

“Okay.” She turns and leaves the room, her long brown hair flowing smoothly down her back. That’s it? I feel guilty. I had needed something cold to alleviate the unrelenting summer heat, and her ice-cream had fit the bill. But that’s the problem, it had been hers. Ah well, I’ll make it up to her tomorrow.

The alarm rings, 6:40 am. I press the snooze button and doze back off. Five minutes later

It rings again, 6:45. I keep this up, dozing for give minutes before the alarm rings, till sometime around 7:15. This is kind of a daily ritual for me. It’s not that I don’t like to get up early. I love it. It’s just so hard. Eventually I manage to flip myself out of bed and into some clothes, my head muzzy. I usually have about an hour before I have to walk to work, so I quickly duck down to the shop to get some supplies. First and foremost, a sandwich for my lunch and secondly, two tubs of peppermint ice-cream. That should put me in the clear. The apartment is quiet as I let myself back in, Leah isn’t up yet. I slip the food into the fridge. I hope it’ll be cold enough for both tubs, my fridge is old. I make and eat my breakfast in the remaining time before I have to go to work. Luckily for me, the office where I work is only six blocks away, so I can simply walk to and from work. It also means that I get to come home during my lunch break. Have my lunch and just chill, relieve the boredom of four hours of form-processing and other menial peon tasks. Unfortunately for me, however, today is Thursday. This means that instead of doing menial peon tasks, I get to do a whole heap of mindless number-punching. Crap.

I get a call from Leah just as I’m finishing up for lunch. “Hey Andrew! It’s me, Leah. How’s work?”

“It’s just great,” I reply sarcastically. “I’m bored as hell.”

“Well that’s just what you get for working in an office. You should work somewhere more flexible, like me. Anyway, I was just calling to remind you that I’m going to visit Tiffany tonight, so I won’t be here when you came back. And that sandwich you had in the fridge? Yeah… I ate that. Hope you don’t mind. Bye!”

“No no, that’s fine…” I trail of as she hangs up. Goddamn it. As I walk home I try to remember what we have in the fridge that I can eat. Nothing’s coming to me. Damn.

True to her word, Leah has left by the time I get back, already having left to visit Tiffany. Tiffany is one of Leah’s best friends, and had helped her get through her parents’ deaths. I go inside and look in the fridge, trying to ascertain whether any substance inside is even remotely edible. What the? A brown paper bag that wasn’t there this morning is sitting exactly in place of my stolen sandwich. Curious, I open the bag. Oh my. There’s a sandwich in here. But not just any sandwich, this one is magnificent! I sit there for a minute, just admiring this paragon of sandwich-ness. That’s when I notice the note nestled in between the sandwich and the bag. It’s slightly moist as I pull it out and unfold it.

Andrew-

Hee hee! Replaced your sammich! I think I do a better job than that deli you always get your lunch from. Now we’re even for that ice-cream stunt of yours.

                                                                        -Leah

Why that little, awesome… Gah. I just can’t stay irritated with the creator of such a culinary delight. The bread’s even toasted, though I don’t know how she managed it with my gimpy toaster. I take a bite, it’s bliss.

This afternoon is just as boring as this morning was. 2…8…34…7…1…95…6… My mind wanders as I mechanically punch in the numbers. I just can’t stop thinking about what Leah did. Replace my sandwich will she? We’ll just see about that! This isn’t over, not at all.

Trawling again through the fridge at home I find the perfect thing for my reactionary replacement. A small chocolate-chip muffin left over from a gift basket from her colleagues at work. This is exactly what I need, tastes pretty good too. Washing the crumbs off my hand I boot up the computer and do an internet search: Recipes for double-chocolate mudcake.

I am awakened the next morning by delighted squeals from the kitchen. As I walk in I am nearly bowled over by a delighted Leah, who has obviously just seen the handcrafted, chocolate-covered monstrosity that I baked for her last night. No easy feat, I hasten to add, her oven is terrible. Seems like a bit of a trend with our kitchen appliances. Leah throws her arms around me. “Thank you Andrew, the cake is wonderful!” I sit down to eat my breakfast. For some reason she keeps sneaking glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking. Huh. She hugs me again as I walk out the door. I carry a warm glow in my heart, and not just for the fact that I like making her happy. I won.

My smugness is shattered when I come back home. There, sitting on the bench, is a shiny new toaster. My old one is nowhere to be seen. Oh it’s on now! She has just formally announced that this will be a competition, a competition that I don’t intend to lose. I quickly look around the kitchen. Now what appliance of hers needs replacing? My eyes alight on the oven. Excellent.

As I’m shopping for a new oven for Leah, I notice that the jewelry store has just come out with a line of jeweled and engraved photo albums. Jeweled photo albums? Seriously, who would buy something like that? It seems pretty useless. Still, I imagine some people would. Not me though, not me. I walk into the appliance store to look for ovens. I think Leah will be pleasantly surprised.

She is. After much hugging and thanking, we continue our day. I come home to find my fridge replaced. This thing has blown way up. We seem to have run out of old appliances, so I buy her a set of comfortable hardwood furniture. She replies by getting rid of my old bed and switching it with a luxurious new water bed. That’s it. While she’s out for a few days I have a team of tradesmen come in and construct a full walk-in wardrobe array, having them work around the clock to get all the automated runners, hangers and shelves complete in time. I’m really glad that we both own this apartment, because otherwise this would have been a major problem. Leah gets back, and after much more huggings, meets me blow for blow with an amazing hot tub installed in my absence. Where is she getting the money for this? Not that I don’t like this, it’s great, especially all the hugs.

I have an awesome plan. I take a chunk out of my savings and replace her old car with a brand-spanking-new Volkswagen Beetle. I think it’s cute. Evidently, Leah does too. This time I get a hug and a kiss. She ups the ante yet again, reciprocating with a giant home entertainment system. I thank her, but she demands a hug. I embrace her, what else am I to do? I don’t want to seem ungrateful. We stay up late watching movies together. I have a day off tomorrow, and she goes to work pretty much whatever time she likes, so it doesn’t really matter. The apartment seems almost new with all the additions we have been making. I like it.

It’s my turn now, but the apartment seems pretty well covered. I can’t really exchange anything else. What should I do? Suddenly, inspiration strikes. Leah keeps a small box of photos in the top shelves of her closet; photos of her family, cracked and faded after the years that she has had them. I know what I have to do; I only hope she doesn’t notice that they’re missing.

“Andrew!” She sounds mad. She must have noticed that the pictures are missing. Damn. It has been two days, so I was hoping that she wouldn’t notice for just a little longer. No such luck. She storms in; this is bad, she’s even angrier than I thought. “You took my photos didn’t you?” She gives me no chance to respond. “Damn it Andrew! This has been fun but it isn’t a goddamn game anymore! They’re the only photos I have left to remind me of my family and you stole them! Have you already thrown them away?”

“No, I…” She cuts me off again, tears have begun streaming down her cheeks.

“You… I… I just can’t deal with this anymore. I’m going out, I don’t know when I’ll see you again.” She walks out, still softly crying. I can hear her in the hallway, grabbing her coat and opening the door. She’s gone. ‘I don’t know when I’ll see you again?’ That sounds ominous.

It’s raining today, the second since Leah left. I am incredibly worried about her. I have called Tiffany, but she wouldn’t talk to me. I can only hope that this means that Leah is safe and sound with her. The office has also called, to tell me that I have to leave this afternoon for a six-day conference. I am all packed and ready, and I have finally finished Leah’s present. I leave it on the table and go to the airport. I hope Leah gets it, I hope she doesn’t do anything dangerous. My plane leaves; and I sit thinking about the present, whether it will be enough for her to forgive me or not. I have finally discovered the sort of person that would buy a jeweled photo album, me. A stupid fool hopelessly in love. The only reason it had taken me this long was that I had wanted to replace her photos. It had taken me hours of research to track her family to those remaining distant relatives that would still have the same pictures, and even more painstaking hours to compile all of them into the album. I had also wanted to give her something of myself, so I included pictures of the two of us: the one of her and me on a cruise boat in Alaska, climbing mountains in New Zealand, and even the one showing when I had mistaken wasabi for guacamole. The rain lashes my window as we lift off. I wonder if she will find my present, and what she will make of my letter…

Leah

Even though words could never encompass the depths of my feelings, I am sorry for the pain and grief that I have caused you. I just wanted to give you a meaningful present. I know that the photos are important, and believe me; it was never my intention to throw them away. They are in an envelope attached to the back cover. I hope that you can forgive me for what I have done. I never want you to be hurt again.

I love you.

                                                -Andrew

My god I’m tired. I have just got off the plane after the conference, of which the best thing I can say is that the food wasn’t abysmal. I call a taxi, and wait in the darkening dusk for it to arrive. I get in and tell the driver my destination, half dozing as he drives. I wake up as we pull into my street. Is that…A moving van outside my house? It was. What is going on here? I pay the driver and step into my driveway. The lights are on in the apartment, and I can hear voices inside. I walk to the door and open it up. Inside it is a different place. There are colourful children’s daubings hung up on all the walls, there are a myriad of coloured beanbags and most of all; an extremely surprised family of five. “What are you doing in here?” Asks what I assume is the man of the household.

“What? I live here.” This is confusing, I’m sure I have the right place, I have lived here for some time, and my key worked as well.”

“Ohhh, you must be Andrew. Yes, we’re renting the apartment from you and Leah. Um, she told me to give you this, when you arrived.” He hands me a slip of paper, it has an address written on it. There’s nothing I can do but investigate.

Night has truly fallen by the time I reach the address Leah has on the note. It seems to be… a well appointed house. I wonder whose it is. I walk to the door and knock. After a few moments the door opens to reveal Leah, just as beautiful as ever. She looks happy to see me, I hope. “Andrew!” She hugs me, and leads me inside. This is a good sign. I am vaguely surprised to see that this house has the same furnishings as our old one and… Wha? Sitting in the place of pride in the hallway is that jeweled photo album. “Leah, what, is all this.” She turns around to face me.

“All during these past few weeks I think you’ll agree that we have grown to be more than just friends” That’s true, we were kind of acting like a couple. “and for me your letter just confirms that. That is,” she looks at me coyly. “if you mean it.”

“Mean what? I… Oh.” I wrap my arms around her. She looks up at me. I lean down slightly, brushing my lips against hers. She smiles, then kisses me.

“I got us a house.” Leah says, turning around in my arms. “We’re renting the apartment to help pay it off.”

“Leah… I love you.”

“Andrew?”

“Yes?”

“I love you too.”

As I sit here; with a beautiful girl, who I’m deeply in love with, in my arms; in a beautiful new house filled with beautiful new things, not to mention Leah; I can’t help but think about how this competition turned out. Leah trumped me fair and square, she not only replaced our apartment with a great new house, she replaced that empty void in my life with… herself.

So I guess, losing isn’t so bad.

2011 Retrospective - Playtime

“Heave!” One man shouts, blood mingling with rain as it runs down his mud-spattered face. His score of men push yet again, inching the massive chunk of clay up the steep incline. The sharp rain beats down on their backs from above, the heavy mud clings to them from below. The troops have been blooded, and it washes down their bodies to be churned into the mud. “Hurry! The enemy is not far off!” One of them, readjusting his grip, plunges shoulder deep into the massive clod. It stops, his weight pulling it down again. “Put your backs into it! All will be lost if we cannot reach the peak!” They lean into it, their feet slipping and sliding in the viscous sludge. The clay begins to ooze over their backs. “Push!” A desperate cry. A sheet of watery mud sweeps down and pulls the men off their feet, all save for 2. The clay slides inexorably down, the trapped men struggle wildly.  A sonata of cracks erupts as those still with their back into the clay are crushed. Slowly, their screams are engulfed.

The block slides a couple spans before the men can regain their feet. The situation is grim, for this one slip means hours of work have come to naught. They are sick at heart, for the flooding yesterday has destroyed their entire left flank, a full two-thirds of their forces. They know that they are pushing the last chance to avoid indescribable carnage.

Hours more backbreaking labour in the chill slag, and they have regained their lost ground. They trample the remains of their comrades, pulpy masses of flesh and shattered bone, and they weep into the rain.

They near the peak, but the light is fading fast, almost as fast as their waning strength. The incline is gentler now, but the men slip and fall. Some are too tired to even lift their faces out of the sticky quagmire, and drown where they fall. They cannot see each other for the darkness and muck, only their laboured breathing tells them that they are not alone. The mountain steepens into a lip, and progress halts. They lean against it, praying to their gods that their weight will keep it from tumbling down yet again. It is too dark to know where they are, whether they are still pushing towards the wall; or have gone past in the dark, onto the slopes above the village. If they are in the wrong place, pushing the block will send the block careering down the mountain into the village. But there is nothing else to do but gamble, even if it is with the lives of their families. With heavy hearts they make one last final push, lending their final strength to the effort. The block slides halfway over the lip, hesitates, then speeds down. They listen for the sound, that will tell them that the block has joined the wall. It doesn’t come. They fall to their knees, crushed with despair. They have gone too far, even now the massive clod races towards the town, about to crush their wives and children. They despair, hoping that their families are the lucky ones to be crushed, for the others will suffer immeasurably when the hordes flood through the unprotected pass.

Thunk. The block slides into place in the darkness, the wall is complete. The village is saved.

The young boy chuckles merrily as he drags his fingers through the mud, imagination afire. The last mud brick is in place. His fortress is complete, and the game goes on.

2011 Retrospective - The Light in our Eyes

The price of Silence went up today. You heard that somewhere... after you came home from work. Where was it? On the television, likely. It was blaring away as you walked in the door. As it always is, every single day. Your spouse met you at the door, but the children stayed in the other room, under the television’s sheltering glow. You can’t blame them, really. They’re only young. They don’t understand what it says to them, but they feel safe all the same.  As safe as anyone can be these days. Best not to think about that, though. Best to just put it out of your mind. Crime is down, after all. Theft, rape... all gone. That’s got to count for something, right?

You hear a fanfare from the other room, and everyone rushes in to cluster around the television. The News is starting! Everybody loves the News, and everyone watches it. The News can always be depended on to bring the latest information about what is happening in society, and changes to the prices of goods and commodities. But more importantly than that, on a visceral, subconscious level, the News is safe. Watching the News is the only time, ever, that there is a 100% certainty that you will not have an... incident. Without the use of Silence, anyway.  For some reason, because of some strange coincidence- and it must be coincidence, it must!- the News grants immunity to the Noise.

Some people, the older ones, tell stories of a time before the Noise. You smile at them when they say it, listen politely and thank them when they are finished.  After all, no need to hurt their feelings. No need to make their situations any worse. Because you know that they’ve been affected... had too many incidents, or just gone ‘round the bend. There’s really no need to point out that it’s not true. That it can’t be true. A time without the Noise is... inconceivable. It’s impossible! The Noise is everywhere, always. Every second of every single day it is there, twisting and turning in the back of your mind. Sometimes you can almost tune it out, push it down and away until it is no more than a faintly sickening shudder in the back of your mind. You can’t talk about it, can’t even think about it, because that might call it. And sometimes, sometimes you can’t suppress it. It thunders into your mind, stretching, growing until it feels like your head will explode, bursting from the pressure of this jangling, discordant NOISE. It fills you up, and you can’t move, you’re... paralysed. You can’t move, can’t cry for help, can’t even think. You can hardly even breathe, for you’re trapped in its disjointed pathways, its skewed rhythm beating against your mind. There is only the Noise, etching itself into every raw nerve.

Slowly, after a painful eternity, the Noise subsides, until you can move again, can regain some semblance of function. But every time a wave leaves you, you can feel it taking a little piece of your mind as it sinks back into the subliminal. Each and every time, you lose a piece of your sanity to the Noise. Every incident you have, a piece of your humanity is lost forever.

That’s why everybody loves the News. Absolutely, 100% incident free. Sometimes it even seems like the Noise isn’t there. That it’s gone. But it never is, and that’s why Silence is so valuable. Silence, that wonderful product that keeps the Noise at bay. With Silence, you can live your life without every worrying about an incident taking you or your family. Provided you have enough, for you have to use it constantly. Nothing can save you once the Noise takes you, not even Silence. There is no cure for an incident, only prevention. Constant Silence, forever. Or else.

The News ends, and you can hear that droning madness buzzing in the back of your mind. Why? What happened? You have Silence, you keep it above the kitchen sink. So why can you hear it? Why aren’t you protected from the Noise? You run to the kitchen, trying desperately to think of anything but what could happen to you at any moment now that you’re vulnerable. You clatter to a halt, seeing the box of Silence standing empty on the counter. The last box. You must have more, and quickly. You must! So you sprint to the depot, as fast as you can. You push people aside as you run, those standing straight in Silence, those hunched under the Noise. You skirt past a dark alley, and finally you’re inside, staring at the comforting rows of Silence lining the shelves. The Noise swells in the back of your mind, and you panic, grabbing all the boxes you can hold. You turn, but the price draws you up short.

It’s... insane. How can they possibly ask that for it? They know people need it, know how much they rely on it. So why is it quadruple its price, if not more? You look down at the boxes in your arms. There’s no way you can afford this. Your family needs to eat, right? But maybe... maybe starvation is better than insanity... because-

Because you’ve seen those who’ve been touched by the Noise. Those who can’t afford Silence. Oh, they look normal enough from a distance. But get close, and you can see it. They’re... not right in the head. Twisted somehow, changed. As they draw close you see the unholy spark in their hungry eyes, and the fear of death creeps up your spine. Will it go for your throat? It might. Or it might follow you home, may claw at your door into the lonely hours of the night, screaming vituperous rage all the while. The quiet ones are the worst. They’ll pass you by, watching with their inhuman orbs. They’ll follow you home as well, but you won’t know it. Because they won’t scream at your door, they’ll climb in a window, or a chimney, or find some other slippery way in. You won’t wake up, if that happens. You wouldn’t want to.

                                                                                                                   

Now all you can think of is the brown eyes of your precious little girl. So wide, so innocent. And you see a nightmare flame igniting in them as her vicious smile sets your flesh crawling, making you wonder just how long it will take you to die... You’ll do anything to prevent that, ANYTHING. Even starve her, though it breaks your heart. But wait! Maybe there’s a way you can avoid both? Because what’s that further along down the aisle? It’s something you’ve never seen before, a new product. Quiet. Cheaper than Silence, that’s for sure. But maybe, it’s not as good? The name certainly suggests it. Nevertheless, this gives you a chance to feed your family and avoid insanity. Quiet should hold the Noise off. For a time. You hope.

Another new product  catches your eye, so you venture further along, the Noise in your head reduced to a stray whisper. Black boxes, and gray, as far as the eye can see. Dark and... Dim. What could they possibly be for? Surely there’s n-

Frenzied screams pierce the air as an actinic light blinds you, making your eyes water furiously. You blink, but your eyes can’t adjust to the blazing white light that surrounds you from every direction. Scintillating patterns, white on white, dance upon your retinas, demented spirals tugging your mind in all different directions. It fills your eyes, fills your mind until there is nothing else. You can’t move, can’t think, can barely even breathe. There is only this, this incident that nothing will save you from. The Noise is quiet for now, almost quiescent as you suffer.

Maybe you’ll die here, with the white in your eyes, mind irrevocable snapped. Maybe you’ll become one of the touched, preying upon those who’ve staved off insanity for one more day. Or maybe you’ll walk home with its patterns still dancing in the back of your mind, making your vision slip and tunnel. And in time, you’ll become one of those pitiable old people, telling anyone who’ll listen sad stories about a time before the Light.