NewsBang!

Promises of a better, exhilarating life drew me away from my contented, peaceful existence in the countryside and towards the irregular, pulsating heartbeat of metropolitan Centrale Grand.

That’s why I found myself, one day, pulling up to a lavish, postmodern castle, hidden away in the wealth-ridden suburbs, driving a black sedan.

Only it wasn’t my house and it wasn’t my car.

“Sorry I’m late.” Ducking down, a tall man with swishy hair got into the back of the car and shut the door behind him. “I’m Jerry Fitzgerald.”

“Jack Lewis.” I turned and he clasped my hand with his spindly fingers. “Any stops before the office?”

“Coffee.”

“Mountain Café?” I asked as I started up the GPS, pulling away from the house.

“Sounds good.” He nodded and buckled himself in. “Coffee is coffee.”

“True, but their coffee’s some of the best.”

“Better be.” He sat back in his seat and took out his phone. I glanced at him occasionally, but his sharp blue eyes remained locked onto the glowing screen throughout the drive.

As soon as we reached the coffee shop, he got out of the vehicle. I quickly threw it into park and got out, opening the doors to the café for him.

I followed him inside and watched as he marched to the counter, where the barista took his order. I stood away from the counter, keeping an eye on some of the people staring at him.

Then in walked a girl with baggy faded jeans, rolled up to her knees, and a hole-ridden sweater. When she saw Jerry, her make-up splattered face lit up. She started to shake a bit. I moved a bit closer to Jerry, as he leaned against the counter, swiping at his phone.

Suddenly, she sprang towards him. “You’re the guy who’s running for mayor! You know, I’m so glad that we have someone running who cares about helping refugees and migrants—”.

Despite a warm smile, he looked over at me. “Oh yes, thank you. It’s very important.” He stepped away from the girl and I gently stepped in-between them, saying that he was very busy. With a confused look, she stepped back.

Jerry continued to poke at his phone, only looking up when his order was called. “Thanks.” He nodded at the girl and led us out of the café.

He turned to me when we reached the car. “They can be rather irritating.” I got the door for him and he dipped inside. Sipping his coffee and swiping at his phone, he glanced up at me. “What?”

I shuffled away from the door, studying him. “You don’t want to talk to your constituents?”

At this Jerry chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, the attention’s nice, but I don’t know the first thing about ‘migrants or refugees’. That’s why I hired you to keep them away from me. Nicely, of course.”

I frowned, but nodded my head. Getting into the driver’s seat, I drove us towards the downtown area. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit confused. I thought I was protecting you from harm, not voters. Shouldn’t you want to talk to them?” 

He looked at me in the rear-view mirror, his smile faltering. “You know the reason why I chose you as my bodyguard? You’re nonpartisan – or at least as nonpartisan as they come. Unbiased – you didn’t grow up in this city.” With a sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair and glanced out the window. “It’ll all make sense when we get to my office, there I can show you my website: NewsBang!. Then perhaps you’ll understand.”

We entered a sea of cars, taxis, and pedestrians. For an hour we crawled into the interior of the city, where skyscrapers accumulated into a swamp of metal, glass, and lights. The GPS led us to a parkade underneath the office building where he worked.

“Thanks.” Jerry stepped out of the car and shut the door behind him. Stretching, he waited until I got out of the vehicle and locked it. “Follow me. Our offices are on the fifty-fourth floor.”

With a nod I followed his lead through the elevators and corridors that made up the skyscraper.

I hadn’t heard of NewsBang! before I got the job. Jerry Fitzgerald was the co-founder of NewsBang! but was now running for mayor of Centrale Grand. When I did some light research on my old, slow computer back in my apartment, I saw that gaining access to the website required a profile on Social Feed. I made one and was instantly flooded by requests and advertisements. An article by NewsBang! quickly popped up, I pressed the link and stumbled down the rabbit hole. It was a website filled with articles on every subject imaginable. Pictures and snazzy designs had me overwhelmed and I clicked off, my eyes and brain hurting.

“Welcome to NewsBang!.” Jerry announced as we stepped through two clear, glass doors and into a marsh of desks and people. “It’s an open office, a place where we mine and refine labels. Each and every political, religious, and social label has its own department. Simplified labels, of course. That’s really the heart of this company – oversimplification. No nuance allowed.” He raised his head, looking over his empire of sweaty, haggard writers.

I glanced around, catching a few disinterested stares before he started down the hall. “Is this where your campaign office is also?”

“NewsBang! is my campaign. I mean, on paper, my campaign office is located elsewhere. But that’s not your concern. Besides, the real campaign is in the hearts and minds of the voters. I’m essentially a clean slate on which the voter paints what she thinks my campaign is about, which invariably is whatever her own bias or prejudice prefers. Let me show you how it works.” He led me to the only walled off area in the large room. “My office.” He opened the door and I walked into the marvelously decorated chamber.

I blinked a few times, my mouth slightly ajar. “It’s very nice.”

He chuckled. “It’s top of the line.” He went over to his desk and offered me a seat beside him. “Here, take a look.” A large console slid up and out of the desk, its screen glowing with the homepage of NewsBang!.  

I took a seat and squinted. “That’s your site.”

“It used to be. Technically, I don’t work here anymore.” He swiped at the screen and a long list of articles appeared on it. “Here is NewsBang! from an administrative position. I can see every article ever posted on the site. You see, we scour the internet for all the news stories on the web. We have programs that continuously take content from personal blogs, major news companies, political organizations, and business conglomerates from around the world and we make them our own.”

I hesitated. “You, uh, steal content?”

“Steal? No! I mean we don’t technically steal. We rejuvenate. We take those old, stale news stories and give them a spin. Here, I’ll show you what I mean,” he found an article on the murder of a politician that was featured on a respected news website and clicked on it. A white page with text appeared on the screen. “Not even a single picture. Boring, right? It’s just the facts. No one wants facts, Jack. Facts don’t get views. And without views, we don’t get advertisers, and without advertisers, we don’t get money.”

“Makes sense.”

“I mean the news media has always depended on ad revenue – that’s no secret. We’ve just taken it a step farther.” He swiped the screen and returned to NewsBang!. “Now on our website that same article becomes transformed. We then post that transformed and rejuvenated news story onto everyone’s Social Feed.” He looked over at me.

“Transformed into what?” I felt a bit uneasy, but also terribly curious.

 “Good question. This is where things get interesting. On NewsBang! we change the original story into one that conforms to the reader’s bias. Every single reader will get a different version of the article, depending on what they currently believe. And how do we know that? We have access to their Social Feed activity and the algorithms do the rest. Check it out – we have this story written from the standpoint of feminists, socialists, capitalists, spiritualists, nationalists, conspiracy-theorists, climate-change deniers, centrists, globalists, geriatrics, racists, pediatricians, Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Mormons, Atheists, Conservatives, Liberals, Libertarians, Criminals, Hipsters, Communists, the far-right, the far-left, the far-north, the far-out, bigots, anti-bigots, anti-anti-bigots and so on, so forth. Everyone is pandered to.” He sat back in his seat, a subtle grin on his face.

“Impressive.” I scratched my chin, unsure of what to make of it.

“And the only reason we’re not drowning in lawsuits, is because each news story that we take is spliced up into its individual sentences, with a few crucial words added or subtracted. Then we give each new sentence of the article its own page and lace it with advertisements and unrelated videos of animals being cute or people falling over. This way, the original content is changed just enough to avoid copyright infringement. Not that I’m worried. Everyone in this town’s already a loyal reader of NewsBang!.”

I leaned forward, my brow furrowed. “Still a bit dubious.”

“Obviously! But that is the future, Jack. No one’s interested in reading some dry, boring article or something they disagree with. They want their biases confirmed. They want to feel comfortable. No one wants to deal with contrary opinions.”

“You don’t have any qualms about this?”

“Not at all.” Jerry laughed mirthlessly and got up, moving towards the door. “Everyone already thinks they’re a genius and expert on what they read, we’re just here to confirm that. The best part of this, of course, is my campaign. You see, I control what people read. In this town, everyone, and I mean everyone, reads NewsBang! So who am I to them? Who is Jerry Fitzgerald? Whoever NewsBang! tells them that I am. Everyone votes for me because everyone thinks that I agree with their bias. I’m whoever they want me to be. Almost every article is written to implicitly promote me and at the same time agree with the preference of the reader.”

He opened the door and I started to walk out. Before I did, I frowned and asked, “How come people don’t know this? How could NewsBang! be saying different things without people realizing?”

“Indeed. That’s the beauty of our metropolis, Jack. No one communicates with people on the ‘other side’. Just imagine if you had to talk with someone who disagreed with you? Absolutely dreadful.” With that subtle smile, he closed the door behind me.

I wandered the halls until lunchtime, when he went out with a group of guys and girls. I walked with them to a nearby restaurant, over-crowded with people donning suits and dresses. Jerry paid the waiter and he led us to a table in the back. As we were weaving in and around tables, a man stood up. His face was almost as white as his glistening, combed back hair. He pounded the table and I turned, ready to apprehend him. However, the man didn’t move towards us. Instead, he waited until Jerry and the others faced him.

“Jerry Fitzgerald! Thanks for promising to keep those refugees out of our country and keeping our citizens safe. You have my vote!” He sat back down, and Jerry gave him a smile and wave before leaving.

When he was out of sight, they all broke out into laughter. “That never gets old.” Jerry looked at me and his smile disappeared. “It’s okay. A little praise now and again doesn’t hurt.” He took a seat, gesturing me to sit down also.

I took a breath and tried to smile despite my growing concern. The others started to talk, but Jerry remained on his phone throughout the lunch.

At the end of the day, I drove him home. I got back to my apartment, ruminating over what I’d learned, my spirit slightly crushed.

The next several months of working for Jerry only deepened my unease. Not that anyone else seemed to care – they simply hunkered behind their consoles and hammered out story after story.

Eventually the allure of metropolitan life dissipated and my roiling inner conflict became too much to bear.

One night, I got on my computer. Without knowing who to contact, I opened up a writing program and put together a document. I titled it: “NewsBang! Exposed.” I wrote throughout the night and then, after a few nervous breaths, I posted it on my Social Feed.

During the next several days, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. I continued to pick up Jerry and drive him to the office. He ordered, and I obeyed. I carried out my duties and got him home safely at the end of each day. This went on for nearly a week before I found a short email in my inbox. It simply read: “Fired.” There were some forms attached, and a number to call.

Early the next morning, I woke up to an even bigger shock.

My Social Feed and inbox were littered with posts and messages from complete strangers calling me ‘misogynistic, racist, sexist, a terrorist, a criminal, or even a pedophile.’ None of them allowed a response.

I saw a second email from NewsBang! which contained an endless list of articles, most of which consisted of variants of the headline: “Ex-Bodyguard at NewsBang! Terrorist Sympathizer or White Nationalist?” I balked.

I found the number that Jerry had put in the first email and called it.

“Jerry!” I shouted into the phone after several rings.

“Sorry?” The voice sounded tired and I realized it was only five in the morning. “Sorry, who is this?”

Gathering up my resolve, I cleared my throat and proceeded. “This is Jack. Your old bodyguard.”

“Oh right. How are you, Jack?”

“I got your emails.” 

There was a pause, and then a sigh. “Well I didn’t start it, Jack. You did. You wrote that little ‘expose’. Clearly, you weren’t listening when I told you about NewsBang!. It’s all anyone reads. Your ‘story’ probably didn’t even get a single view. It’s a lesson, Jack. I hope you remember it well.”

At this I felt my face flush, and my hands began to shake. “I want you to remove those articles.”

There was a slight pause. “I won’t. Even if I could, I can’t. It’s in the hands of the public now. But I wouldn’t worry too much, Jack. People get bored, and something else will grab their attention. Give it several days. A week at most. Soon enough you’ll just be a forgotten little uptick in views at NewsBang!.”

I trembled, my hands growing slick with sweat. “You’re disgusting. What do you even believe in? What do you even stand for?” My voice rose and I could hear Jerry’s breathing slow, and then quicken again.

“You tell me, Jack.” 

Our Lowly Patch of Dirt

There sits a garden in the backyard, but I haven’t tended to it in years. I can only look out at it through the kitchen window when I bother to keep the curtains open. It’s a pretty garden, to be sure. Nature has become its attendant. She isn’t picky about what inhabits that lowly patch of dirt, surrounded by unkempt grass, and opportunistic vines. Sometimes, whenever visitors come over, I let them into the backyard. These visitors of mine are slow and plodding. Often they only venture a few steps down the uneven, stone path pushing through the tall grass toward the garden. I always keep to the backdoor, watching as my visitors wonder silently to themselves why the yard’s in such a frayed state.

“Do you grow any tomatoes or cucumbers? How about peas or beans?” My visitors ask, though aren’t always sure what to say when they see my garden. Words stumble out of their mouths and I’m reluctant to pick them up. There was once a visitor who crossed her arms and muttered in a rather declarative fashion, “You’ve left the garden untended!” This was a very true and right thing to say. I was glad that she told me this. I was so glad to finally hear truth spoken about my messy, tangled, disheveled garden.

This visitor was pretty in that unremarkable way that some people are. When I first spotted her in the grocery store, I almost left her in the dustbin of my imagination. She was in the vegetable aisle with a cart filled with sugar-loaded delights and bottom bargained items. The third wheel on her cart furiously spun and wobbled, resenting its current situation. I was standing only several feet in front of her, minding the tomatoes. The fruits were glossy and large. I handled a tomato gingerly, inspecting it for the tell-tale signs of predisposition to mould and decay. When I placed it back down, I could see the woman and her lopsided cart right beside me.

“I was hoping these would be on sale.” Her voice was just as unremarkable as her freckle-spotted face. Flat and dry, just like her long, brown hair. “But they never are.” She might’ve smiled at me, or she might’ve smiled at her precarious attempt at human interaction. Although I didn’t usually go to grocery stores to intermingle with my fellow denizens of over-stocked aisles and scuff-marked floors, I figured that I was due for a harmless conversation on the state of these artificial tomatoes.

“I like to get them on Wednesdays. The truck comes in Tuesday afternoon and the fruits are unloaded the next day. Always freshest to get them now.” I could feel my chest swell as I skipped through that conversational delight. My fellow interlocutor, inspecting the tomato that I put back in the display, didn’t respond right away. It was in her pause, in the interim of our introductory dialogue when I immediately took to her. Often, people are rushing to fill the silence. The vegetable girl, with her loaded cart and thin red lips, was content to simply let my words echo throughout the store. My words were to be unmoored to social conventions and obligatory meaningless, and for this they found no immediate harbour to rest in.

“I always come in on Wednesdays.” She left me with those words. I pondered and inspected those words as I kept by the tomatoes, staring down at the red, curvature of red tomato space. It was those words that would reinforce my habit of coming in early every Wednesday afternoon to the quaint grocery store.

Sometimes she would be there, other times it would just be me and the lonely aisles. Sometimes I would see the vegetable girl in the cereal channel, perusing the boxes with their sugary, gluten-loaded wonders. At other times I would walk in from the late summer heat, finding reprieve in the cool air of the grocery store air. She’d be at the counter already, checking out her overflowing cart. A few times after I missed our silent meeting, I began to note she always had four or six tomatoes of medium size and with the hint of ripeness in her cart. It was the tomatoes that would connect us once more. Every week my visits to the grocery store lasted longer and longer. I would wait by the tomatoes and call out to the cashiers and grocers who had grown to have names and personalities. Tom was the friendly one, Bella was the angry one, Frank was the timid one, and Don always had the air of exhaustion and barely concealed depression. They became my friends, along with the tomatoes, who were always red and bulbous.

It wasn’t until the warm air of August had been replaced by November’s chill that I finally spoke with vegetable girl again. Although we often saw one another, neither of us moved our pawns forward. She’d rattle down the aisles, usually opting for one damaged cart or another. While it was usually loaded with household food, this time her cart wasn’t nearly as full. In fact, the day that we reunited, her cart only kept a half a dozen, prime items. Golden shrimp rings and two bottles of wine, a pretentiously small box of crackers, and the baker’s choice of doughnuts and bagels. Still, I could tell it was her by the desperate motion of her cart, matched by the uncaring gliding of her steps. Were she not chained to the creaking cart, she’d be majestically striding down the aisles, picking up items and placing them gently in a dainty, green basket.

I was still standing by the tomatoes when her cart just nudged past me. “Sorry,” she shifted her cart a bit over, and looked up at me. This time, she said something more. Her voice wasn’t nearly as flat as it once was. Her lips, were fuller. Her hair was curly and bouncing now. I glanced away from the tomatoes and did my best to seem unconcerned by her cart touching the back of my warm, black jacket. It was a vicarious touch, and one that I would remember often as something almost messianic. “Oh, if it isn’t the tomato connoisseur, himself. I’ve been wondering if I would see you again.” Her laugh was one so unfamiliar and foreign to me. When I heard laughter, it was only canned and timed to the comedic beat of beautiful strangers trapped in my glowing box. This was a real laugh. Delicious, red, and juicy. Could I capture this laugh, myself? Perhaps I could take her and trap her in my glowing box, and whenever I looked out at the garden, I could play her melodious laughter and be reminded that some things couldn’t be entirely constrained.

I must’ve replied in a charming manner. She must’ve leaned against her cart, moving just a little bit closer to me. Her finger nails were long and red, digging into the plastic handle of her grocery cart. We must’ve spoken some more, and not only about the tomatoes. Our conversation had transcended the nativity grocery store. Now we were walking away from the tomatoes and down the aisle, conversing on topics pertinent to her life and mine. I remember this day in perfect detail, except for the conversation that shuttled her out of the store and into my bungalow. That conversation is lost in fragmentary echoes, perhaps still bouncing off the walls, confined to forever reverberate into indiscernible ripples in the closed air of that grocery store.

Vegetable girl became Cheryl. I got to see her more often than bi-weekly at the unnamed grocery store. Throughout the cold, snowless winter, she would arrive at my apartment in a lean jacket, and faded jeans. She never wore gloves, even though her hands were icy and frail. She’d slide out of her jacket and always placed it on the back of my leather, brown couch. For hours we kept ourselves occupied by the retrograde motion of our two, older, faintly warm bodies. We’d talk and converse as well, speaking in knowledgeable fashion on the state of our crumbling society. She had a tendency to disagree with me on nearly every facet of my strongly held positions. This too, was a joy. Her laugh was never mean or harsh, but rejuvenated my smile every time. She kept me sharp and on my toes. Her luminescent soul succeeded in brightening my home during those dark, frigid winter months. 

During the winter, she never saw my garden. I kept my blinds drawn in a futile attempt to keep the wind from penetrating into my abode. All my windows were closed. Since it was the winter, she must’ve known that I had good reasons for keeping my house so fastened and dark. It wasn’t until the end of winter that she finally tugged on the curtains and peeked into my garden. The trees were becoming green once again. The grass was shooting up in frivolous, joyful fashion. Birds and insects sang above the treetops and fought against one another in the warming breeze. Seeds and dust filled the air, swirling in capricious eddies.

When Cheryl did step outside to inspect the garden, it had been several months into the warmth of spring. Perhaps it was even summer, and the grass and trees were in full bloom. My garden, which had waited patiently during the interim of winter, was stretching out its green, voracious arms. It sang into the air, calling forth the animals and the vines to join in its unbridled revelry. Cheryl had heard the call too, and stepped out the backdoor. “You’ve untended the garden!” She took a few steps towards it and I stood behind her and watched her walk amongst the grass and wildlife of my backyard bio reserve. Though my yard was dense, it was just a narrow square, held back by wooden-panelled sentinels. If I could knock down those fences, I would’ve. I would’ve knocked down those brown, drying watchers and let the garden out into the expanses of the bustling city. Unfortunately, we were all confined to our allotments of land, in which we could only hope to grow vertically, before gravity instructed us back downwards.

I attempted to laugh in the same manner that she always did, observing as she paced around the garden’s perimeter, trying to find an entrance into the heart of it. “We have to take care of this, you know. If you don’t want to, then I’m going to.” She marched back up the stone path to the back of my house, where I lazily leaned against the closed backdoor. I tried to look past her, and over the brown fence, but it was so tall and unrelenting in its protective stance. The paint had nearly all been chipped away by the retributive forces of nature. Someday, unless a good carpenter set to fixing them, those fences would be unable to contain anything. They would fall to the ground and rejoin their for-bearers in the soil and dirt.

“Really, why don’t you tend the garden?” Cheryl had her arms crossed in the position of a criminal interrogator.

I didn’t answer right away. No, I didn’t like to talk about the garden and its wild, anarchistic nature. Finally though, after something unpleasant had been accomplished, I addressed her echoing question. “It’s not my garden, to tend anymore. I’ve been waiting for someone like you to tend it for me.” I took a few steps down the stone path, and then approached the garden. I leaned onto my creaky knees and bent down in front of the majestic chaos. This was the only other time I stepped into my backyard. I cupped a handful of dirt and tossed it aside. I relished the hard work of scooping out the dirt with my bare hands. The soil was at first warm and dry, but beneath the few inches of surface, there was that cool, wet loam that waited eagerly to be fed. And I so rarely fed it.

Cheryl lay on the stone path beside me, her lips were thin once more, smeared away of any red paint. Her hair was limp and frayed. I hadn’t dug too deep before I dragged vegetable girl off the stone path and into my garden. Her hair and limbs caught on the wild vegetation, but I wasn’t too concerned about that. Soon enough, all things would be rejoined to that lowly patch of dirt. I just barely covered her, leaving her arms and feet to stick out awkwardly. Though I loved her laugh, I had always enjoyed her silence more.

Now she, just like the others, would tend the garden.

It was in fact, what she had always wanted to do.

The Physicist

As a child, there was something I used to ponder. What would happen if you took a piece of paper, and cut it into smaller and smaller pieces? You could cut the paper in half, then cut one of those halves in half, and then one of those halves in half. So on and so on it would go. In my mind, I imagined an endless sequence of cutting halves of paper, always being able to make it just one bit smaller. Ad Infinitum.

How do you fit an eternity into a sheet of paper? It was such a brilliant mystery. Yet, with tiny fingers, I could never reach the conclusion to infinity. Eventually, all I was left with was a ball of pulp and sweat.

Then I learned of the molecule.

Atoms as well.

And then much more exotic concepts. Suddenly my little piece of white, crinkled paper had become the playing field for universal movements.

A gust of wind swept in from my right, knocking my thoughts out of my head. I turned to face my invisible foe, battering the face of the mountain. I couldn’t very well continue walking down this path without a break, so I decided to take a seat on the nearest park bench. It was a brisk autumn day. I zipped up my jacket, watching as my breath unfolded from my mouth into the crisp air.

I recollected my thoughts, snatching them out of the wind. I remembered what you had said to me a few years ago, “Might we someday regret pursing these answers? Sometimes I’ve wondered if it’s all really worth it. Should this incomprehensible madness really be made clear? I used to gaze up at the stars with such wonder and amazement. Now I keep my blinds shut at night.”

There was a time when I disagreed with you, vehemently so.

Now however, I was living at the toes of ancient mountains, steeped not in the din of man, but in idyllic nature. Chaotic nature. I’d stopped climbing up manmade ladders, only to find myself breathlessly clambering upwards the hierarchy of minerals. What greeted me at the pinnacle wasn’t a paycheque and adoration, but a spectacular view of the Rockies. A view nature never meant to afford me.

“Good afternoon,” a fellow hiker greeted me with a smile as he passed by on the trail. “Snow’s just starting to fall. You probably have a good hour before it gets really bad.” He maintained a smile, searching my face for commonality. Apparently not finding what he was looking for, he turned away with a brief wave and nod. 

I wasn’t the kind of person to engage a stranger in small talk. I also wasn’t the kind of person to go hiking around Lake Louise. Tucked away in my apartment, reading a book I’d studied multiple times before, I decided today was going to be a different kind of day.

“Have a good day, sir!” I called after the man, but he was already weaving down the final stretch of the path. Perhaps he heard me, perhaps he didn’t. Sound carries far in these lonely mountains. I glanced up the trail for a second chance, but saw that I was alone.

A different voice, not from the mountains, drifted through my mind, “Why are you leaving?” Not necessarily a query, more like a challenge despite its questioning form. A simple query, asked by many, but most importantly by you. You’d been the one to speak that question often, even when so much time and space separated us. Distance had never been difficult for you to overcome.

The drive from my little town, flooded seasonally by tourists, to this hiking trail had taken a matter of minutes.

The drive, the flight, and the escape from the bustling cities I used to live within, to the cold, fairly desolate Canadian wilderness had been a much longer affair. Spanning so many years. In those cities, I was ‘eminent in my field,’ someone who would be rewriting college textbooks for decades to come. The IV needle of knowledge, drip by drip feeding the rest of society. Out here in the wilderness, I was just another variable in the ecosystem, trying to find meaning in my niche.

Again I heard you asking the question, “Why are you leaving?” Although I’d never come up with a satisfactory answer for you, I’d come up with plenty of good reasons for myself.

Sometimes I wish I had never pondered that little piece of paper.

I’m forever grateful I met you. Sitting amidst piles of papers and textbooks, staring quizzically at your computer screen. How quickly did your brow unfurrow when you saw me. For just a little while, the questions didn’t nip at our toes. Formulas and equations were never more meaningless. It was in this momentary pause of our quest that something was found.

But this is too sappy to be spoken aloud. So I only thought it to myself during those days, which somehow managed to be months. Several millennia, if I’m honest. I never did tell you.

I stared up at the sky, and above it to the celestial bodies beyond. I saw white flakes fall all around me. I got up, shaking a few of the flakes from my head, and headed further up the trail. I was still breathing heavily, with every step I could feel the tension mounting in my legs and chest.

After twenty or so more minutes of hiking, I was lost in a world consisting of howling winds and sharp snowflakes.

“What happens when you cut a piece of paper into smaller and smaller pieces?” You stared up at me, half of your lips participating in a smile. “Reduction, of course.”

“Is that all?” I held out my hand to shield my face from the ice and snow. “Is that all?” I said it louder this time, desperately competing with the maelstrom.  I shouted it the next time. I screamed it the last time. No matter of intensity or loudness could break through the malevolent storm falling down upon me. I collapsed onto the dirt and snow of the hiking trail.

I collapsed into a simpler, brutal world.

An Introduction

Dear Reader,

Should this blog garner readers, a short introduction is in order. Though, out of spite or optimism, I’ll pre-empt this presumed readership with an introduction to myself, or to a lone, intrepid explorer of the internet’s less visited worlds. Whomever you may be, or may not be, I should just get on with it. Hopefully this rambling preface will serve as a taste for the stories this blog will provide.

I was tempted to write a blog on my feelings, worries, and concerns, but there’s enough of that already. So, instead, I’ll write some short stories and hopefully you enjoy them. If not, well this is the internet – the land of Contrarianism, so feel free to spew your vitriol and hurt my feelings. Do it, I dare you. If you find yourself on the more pleasant end of the spectrum, well, I suppose you should leave the internet immediately before that positivity is squeezed right out of you.

These stories I write will almost certainly not be happy ones, though a few grin-worthy reads might sneak their way in. I won’t limit myself to what I’ll write, except that erotica, fan-fiction, and pandering will hopefully be excluded. Unless I run out of money, in which case this blog will consist only of erotica, fan-fiction, and pandering.

This last paragraph, I’ll devote to a quasi-biography. I live in the frozen wastelands of Canada, a writer and pseudo-intellectual. Should I say more? No, I should think that’s enough. Hopefully my stories are good enough to allocate some of your time.

Yours sometimes,

Matthew D. Hay