THE SAGE PART TWO

The Sage was inchoate and distressed as he flew off into the darkness of the forest. He trundled through brackets and thistles. He wheeled into a thorn bush. He tripped on a root, he slipped on some moss, he fell down a long hill and hit his head on a rock at the bottom. When he woke, The Sage was staring up at the night sky and a smattering of stars.

Not only was The Sage spiritually lost but physically lost too. He’d wanted to go home almost as soon as he’d left, but now, after the stumbling and bushwhacking, and knocking his head, he had no clue where home was. To top it all off, he was heartbroken as well.

The Sage was inchoate and distressed as he flew off into the darkness of the forest. He trundled through bracken and thistles. He wheeled into a thorn bush. He tripped on a root, he slipped on some moss, he fell down a long hill and hit his head on a rock at the bottom. When he woke, The Sage was staring up at the night sky and a smattering of stars. 

Not only was The Sage spiritually lost but physically lost too. He’d wanted to go home almost as soon as he’d left, but now, after the stumbling and bushwhacking, and knocking his head, he had no clue where home was. To top it all off, he was heartbroken as well. 

He didn’t understand that his wife regretted her harsh words. But also, he wasn’t ready to change either. There were still too many questions to ask. At least The Sage was Sage enough to know that. 

“What has my life become?” He shouted into the darkness.  

“I’m empty.”  

He gnashed his teeth and wailed.   

But through his tears, The Sage saw a comet with a red tail burning. It traced crimson across the dome of the heavens, like a beetle crawling along the inside of a glass. He sat up and shrugged and figured he’d follow the falling star.  

So, he did.   

He picked his way through a polluted stream, filled with soggy paper cups, and the tangled skeleton of a discarded tent.  

“Yuck,” he murmured, stepping over the swirls of iridescent oil.  

“Wait!,” called a muffled voice. And when the Sage looked down, he saw floating in a puddle on the bank of the stream, a sick goldfish. It was one of those goldfish with bulbous foreheads.  

“Please,” called the fish. “I’ve been flushed. You gotta help me, man.”  

The Sage looked around and shrugged. He didn’t have anything on him but his clothes.  

“Sorry pal, no dice.”  

The goldfish wailed. “Come on! I don’t care what you put me in! Hold me in your mouth for all I care! I just gotta get outta here!”  

So, The Sage plucked a stretched out old condom from the riverbank. He rinsed it in the murky stream, filled it with water, and plopped the goldfish inside.  

“You won’t regret this!” bubbled the fish.  

“Sure thing,” sighed The Sage. He tied the latex shut with a snap and pushed it into his pocket.  

The Sage traveled for many days, through fields and forests and city blocks where people walked quickly with their heads hung low. All the while keeping his eye on that burning comet tail.  

One day, The Sage came to a hill, and as he climbed the hill, he started to cry. Fat salty tears poured from his eyes and into his dirty beard.  

“This might be it,” He wept to the fish. “This could be the end of the trip. I’m tired. I’m cold. I’m following a star. What the hell am I even doing up here?”  

“You’re just looking,” said the little voice from inside the condom, inside the Sage’s pocket. “That’s kind of all there is to do on a hill like this.”  

When Rhe Sage crested the hill, he gaped, astonished.  

At the top of the hill was a hot dog stand, and inside the hot dog stand was the young guy with kinky hair, and the woman with hot dog fingers.  

“What the hell,” cried the Sage. “What are you doing here?”  

“Well, I came up here after you told me to run to the top of a hill,” said the woman with hot dog fingers. “And once I got here, I was so tired I lay down and took a nap.”  

“And I came up here, because I was following the comet,” said the guy with the kinky hair.  

“And while I was sleeping,” continued the woman with the hot dog fingers, “a little white dog came and started chewing on my fingers.”  

“It was my dog,” said the guy with the kinky hair, astonished. “She found him! He loves hot dogs!”  

“And he’s not the only one,” said the woman with hot dog fingers, a little saucily. She held her hand up to The Sage, who was dazzled by a shiny engagement ring with a big fat stone in the middle.  

“I proposed on the spot,” said the guy with the kinky hair.  

“So, I left my husband, and bought this hot dog stand, and we live here now. My relationship’s way better with my kids, too,” said the woman with hot dog fingers. “Who’d have guessed–they just hated our fighting.”  

The Sage nodded slowly. “So, what you’re saying,” he said. “Is that I did this?”  

The couple blinked.  

“What?”  

“I’m responsible for this,” crowed the Sage. “I knew this would happen! My advice was good!”  

“I mean, I guess,” said the woman with hot dog fingers.  

“Yeah, well, it was kind of our own th–” said the young guy, but his fiancée elbowed him in the ribs.  

“He clearly needs this, Josh,” she hissed.  

And she was right. The Sage did need this. He cheered and whooped and fell to his knees in tears. He bid the happy couple farewell and ran down the hill and through the city squares, and the fields, and forests, and over streams and up cliffs, and finally made it to his old front door.  

“I’m home! I’m home,” he shouted.  

The Sage’s wife was happy to see him, but furious that he’d left. “Where the hell have you been,” she shouted. “I’ve been worried sick!”  

The Sage, being very old, took a long time to catch his breath.  

“You were right! I’m self-centred,” he gasped.   

“But I went on a long journey and I found this couple, and I’m the reason they’re together, and I’m NOT A FAILURE OF A SAGE ANYMORE!”  

The Sage’s wife looked skeptical, so The Sage produced from inside his pocket, the goldfish filled condom.  

“Here,” he said, handing it over. “I carried this goldfish in my pocket and I love him, and now I’m giving him to you, because I love you.”  

The Sage’s wife looked into the condom.  

“This goldfish is dead,” she said.  

The Sage opened and closed his mouth, looking at the fish. His wife was right. It was dead. Apparently goldfish don’t do well, crammed in a condom full of dirty water, in a crazy old man’s coat pocket.  

It was clear to The Sage’s wife that her husband was not reformed. He’d had his ego rebuilt, not washed away. But it was also clear to her that he was a ridiculous fool, and that was why she’d married him in the first place.  

“Listen,” she said. “This is all very nice. But I don’t care.”  

Then she hugged The Sage, and kissed his forehead, and left to tend to her salves, as he sat in wait for his next querent, pleasantly convinced that something had changed. 

“What has my life become?” He shouted into the darkness. 

“I’m empty.” 

He gnashed his teeth and wailed.  

But through his tears, the Sage saw a comet with a red tail burning. It traced crimson across the dome of the heavens, like a beetle crawling along the inside of a glass. He sat up and shrugged and figured he’d follow the falling star. 

So, he did.  

He picked his way through a polluted little stream, filled with soggy paper cups, and the tangled skeleton of a discarded tent. 

“Yuck,” he murmured, stepping over the swirls of iridescent oil. 

“Wait!,” called a muffled little voice. And when the Sage looked down, he saw floating in a puddle on the bank of the stream, a sick little goldfish. It was one of those goldfish with bulbous foreheads. 

“Please,” called the fish. “I’ve been flushed. You gotta help me, man.” 

The Sage looked around and shrugged. He didn’t have anything on him but his clothes. 

“Sorry pal, no dice.” 

The goldfish wailed. “Come on! I don’t care what you put me in! Hold me in your mouth for all I care! I just gotta get outta here!” 

So, the Sage plucked a stretched out old condom from the riverbank. He rinsed it in the murky stream, filled it with water, and plopped the goldfish inside. 

“You won’t regret this!” bubbled the fish. 

“Sure thing,” sighed the Sage. He tied the latex shut with a snap and pushed it into his pocket. 

The Sage traveled for many days, through fields, and forests, and city blocks where people walked quickly with their heads hung low. All the while keeping his eye on that burning comet tail. 

One day, the Sage came to a hill, and as he climbed the hill, he started to cry. Fat salty tears poured from his eyes and into his dirty beard. 

“This might be it,” He wept to the fish. “This could be the end of the trip. I’m tired. I’m cold. I’m following a star. What the hell am I even doing up here?” 

“You’re just looking,” said the little voice from inside the condom, inside the Sage’s pocket. “That’s kind of all there is to do on a hill like this.” 

When the Sage crested the hill, he gaped, astonished. 

At the top of the hill was a hotdog stand, and inside the hotdog stand was the young guy with kinky hair, and the woman with hot-dog fingers. 

“What the hell,” cried the Sage. “What are you doing here?” 

“Well, I came up here after you told me to run to the top of a hill,” said the woman with hot-dog fingers. “And once I got here, I was so tired I lay down and took a nap.” 

“And I came up here, because I was following the comet,” said the man with the kinky hair. 

“And while I was sleeping,” continued the woman with the hot-dog fingers, “a little white dog came and started chewing on my fingers.” 

“It was my dog,” said the guy with the kinky hair, astonished. “She found him! He loves hot-dogs!” 

“And he’s not the only one,” said the woman with hot-dog fingers, a little saucily. She held her hand up to the Sage, who was dazzled by a shiny engagement ring with a big fat stone in the middle. 

“I proposed on the spot,” said the guy with the kinky hair. 

“So, I left my husband, and bought this hot-dog stand, and we live here now. My relationship’s way better with my kids, too,” said the woman with hot dog fingers. “Who’d have guessed–they just hated our fighting.” 

The Sage nodded slowly. “So, what you’re saying,” he said. “Is that I did this?” 

The couple blinked. 

“What?” 

“I’m responsible for this,” crowed the Sage. “I knew this would happen! My advice was good!” 

“I mean, I guess,” said the woman with hot-dog fingers. 

“Yeah, well, it was kind of our own th–” said the young guy, but his fiancée elbowed him in the ribs. 

“He clearly needs this, Josh,” she hissed. 

And she was right. The Sage did need this. He cheered and whooped and fell to his knees in tears. He bid the happy couple farewell and ran down the hill and through the city squares, and the fields, and forests, and over streams and up cliffs, and finally made it to his old front door. 

“I’m home! I’m home,” he shouted. 

The Sage’s wife was happy to see him, but furious that he’d left. “Where the hell have you been,” she shouted. “I’ve been worried sick!” 

The Sage, being very old, took a long time to catch his breath. 

“You were right! I’m self-centred,” he gasped.  

“But I went on a long journey and I found this couple, and I’m the reason they’re together, and I’m NOT A FAILURE OF A SAGE ANYMORE!” 

The Sage’s wife looked skeptical, so The Sage produced from inside his pocket, the goldfish filled condom. 

“Here,” he said, handing it over. “I carried this goldfish in my pocket and I love him, and now I’m giving him to you, because I love you.” 

The Sage’s wife looked into the condom. 

“This goldfish is dead,” she said. 

The Sage opened and closed his mouth, looking at the fish. His wife was right. It was dead. Apparently goldfish don’t do well, crammed in a condom full of dirty water, in a crazy old man’s coat pocket. 

It was clear to the Sage’s Wife that her husband was not reformed. He’d had his ego rebuilt, not washed away. But it was also clear to her that he was a ridiculous fool, and that was why she’d married him in the first place. 

“Listen,” she said. “This is all very nice. But I don’t care.” 

Then she hugged the Sage, and kissed his forehead, and left to tend to her salves, as he sat in wait for his next querent, pleasantly convinced that something had changed. that something had changed. 

A TIMELY HAIKU

There’s nowhere to put

This fucking, fucking, fucking

Fucking, fucking snow

THE SAGE

Everyone came from far and wide to hear the soothes of the Sage. Citizens lined up from the door of his stone hut, down the path through his herb garden, past the river, and the mushrooms, and the lichen, and out to highway 8. All day long, the Sage gave them advice.  

In the beginning, when he was a young Sage, he could hardly believe his luck— he’d managed to make a career out of telling people what he thought. His father, a tax lawyer, had advised against it.  

“You want to be a Sage?” he’d sputtered. “Smarten up! What are you gonna do?  Sit out in the woods all day and think about stuff?”  

But somehow the Sage actually became a Sage. Of course, for many years, he had to wander the earth, growing his beard and learning about the truth, beauty and ugliness abundant in life. He’d had some rough times, lonely times, dirty times. But not anymore. Now he was a real, professional Sage.  

And he looked the part, too! He lived in a hut made of stones with his wife—a formidable woman who made tinctures and salves and smoked a pipe. He was scrawny and stooped, elbows and knees and angles, and his beard was long and filthy. He wore rags and ate only curds and whey and porridge. If people didn’t know any better, they’d think he was profoundly unwell.   

But he wasn’t. He was a Sage.  

Unfortunately, this Sage’s heart wasn’t in it.   

Between appointments, he would bet on sports on his phone or watch videos of people having sex. In his water bottle the Sage laced vodka. One time he got drunk and let the dog chew his divining bones, said to have been carved from the femur of a dragon. After that day, the Sage would cast futures on the old bones of a Costco rotisserie chicken.   

What was more egregious, though, was the quality of advice the Sage now gave. Once he was wise. Now, he was full of shit.  

“I’m worried that my kids resent me,” said a woman one day. She had short, stubby fingers that reminded the Sage of hot dogs.   

God, he thought through the warm heaviness of his vodka, what I wouldn’t do for a hotdog right now.  

“Ahem?” said the woman with hotdog fingers. “I said, I think my kids resent me. And my husband sucks,” she added for good measure.  

The Sage blinked. “An old mitten bears many holes,” he offered. “But luckily a hand has fingers.”  

“What the hell does that even mean?”  

The Sage presented his querent with a sachet of tea and a bright blue pebble from the aquarium store.   

“Steep both for a few minutes, stir counterclockwise and drink. Save the teabag. Jog five miles with the stone under your tongue. Jog to the top of the tallest hill you can find. Bury the teabag and swallow the stone. Your children will love you once more.”  

The woman with hotdog fingers left, a perplexed frown across her face.   

The Sage went back to his betting and porn.  

“I’m full of shit,” he complained to his wife one night. “People ask my advice and I make up baloney. I’m a fraud.”  

The Sage’s wife didn’t think he was a fraud, but she did find his despair trivial, and irritating.   

“You’re just burnt out,” she said. “You need a break.”  

“A break!” The Sage cried. “What do you think this is? I’m not a man who works as a Sage. I AM a Sage! I’m THE Sage. This is my vocation!”  

The sage’s wife opened her mouth to argue. She wanted to tell her husband he was just a self-involved child. Then there was a knock on the door.  

When the Sage opened the door, there stood a young guy with a halo of kinky hair.  

“What?” asked the Sage.  

“It’s my dog,” said the young guy with kinky hair. “He’s lost. I love that dog. That dog gives me a reason to wake up in the morning. The other day, I came downstairs to feed him, and he was just gone.”  

“Just gone?”  

“Just gone.”  

The Sage chewed on this information.  

“I’ve been sitting on my porch for three days straight, waiting for him to come home,” said the young guy. “I want to look, but I just don’t know where to start.”   

He gestured around the deep dark forest.   

“He could be anywhere.”   

The young man rubbed a tear from his cheek.   

“Sage, if I don’t find him soon, I’m going to walk off into these trees and never come back.”  

The Sage was tired. He wanted to go to bed. He wanted to smack the young guy with the kinky hair in the face and tell him to go away, but then the Sage had the first stroke of wisdom he’d caught in a long while. He looked into the young man’s big, beautiful eyes, and he saw in there that he was telling the truth. He saw that if this guy didn’t find his dog, or at least start looking for him, he would actually do it. He’d walk out into the trees, and never come back.   

But it was hard to find a solution. And he was tired.  

Then the Sage caught his second stroke of wisdom. He looked over the guy’s shoulder and into the sky, where a comet was burning across the heavens.  

“See that?” He asked.  

The guy nodded.  

“Your dog’s chasing that comet. If you run after it, you’ll find him.”  

“Thank you. You won’t regret this!” Then the young guy turned on his heel and ran off into the woods, and the Sage went back to bed, and his betting, and his internet porn, and his terrible advice, and complaining to his wife, and his self-hatred and aimlessness.  

As days trickled into weeks, and weeks to months, the Sage’s dismissal of the young man began to eat him away like mold. After a while, the Sage just couldn’t take it anymore. Despair finally hit him one afternoon, when he looked around his hut, and everything seemed to be flat, like cardboard props on a stage play.  

“I’m horrible,” he cried, clutching his wife’s elbow. “That poor man! All he wanted was his missing dog, and I sent him after a shooting star!” He shook her, causing her to spill the serum of nettle she was working to distill. “My life is a lie!”  

“I’ve had it with you,” said the Sage’s wife. “You’re right! You are horrible! You’re full of shit and you’re a pain in my ass.”  

“Fine,” he hollered, flying into a rage. “I’m going out into the forest. I might just lay down and die!”  

“Sure you will,” grumbled his wife, turning back to her nettles. Then she felt bad and tried to turn and give the Sage a warm look, but he was already gone.  

He had wandered out into the night.  

THESEUS’ SHIP

Did you know you can get appendicitis twice? The trick is to not get surgery for the first time. If you catch it early enough and you ask nicely, the doctors will give you antibiotics instead. Then you get to lay in bed for a few days, smelling horrible and eating Jello. 

My first round of appendicitis came when I quit my job. I worked as a guidance counselor at my old high school. I used to joke with my students that I’d been in grade 12 for 40 years. 

One afternoon, Melanie Bloom came into my office and told me she wanted to drop grade 11 physics so she could take shop. 

“Melanie,” I explained, “that has nothing to do with your career path.” 

Melanie shrugged. “I want to be a taxidermist. I need shop.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” I began, but Melanie wasn’t listening. 

“Shop,” she said. “And taxidermy.” 

“You can’t just change like that,” I said. 

“Yes, I can.” 

Something in her tone hit a nerve. 

“Listen, you little snot,” I said, jabbing Melanie in the chest with my finger. “You think you know what’s best for you, but you don’t. I am your guidance counselor.” 

Melanie scoffed.  

“You don’t do shit. I’ll probably change careers like fifty times.” 

I gasped.  

“Then who will you be, Melanie? Nobody! That’s who!” 

Turned out, Melanie’s father was on the school board. I got a call letting me go that night. 

It was a weird sensation. I never cared about my job, didn’t need the money, but  I was horrified. Like when someone you never talked to dies and you start wondering if you could have been friends. A pain twisted  my in belly, and I went to the hospital. 

They said it was my appendix. I said I was too scared. I asked them not to operate; they gave me antibiotics. No surgery. 

… 

Yesterday, I walked to my old high school. I saw Melanie from outside the chain-link. I wanted to check in on things. 

“What are you doing here?” She asked. 

I chuckled. “I got appendicitis.” 

“Oh,” she said, picking a pimple on her chin. “That sucks.” 

“So, how’s your year going now?” I said, changing the subject. “Still taking physics?” 

The bell rang. 

“What?” she asked, already walking away. “No. I gotta go! I can’t miss shop!” 

Then there was a pain so bad in my stomach that I fell over. The last thing I remember was Melanie walking across the grass. 

… 

I wake up in my old office at my desk, and I’m wearing a hospital gown, a hair net, and little booties like a hazmat suit.  

“Hey,” buzzes the receptionist from my desk phone. “You’ve been avoiding this one for too long. I’ve got to send him in.” 

There’s a click, and the door barely creaks open and in slithers a fleshy, pinkish, slime-covered worm. It crawls up the chair across from me and sits. 

It’s my appendix. 

“Hello, friend.” 

I drum my fingers on the tabletop. “Is everything okay?” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” hisses the appendix. 

“Language,” I warn. 

“We’re past language.” It shakes what I guess is its head. “You’re abandoning me!” 

I sigh. “You exploded. What could I do?” 

“Keep me. Like, in a jar!” 

“I think they have to test you for cancer and then destroy you.” 

The appendix gasps. 

“What?” I ask, hands splayed on the table. “You were killing me!” 

“I was not!” The appendix shrieks. “You were killing yourself. I was just the part of you getting ill. That’s how appendicitis works, asshole.” 

“That’s kind of beside the point,” I shrug. 

The appendix gasps. “I can’t believe you.” 

“Bottom line,” I say, “is if I didn’t get you removed, we both would have died. Doesn’t matter who made who sick.” 

The appendix looks away sniffing. “I just don’t get it. After all we’ve been through, how could yo–” 

I lean back, losing patience. “Oh, don’t do that.”  

“I have been a part of you since you were born,” sobs the appendix. 

“We were never really that close,” I say. 

The appendix shudders. “Now you’re just being hurtful.” 

I narrow my eyes. “What exactly do you do?” 

“Too far!” gasps the appendix. “You know how that question makes me feel.” 

“Well?” I say. “What are you for? I googled it, and not even scientists understand what you do.” I scoff. “You talk about all we’ve been through, but I wouldn’t even know you exist if you hadn’t filled up with shit and burst. Before yesterday, you were totally useless to me, and now, all you are is a huge, rotting pain!” 

Silence hangs. 

“‘Useless to you,’” the appendix repeats hollowly. “Wow.” 

“You know, in Latin, your name just means ‘hanger on?’” I ask. “At the most basic level, you’re just dead weight.” 

“Fuck you!” 

“Fuck you, too.” 

“You know,” the appendix gulps. “You know, being dragged around by your megalomaniacal ass all these years hasn’t been a cake walk? The whole reason I blew up in the first place is because you’re so full of shit. I couldn’t stand it anymore.” The appendix squirms out of the chair and splats onto the floor. “Trying to control other people, hanging on to shit you don’t even care about. Maybe, if you listened to yourself, like, 40 years ago, we wouldn’t be here.” It slithers across the tiles and slams the door as it leaves. 

I’m astonished. “What am I going to do?” I say into the desk phone. “I’m a terrible guidance counselor.” 

“Ever heard of Theseus’ ship?” My receptionist buzzes back. 

“No.” 

“Well, there’s this boat, belongs to a guy named Theseus. Over the years, he’s got to replace parts. A plank here, a screw there, whatever. After like ten years, nothing is original anymore. All new parts. The question is, is it still the same boat?” 

I scratch my head. “Did he sell the ship?” 

“Nope.” 

“Then it’s still Theseus’ ship.” 

“Bingo.” 

#appendix #Cancer #hazmatSuit #JessiWood #melanieBloom #shortFiction #surgery #tabletop #taxidermist

THE GLIMMERING SOMETHING HE ALWAYS CRAVED

The store was a mess when I arrived. Strewn pumps and stilettos and, in the middle of it all, twisted wings, blood pooling like spilled oil—a crow, haloed by shattered glass. 

My stomach was a pit: I recognized the white patch on his chest. This is Charlie. 

Janelle, the ratty shopgirl, said something, muffled by the roaring in my ears. It couldn’t be Charlie. Charlie, my lunch break companion. Charlie, who coveted bits of foil. I even gave him my engagement ring after my husband passed—skydiving accident near Lake Superior. His chute was faulty, rigged. I was a wreck when that happened. Yikes. I’d tried to sue the skydiving company, then the instructor, then the people I’d bought him the parachute from. I’d even gone after the pilot.  

“He knew the risks, Ms. Rothscowitz. He loved the sport, and he knew the risks.” 

Without Charlie, I’d have lost my mind for sure. 

“He wouldn’t have hit the window.” I heard myself say. 

“What?” Jenelle said. 

“Too smart,” I murmured. 

And I was right. Charlie knew when my lunch breaks were.  

He could unwrap a caramel. The window couldn’t fool him. I looked around the ruined store. Someone did this.  

“What a mess.” It was Corbin, the store owner. Gaunt, tired eyes. He gestured at the flapping banner beyond the broken glass. “On sale day too.” 

I sobbed. Sale day. Just yesterday, I’d given Charlie one of the shiny brass tacks I’d used to hang the banner. 

“She’s gonna freak,” Janelle hissed to Corbin. I wiped my eyes. 

“Well,” Corbin stammered, shrilly. “Anything with blood’s gotta go. And, the bird,” he added nervously. 

Janelle fell to collect the ruined shoes. “I’m vegan,” she explained, slinging the black plastic bag over her shoulder and leaving me with Charlie. 

I picked up the carnage. Charlie must’ve been thrown, I reasoned. He wouldn’t have flown into the window. Someone must have thrown him. 

I looked at his body again and sobbed. I couldn’t work like this. I lifted him into a shoebox and rushed outside. 

Across the asphalt, Janelle was rummaging near the dumpster. 

“What are you doing?” I asked, creeping up behind her. 

Quickly, she shoved the bag of ruined shoes into a bush. “He said to sell them anyways!” 

I gasped. 

Janelle touched my arm. “Listen,” she pleaded. “We can split the profits!”  

I flinched away, imagining traces of Charlie’s blood on my cardigan.   

“Murderer!” My pulse pounded in my ears. “Want the shoes for yourself, so you cover them in blood, make it look like a mistake!”  

Janelle blinked, feigning confusion. “Sorry?” 

“Murderer,” I shouted again, speeding towards the office. 

“Crazy bird bitch!” Janelle shouted behind me. 

“It was Janelle!” I shouted, bursting into the office. “She threw Charlie through the window! For the shoes!” 

Corbin frowned. “What?” 

I took a breath. “She broke the window, smeared Charlie’s bloo–” 

“Charlie?” 

I held up the box. 

Corbin paled. “Lenore, no.” 

“She–” 

“Lenore!” Corbin rubbed his eyes. “Please.” 

“She killed him! For the shoes!” 

“As far as I’m concerned, those shoes are garbage.” Corbin shook his head. “Please. You’re telling stories again. A bird hit a window. Take a seat outside and come back when you’re calm.” 

I sat in the parking lot, shaking. Micah, the lanky warehouse boy, eyed me from the railing. Usually, Charlie perched on that railing. 

Most days Micah cawed at me and threw crumbs of bread like I was a pigeon. Today, he spoke. 

“The insurance’ll be nuts.”  

I straightened. Insurance.  

A line of ants marched between his feet, and he began crushing them. “Like, really nuts” 

Yes. Too good to be true. The way he smeared the poor bugs made me think: Janelle was opportunistic, skeevy, but no killer. Her words echoed back to me: 

“I’m vegan.” 

Corbin though. A failing business could drive people to murder, no doubt about it. But I needed proof 

“I’m going to the restroom,” I said. 

Micah grunted. 

Corbin was at lunch. I had to act quickly. I crept towards the office door and darted inside. 

Corbin’s desk looked like the work of a deranged mind: papers, receipts, reminders, crushed empty coffee cups. I stood transfixed. He must have been the killer. 

“Lenore?” 

My head snapped up. Hulking and backlit was the stooped silhouette of Corbin.  

I opened and closed my mouth. Then, with a steadiness I cannot explain, I spoke. 

“I know about the insurance scheme.” 

“What are you talking about?” He stepped into the darkness. Despite the desk between us, my heart hammered. I could picture Corbin’s hairy hands squeezing the life out of poor, shivering Charlie. 

“You killed Charlie.” My voice was impossibly calm. “For the insurance on the store. I know about people like you, hurting innocent people to make a buck. When my Edgar–” 

“Lenore,” Corbin said slowly. “I don’t even have an insurance policy.” 

The silence was crushing.  

I stood, frozen. “No insurance policy?” 

He shook his head. “This is ridiculous. You’re fired. Leave your name tag and go.” 

I put the shiny brass tag on his desk, fighting back tears as I ducked through the still ruined shoe store. If they had no insurance, why kill Charlie? Why all this blood and shattered glass? 

Janelle scowled as I passed, my neck red with shame, and it hit me:  

Crazy crow bitch. Telling stories again. Micah’s taunting caws. This wasn’t for insurance. It was far simpler: they wanted me to go. 

My reeling thoughts froze when I got to the SALE banner. 

Before me was a wall of glitter, a shining, shimmering expanse. For the first time, I saw the world through my friend’s eyes, and it was magical. 

I’d been wrong: Charlie hadn’t been thrown away. He’d seen the shine and plunged through it. No scheme to resell shoes. No phony insurance claim. No mystery. 

But there was a killer. With tacks and a hammer, I’d laid this trap. 

At first, I was wracked with sobs, but the minutes passed, and my wailing did too.  

I realized that Charlie died happy. He died chasing that glimmering something he’d always craved. 

#fiction #halloween #jessiWood #lenore #shortStory #zackMason

SOCIAL MEDIA AND OUR FINACIAL MINDSETS

I often joke that if I were made king of the world, my only act would be to ban social media before quickly renouncing the throne. It’s a joke most of the time—except when it isn’t (all the time). I dislike the medium for many reasons, and if you catch me outside with time to spare, I’ll gladly list them all. For now, I want to focus on just one: the way social media affects our financial health. In my last piece, I mentioned that one thing I wish I had done in my early 20s was leave social media behind.  

The Medium is the Message  

Social media is inextricable from our lives now, so it’s easy to forget what it’s made of and designed for. Beneath all the communication is a relentless stream of content engineered to overwhelm, to keep us consuming. Unlike other mediums which allow space for reflection and doubt around the information being presented, social media rewards speed and confidence. It thrives on sharp, brash soundbites that hook our nervous system and attention through fear or anger.  

This isn’t to say there’s no good financial advice on TikTok or Instagram—there is—but the medium matters. A book like The Psychology of Money by Morgan Housel or I Will Teach You to Be Rich by Ramit Sethi allows the space to close the book after a chapter, a sentence, or a word to reflect on if what is being presented is accurate and if it applies to your unique situation. On TikTok, the next video plays before you’ve had a chance to process.  

Attention  

How do you even know what matters to you?   

I grew up with opinionated parents—whenever I came to them excited about an idea, they’d quickly suggest a dozen ways to “make it better,” usually without fully understanding what I was trying to do (although they would disagree). I’d leave the conversation feeling overwhelmed, paralyzed.   

This is what social media feels like to me. You want to get better at money so you look up content, and you are inundated with five million opinions, usually conflicting and impersonal, about what you should do right now!   

But healthy money habits require solitude, adjustiment and curiosity. They require reclaiming your attention. How many times have you been down a wormhole on the internet only to come up feeling loopy about the four hour scrolling session? You have to step back from the noise, ask yourself what matters and get clear on your own priorities. Once you have that clarity, it becomes easier to ignore the fear-driven side of personal finance content. The part that pushes FOMO and instant gratification.  

Our Financial Goals are Often Communal  

One of my best friends lives in the building across from me, and another is my roommate. Between us, we own three cars—purchased at different points in our lives when driving was more efficient due to the poor public transportation options. Each car came with the same story: at first, the convenience, then the sharp burden of maintenance costs. I’ve wondered what life would look if we thought of some of these things as communal versus individual goals.  

Lately, I’ve become a kind of evangelist in my friend group. Not about religion but about living together. Every time we gather, the conversation turns to despair: How will we ever afford homes, families, stability, in an economy that feels like it’s always crumbling?  

And while those fears are valid, I try to remind us of something else our parents had: community.  

Growing up, there was always an aunt, uncle, or grandparent nearby. A neighbour’s parent picked us up from school and made sure we were fed before our parents returned from their long days at work. Families overlapped; responsibilities were shared. That communal safety net made financial goals more sustainable.  

Those structures are weaker today. Social media didn’t cause that loss, but it amplified it. It flattened our relationships, made us strangers, and fed on our loneliness. I often wonder: what if we organized life differently? What if we valued community over career growth, connection over moving in search of more pay? What if we chose to live with, and for, the people we love—rather than isolating ourselves in single-family boxes? 

#CHIDINMAMBANEFO #Finance #financialGoals #iWillTeachYouToBeRich #JessiWood #mediumIsTheMessage #personalFinance #psychologyOfMoney

ZAPPED

Every day, the inflatable tubeman flailed in advertisements of “USED CARS,” and “HOT DEALS”.

“DREAM CARS!” read his sign. “HIGH END! CHEAP!”

Cars screamed past at horrifying speeds and he flailed until six o’clock when Wilf, the owner, would flick the big red switch at the tubeman’s base and watch his long orange body wilt.

One day the tubeman watched a woman pull into the dealership. She was grinning and pear shaped, with a floppy hat. She had ringlets of grey curls and thick cateye glasses and lots of red lipstick and she was absolutely radiant with joy.

“Wilfieeeeee,” she squealed, bouncing into the dealership.

Six o’clock came and went and Wilf didn’t come out to turn off the tubeman.

As the sales team left, and darkness crept over the parking lot, the tubeman’s flailing became imperceptibly panicked. Traffic thinned, and his wide eyes got wider. His inviting grin shifted to teeth gritting terror. Wilf always turned him off before sunset, and, as dusk rolled in, the tubeman thought the world was ending.

But as the stars came out, and bats flitted in the cool air the tubeman gazed in awe and wondered at the night, this cool, quiet, peaceful thing he’d never experienced before. He was struck.

Finally, Wilf and the woman strolled outside. She was holding his arm, and Wilf sauntered with a straight back.

“Tammy,” Wilf said.

“Yes?” Tammy had lipstick smeared all across her teeth.

“I know it’s silly,” he started. His grey moustache trembled. “We hardly know each other, but you make me feel young again.”

“Wilfie!” Tammy planted a huge, wet kiss right on Wilf’s lips. When she finally pulled away, the two panted, Wilf with a big smear of red across his mouth.

Tammy was breathless.

“I feel like I’m in my forties again! Or my twenties! Or high school! Quick,” she said. “Let’s screw in my car!”

The tubeman had no idea what ‘screw’ meant, but as the blue car began to rock and the windows fogged, he watched with equal parts horror, joy and amazement.

For the next couple weeks, Wilf came to work with a sparkle in his eye. He started wearing a tight red golf shirt and would pause at his reflection in the dealership door.

Things continued like this. Every day at lunch, Tammy came bouncing into the dealership, Wilf’s name operatic on her lips. She’d tip her hat at the tubeman flailing in the heat. She and
Wilf giggled, and kissed and screwed in Tammy’s car, always leaving the tubeman on, to whirl blissfully in the night air.

Then Wilf came to work with tension in his walk. When he glanced at his reflection in the dealership door, he glanced quickly, like he was touching something hot and didn’t want to burn his fingers. He tugged at his red golf shirt where it was tucked into his khakis.

At lunch when Tammy arrived, her gaze was downcast. She didn’t tip her hat at the tubeman, and she slouched into the dealership, hands clasped in front of her.

She left a few minutes later, wiping her eyes with the backs of her soft hands. Tammy wasn’t bouncing at all.

“Wait!” Wilf called, running after her. “Don’t worry, it was silly, I’ll return them.”

“Acupulco’s not the point,” Tammy called from her car. “I thought we were on the same page!”

She left.

Wilf hung his head and cried, fat tears marking his red golf shirt.

After that day, an urgency filled Wilf like a fan was blowing it in. His movements were calm, but inside, Wilf was flailing.

The boxes came on trucks and they were beige and unassuming and anonymous. But inside, they contained bright colours, tassels, grins. Wilf was buying dozens of tubepeople.

His employees gossiped and frowned, but he carried on, plugging them in and standing back as they unfurled into wriggling life. By the end of a month, Wilf had 23.

One night, after everyone left, Wilf came out and sat under his 23 tubepeople, swigging a bottle of rye.

“It makes sense,” he grimaced. “She wanted to screw in her car, and I wanted to have dinner and take her and her daughter to Acupulco.”

The tubepeople spun around him.

“Guess,” he said, hiccuping. “Guess I just thought at our age, we’d have something a little steadier.”

Night was falling, and the tubepeople’s twisting bodies cast long shadows on the pavement. Fireflies were starting to wink, and the day’s heat radiated against the night’s coolness.

Wilf rubbed his nose. “When I was seventeen years old, I was doing dishes. Our kitchen looked out on this big field of the people next door, covered in muck and chopped off corn stalks. There were a few clouds in the sky, but it wasn’t even raining, and I saw our neighbour, Tom, walking out across that field, and all the sudden, he got struck by lightning.”

Wilf took a long drink and burped through his nose.

“Bolt just hit him in the head, and his body went writhing around, like he was one of you. But I swear to god, maybe it was the electrical current making his muscles go funny, but he was smiling the whole time. Like this.”

Wilf looked up at the tubepeople, grinning.

The tubepeople grinned back.

“When I met Tammy, I felt like neighbour Tom. Like something great and magnificent had come out of nowhere and smote me, and all I could do was flail around and smile. But now that she’s left, I feel the same way– totally zapped.”

Wilf went to drink again, but found the bottle empty. He giggled, slumped back on the steps, and started to snore.

The tubepeople didn’t really understand Wilf’s point. Actually, they didn’t understand anything at all. But they enjoyed his company and the cool night air. And as Wilf drifted off into his drunken stupor, he did too, his broken heart easing in the grove of multicoloured flailing bodies.

#Cars #Fiction #flailing #JessiWood #multicoloured #olderAdults #relationships #story #tubepeople #ZackMason

OUT OF THE BOX COUNSELLING CATERS TO MARGINALIZED COMMUNITIES

Out of the Box Counselling and Collaborations is a counseling and support
service for Two Spirit, LGBTQIA+, Neurodivergent and Nonspeaking people, and those who love them. They provide one-on-one counseling, group counseling, Spelling to Communicate (S2C) work and workshops rooted in principles of Indigenous sovereignty, anti- oppression, Disability, Trans and Queer rights. Their mission is to reframe disability and celebrate the diverse ways people live, love, and think.

Out of the Box was originally conceived in 2021 by Krystal Hilchey-Muise. As a Neurodivergent and Queer person, Hilchey-Muise was struggling to find a work environment that was accessible to them. They wanted to create a Neurodivergent-affirming space for clients and decided to start
a practice that aligned with a framework of Disability justice,

Neurodivergent affirming, Queer affirming, decolonial and anti- oppressive values.

“What [Hilchey-Muise] was being told to offer in some of their past work environments wasn’t what [Neuroqueer] clients were needing,” Monica van Schaik, Hilchey-Muise’s business partner, said.

Van Schaik joined Out of the Box the next year in 2022 after completing their master’s thesis on Dyslexic narratives of Neurodiversity.

“Our collaboration together is so based on our neurotypes,” van Schaik said. “There are certain things that [Hilchey-Muise is] super good at that they do, and there are certain things that I’m good at that they struggle with.”

Their own Neuroqueer identities are part of what make Hilchey-Muise and van Schaik well suited to their work. They have a personal understanding of where their clients come from.

Rather than approaching the counseling they give from a position of authority, they offer guidance in a non- hierarchal way, drawing on lived experiences as well as their extensive training and education to help their clients.

Mirroring their own journeys, they seek to help people understand and accept themselves in a culture that often forces assimilation. “We actually have diversity within the human community, and we’re looking to figure out how to embrace that,” van Schaik said. “What does it mean to be ourselves? What does it mean to learn about ourselves when we haven’t been provided with opportunities to do so? Because the focus is often on how to fix us, to make us someone else.”

For more information, visit https://outoftheboxcounselling. ca/.

#decolonial #disability #hilcheyMuise #indigenousSovereignty #JessiWood #LGBTQIA_ #neurodivergent #nonSpeakingPeople #outOfTheBoxCounselling #queerRights #trans #twoSpirit #vanSchaik #ZackMason

Eyelash man #18

Eyelsh Man #18: “Poop Bird”

“I may be 50,000$ in debt, but at least my gaggle thinks I’m a know-it-all…”

WILMOT A.I. LAND GRAB

In March 2024, Wilmot landowners and farmers were notified by the Region of Waterloo that their land was being expropriated. Land that goes on the intersection of Nafzinger Rd. To Bleams Rd. were forcibly put for sale for the use of future industrial projects. On August 7, 2025, QScale AI announced they shortlisted Wilmot Township as a potential host for their data center.  

“it’s horrifying to see our regional and provincial government is still moving forward with this absurd Wilmot farmland assembly, when they admit they haven’t got a customer,” Kevin Thomason, Vice Chair of the Grand River Environmental Network, said.  

On May 2025, The Region of Waterloo secured over 70 per cent of the land in Wilmot Township. In only its second news conference on the matter, the Region continues its plans to create an industrial site for future use. QScale has not released a timeline for a decision on their Ontario expansion and how many potential jobs there will be for the data centre site yet. 

“In the face of Donald Trump’s tariffs and everything happening around the world, the odds of a large global EV company coming to set up a massive battery plant in Wilmot looks to be about zero, and it just seems absurd that when taxpayers money is so tight, they continue to waste millions,” Thomason said.  

A local group called Best WR which includes presidents of local chambers of commerce wrote an open letter in April 2024 supporting the region’s plans. They said business opportunities would grow if the land assembly were to proceed.  

“And it’s unfortunate, because it doesn’t have to be this way. We have proper planning. We have proper planning rules.  And yet, of course, all of that has been completely ignored and upended,” Thomason said.  

In its Quebec campus, QScale has a capacity for over 142 megawatts of power. It has 266 megavolt amperes and 120 kilo-vault electrical substations. The power from the substation supports the growth of AI and high-performance computing (HPC).  

“The government can come and just take land to destroy it, some of best farmland in the province. [Which means] they can come and take anyone’s land with no proper process, no consultations or First Nations engagement. It’s just utterly appalling,” Thomason said.  

On Feb. 13, 2025, the Wilmot Civic Action Network held a community meeting regarding the Wilmot land assembly. There, community members and leaders discussed the impacts of the proposed expropriation, reviewed recent expert survey results and discussed next steps as a community.  

“If this land expropriation goes through, it will destabilize the agricultural industry in all of Waterloo Region,” Suzanna Compton, a lifelong Wilmot resident and writer, said.  

The WiImot Civic Action Network or WilmotCAN is a group of residents of the Township of Wilmot and surrounding communities that fosters positive community action. They consistently speak about WIlmot being an unwilling host to the the potential QScale expansion.  

“I know so many farmers that are bursting at the seams to expand their business, but they do not feel like they can because they are so close to the WIlmot Land Assembly,” Compton said.  

Members of WIlmotCAN have worked with FIght for Farmland to criticize the Region of Waterloo’s continued efforts to acquire farmland. Neither organization have nothas been able to reach out to their local government officials for project information or a comment.  

“The countryside line, where the land expropriation is, is Waterloo Region’s greenbelt. It is a hard line that says development may go this far and no further,” Compton said.  

#AdrianQuijano #AI #bestWR #bleams #dataCenter #JessiWood #KevinThomason #landExpropriation #nafzinger #qscale #quebec #suzannaCompton #townshipOfWilmot #Wilmot #wilmotcan