A Children's Epic Poem...

Ojimbapowala and the History of the Bermuda Triangle

By Laura Farnham

Draft One: August 13, 2012

 For Ewan

Come closer, young children, I’ll tell you a tale

That will thrill your minds and chill your bones

Leaving you sitting as I start to sail

On rough slanted rhymes and shifting tones.

Within the Atlantic, between palm trees and sands

’Midst rough crashing waves and winds of dread

Lies a frightening spot hiding near lands

Where ne’er a sailor nor pilot dare tread.

What fear, what dismay come across those who go

From Bermuda’s south shores crossing perilous coasts

In a place unchartered by any brave soul

Whose mysterious death the waters may boast.

It is told by those who live near these waters

When the first of the horrors began long ago

In the time when the first of their daring forefathers

Insulted the beast of the depths down below.

You see, boys and girls, there once was a time,

Back before even your parents can tell,

When monsters and giants lived with our kind

And for the most part got along very well.

These monsters were beasts of extraordinary size

Breathing fire or covered with claws just like steel

Some with three heads or five hundred eyes

Who’d gobble up six dozen sheep for a meal.

Of these were six great siblings of might

Some known in our great histories to this day

But one now forgotten was hardest to fight

And his name makes the bravest to fall in dismay.

Eldest of these was Typhoeus the dragon

By Zeus’s proud thunderous roar he was cast

Into Tartaros’ depths, the Greeks’ darkest prison

Though his winds and storms from his cell still blast.

Four still remain, being gentle and mild

Seen now and again so we do not forget:

Ogopogo and Manipogo will swim in the wild

In Canadian lakes where no trouble is met.

The Chinese know well of the dragon Jiaolong

Who could seem as a crocodile or even a man.

And the young one is Nessie, whose fame is lifelong

She swims through the murk of the loch as she can.

But last of these six, I dread say his name,

For who can pronounce it, the sounds make me weep,

Twelve letters that make my insides aflame:

Ojimbapowala, the beast of the deep.

Ojimbapowala was king of the seas

Who controlled all the monsters and men of this world

None could sail ’cross the oceans nor do as he please

Else the mighty king’s wrath caused the waters to swirl.

But down in Bermuda lived a wise man, Gim

Who’d had enough of the tyrants cruel ways

He wanted to sail to the lands beyond him

And travel the world all the rest of his days.

Gim’s family would warn of the king’s dreadful spite

Towards any who dared disobey his commands.

“Stay here,” they warned, “take a beautiful wife,

while Ojimbapowala knows naught of your plans.”

But Gim was too wise and too curious to obey

And Ojimbapowala was still far away

Wrecking havoc near India’s far eastern bay

Knowing fear would inspire their minds to stay.

So Gim, being daring, built a raft out of trees

Using strong vines to tie the trunks into one

The people all watched as he launched in the sea

Shocked and amazed such a thing had been done.

Encouraged by Gim’s brave and wise heart,

The people of Bermuda began hatching a plan

“Let us all, inspired, at once take a part:

Ojimbapowala will fear a man!”

Gim sailed south to Puerto Rican sands

Paddling up waves and past giant fish

But nothing could keep his heart from those lands

He knew that his courage would grant him his wish.

But Ojimbapowala soon learned of the feat

And raging he questioned the great quest of Gim.

“Who is this who dares my anger to meet?

I shall surely soon find and destroy foolish him.”

And so he rushed forth, swimming perilously fast

And the fish and good monsters were caught in his wake.

As Ojimbapowala approached Gim’s small mast

All the creatures around him began to quake.

Ojimbapowala rose out of the sea

His great dragon’s head towered over Gim’s raft.

With strong scales and teeth, he awaited Gim’s plea

To be forgiven for his daring and blasphemous craft.

But Gim stood up tall and shouted to the king,

“I will not stand aside, I will follow my heart!

This tyrannous reign will give you nothing

And your hateful deeds will rip you apart!”

Ojimbapowala stood silent in hate,

And wanted to kill Gim as a warning to all.

Then the monsters near, whose numbers were great

Gathered together and issued a mighty war call.

“Enough of Ojimbapowala!” They cried,

And all attacked as one giant swarm

Thrashing and biting at the king’s massive side

As Ojimbapowala caused the ocean to storm.

And just as the monsters thought they’d be defeated

A great shout was heard from the north and the south!

The people for years had been sorely mistreated

And gathered to still the great dragon’s wide mouth.

In ships they had built for Gim’s brave inspiration

They threw rocks and stones at the king’s massive head.

And Ojimbapowala was filled with frustration

As attacked from all sides, he thought he’d be dead.

But Gim, being wise, was merciful too

And pitied the monster as he bled in the sea.

“Hold!” He cried as the winds gently blew,

“And leave our king’s terrible fate to me.”

And Gim begged the men and monsters obey

And create a great prison to control the king’s powers.

And in the midst of the battle they did not delay

They worked on the strong giant prison for hours.

At last the large triangle cell was completed

And at each corner a monster stood guard.

For though Ojimbapowala was defeated,

His powers still strong would need to be barred.

Gim and all men were free now to sail

And explore all the lands and live happy and free.

The monsters withdrew and let men prevail,

For humans needed time to explore the sea.

But in that triangular space of a cell,

Where Bermuda marks north of all certain doom,

Signs of Ojimbapowala’s powers still tell

As all who travel there find a watery tomb.

So be careful, children, and stay far away,

And be thankful for Gim who was merciful and brave,

For those with good hearts are heroes to this day,

And we are now free to explore past the waves.

Thoughts at the Beach

Nobody really likes seagulls: gray and white little birds with beady eyes gleaming with evil. They’re often obese from swallowing stolen Pringles and sandwich crust at the beach, and when they call, it’s this obnoxious high-pitched squeal: “Eow eow eow!” It’s like choking a cat.

            When I was little, my younger sister and I were playing with figurines from the movie Aladdin when a seagull swooped down and stole the monkey Abu from right in front of me. My dad chased it into the water as my sister cried, but the beast took off just as he reached to grab it.

            Damned disgusting creatures.

            In the middle of March, I biked from my house in Rockport, Massachusetts down to the beach by Bearskin Neck. It was 65 degrees—unheard of for the time of year—and a soft breeze was magically blowing tropical air off the Atlantic, sending sand into my sunscreen-lathered face and disturbing the pages of my pocket journal.

            A little girl dressed in a blue skirt was walking barefoot along the sand, her toes braving the frigid water. She was completely silent, staring into the ocean until her older brother and younger sister caught up to her. The two girls lifted their skirts, revealing bright pink underwear, and ran into the water, squealing with euphoric rebellion as they splashed each other’s feet. Their brother, donned in a striped sweater and galoshes, stood in the water for a short time, then crept up to his sisters: stealthily lifting his legs as he approached them. One could easily imagine the Mission: Impossible theme floating through his head. Before he could reach his sisters, they saw him coming, and the two girls ran away from him, skimming the edge of the water and laughing uncontrollably.

They sounded a lot like the seagulls.

Soon, the three children separated. The youngest, who could not have been older than five, was bent over, staring at the rocks as though they were diamonds. The middle contemplated the sea for a few seconds before sauntering back to her parents. The eldest trudged through the wet sand, head down, lackadaisically watching his boots drag, lost in some thought.

An old woman made her way past the children, following her miniature dachshund. She wore a knotted white rope around her neck (presumably the dog’s collar) and stopped every so often to pick up various rocks that caught her eye. Those that were truly exquisite were dropped in a small plastic bag, which already housed a small collection of stones.

            A tall man in a green velvet waistcoat, red baseball cap, and ginger beard leapt over the puddles to approach the three children—his son and daughters. Meanwhile, a stout red headed woman and her family watched their new puppy play energetically in the water, and a teenage couple in skinny jeans and Converse sneakers tried their best to keep their feet dry.

Several people stood on balconies along the coast, taking in the fresh warm air and the salty seaweedy smell of the New England Atlantic. Men rode by on motorcycles, and people behind me sat on benches, watching the small waves collapse on the pebbly sand. A female runner paused in her jog to walk onto the beach, exploring rocks for twenty minutes before heading off again, her brown ponytail bouncing with each step.

As I watched these various scenes unfold around me, I couldn’t help thinking how good it all was. Not good in the la-di-da butterflies and rainbows sense, but the good that God saw when looking over creation and “saw that it was good.” The sea was deep gray-blue, the sky bleu celeste, and people paused to ask me, “Isn’t this great?”

I’m not sure how or when, but somewhere down the line, Christians began to believe that the world was intrinsically bad—even evil; that ever since Adam and Eve ate the fruit, humanity and creation is no longer good.

But when we actually sit in God’s creation, and likewise, when we witness other people’s pure reactions to its beauty, it is impossible to believe that the world is intrinsically bad. Jews do not believe that humanity is wicked from birth—they believe that all people are primarily good. The early Hebrews would not have seen have seen Genesis as a tale of the world’s corruption, but as one of God’s power and personal love for creation—no other ancient Near Eastern creation myth mentions the creator walking with his or her creation.

There is a reason we are drawn to places like beaches and mountains, why we can’t help but stare into a sunset or lie under the stars. It’s because these things are good. Every person at the beach that day smiled as they basked in God’s creation, and I bet not one of them was an Evangelical.

I know that as I’m writing this thousands of Japanese people are suffering from the recent tsunami. The same waters I watch with wonder kill millions of people in natural disasters. I can’t pretend to explain the paradox of beauty and suffering, but I do know that the world is too good to be completely depraved, that those children playing on the beach and the woman with the rocks and the family with their dog and that glorious warm day represented pure, unadulterated goodness that could not exist in an entirely evil world.

I watched the seagulls as well that day, at first scrunching my face in disgust, but then displacing my prejudice with pure curiosity. They really are quite majestic, in all honesty: flapping their long wings as they soar low across the land, suddenly lifting up to catch a wind and gliding over the ocean into the horizon. There were a few bathing in a cold and shallow puddle, ruffling their feathers, dipping their heads, and flapping their wings. From a distance, it looked like they were playing in the water, splashing each other like children. Then two of them took off, and it seemed they were waltzing over the waters—swooping in opposing lines, circling each other, then flying away.

Seagulls are such ugly, disgusting creatures, snapping toys from children and raiding picnic baskets like the Visigoths; but for now, they were still, and it was good.

Rediscovering the Feminine

I grasp the bar with my left hand, bend my knees, straighten them, and jump up onto my toes. I look in the mirror to check my posture and notice how my bright blue socks clash against my black leggings and purple long-sleeved tee. “Watch your turnout, girls!” my instructor says, and I twist my feet slightly inwards, trying to maintain my balance. Finally, just when I start to feel my toes give out, my instructor allows us to fall back to the ground—gracefully, though, dropping our arms and bending our knees into a dignified plié before straightening again into the perfect posture.

I did not want to take ballet class. I am not graceful or patient, nor am I girly enough to want to dance on my toes for an hour and a half. In fact, I would classify myself as a feminist, and I saw ballet as the antithesis of everything I believed. Unfortunately, my college requires a certain amount of gym credits to graduate, and I still needed one last credit the final semester of my senior year. I had to choose between an 8 a.m. power training course and a 6:30 p.m. ballet class, and my night-owl self knew that I would die of sleep deprivation if I chose the former; thus, I submitted myself to crucifixion a la arabesque knowing that my time would be better spent repeatedly banging my head against the wall.

At least, that’s how I felt on that initial Thursday evening. But by the third lesson, I found myself actually enjoying my class. Now this was a bigger shock than when I learned that Pluto was no longer a planet, and I tried to figure out how and why I was falling in love with ballet. I could barely admit it to myself, and tried to push the thought from my mind, but I was smiling during our exercises and laughing at myself when I fell. Not to mention, I was sore from all of those damn plies, and I run frequently. Had I gone mad?

To explain, I am most definitely not a “girlie girl.” I drink Guinness, make my guy friends smoke Cuban cigars with me, talk about science fiction, play video games, read history, and watch action movies. Some of my favorite memories are from nights I went to pubs in England with just the guys and drank as much or more than them just to prove I could, and the only time I ever watch romantic comedies is when my gay friends refuse to watch Quentin Tarantino or my mom needs “girl time.” I wear dresses at times and always put on make-up, but it’s only because I know fashion begets respect, and if you look like a hobo every day, you will be treated as such.

Furthermore, I was raised to be a feminist. My mother divorced my father when I was six years old, and although she remarried, she continued to be the main breadwinner in the house. My mother has always worked—though she was part-time when my siblings and I were young—and I found it weird if one of my friends had a stay-at-home mom. I was brought up with the notions that women go to college, women have careers, men and women are equal in marriage, and of course, women can be priests. If Eve ate the fruit first, it was because Adam didn’t stop her, and how do we know that wasn’t simply a story invented by men to justify sexism?

When I was little and wanted to do dance, my mother allowed me to take tap and ballet until I was twelve. Then, she made my sister and I quit so that we could take Kenpo self-defense as a family. “Ballet can’t save your life,” my mother said, and when I protested that a grand battement could kick an assailant in his face, she pretended not to listen. So, I learned how to escape a headlock, knock someone out, and leave a mugger crying on the ground for mercy. This was woman: mighty, powerful, and downright kick-ass.

Ballet was the ultimate contrast of everything I thought I knew. I could appreciate other women doing it because it took a lot of strength, practice, and imagination, but it was just too girly for me. In ballet, the men lift the women, and the audience often sees the women as being nothing but beautiful. My opinion of ballerinas was that they wore poufy skirts and defined themselves on the standards of grace, poise, and gentility—and these are such pre-modern notions. The contemporary and post-modern woman needs power.

However, I’ve learned to ask the question: why can’t we have both? Ballet taught me that women could be both powerful and beautiful—in fact, beauty and grace only adds to our magnificence. Women are unique creatures: we can chug beer, watch action movies, run several miles, break boards with our fists, cook a delicious meal, pursue competitive careers—and look absolutely fantastic the entire time.

Ballerinas are incredibly strong, as I learned from my aching muscles after the first few lessons, and they commit themselves wholeheartedly to their profession. In reality, ballerinas are an image of feminist power and beauty, as they have steady careers and are extremely independent. When a Prima Donna comes onto the stage, she captivates the audience because she exudes more than beauty—there is freedom in her dance.

So how did a nerdy, liberal, post-modern, action-movie-loving feminist learn to love ballet? Part of it stems from my competitive spirit. If I have to do something, I put my all into it, because not only is failure not an option, success is mandatory. I knew that if I was going to survive ballet class, I had to stretch every day, learn the moves, and actually try. I’m still not very good, and my curvy figure will never grace the stage of the Boston Ballet, but I’m better than I used to be.

Nevertheless, my appreciation for ballet stems from much more than my perfectionist attitude. One day, I realized that I could almost do a split, put my hands completely on the floor without bending my knees, lift my leg in an arabesque without falling, and grand plié with steady knees. I was strong and successful. I lifted my head high when I did my ballet walk, because for some strange reason, I felt confident and beautiful as I crossed the wooden floor, feet turned, back straight, eyes focused ten feet up on the wall, and smiling. Femininity is beauty and power, and ballet allows a woman to realize that she does not have to choose between the business suit and the frilly dress—she can have both.

I still am not graceful. I often fall while standing still, trip over my feet, spill food on myself while eating dinner or drinking coffee (in my defense, my travel mug leaks), and I have difficulties moving my arms in front of my body in ballet class because certain large feminine parts get in the way. But I can make fun of myself and laugh at my mistakes, and now I can balance on my toes in perfect posture for a solid minute—or even on one toe. The earth will implode before I trade in my pint of Guinness for an appletini or watch 10 Things I Hate About You for personal enjoyment, but I’ve discovered that what makes a woman feminine is far beyond any stereotype: it is a combination of elegance and strength that is best exhibited in watching a ballerina on the stage. She runs towards the middle, spotlight on her pale face, white leotard, and gossamer tutu. Spinning quickly in a delicate turn, she lands on the tip of her toe as she bends forward and lifts her leg behind her. At that moment, there is nothing in the world more beautiful or more powerful than her glorious figure, and she exudes confidence and poise—the very model of modern woman.

Encounter in the Philadelphia Museum of Art

Walking through the Philadelphia Museum of Art with my hands in my coat pockets, I fingered my camera as I stared at the many paintings. My sister was enraptured by some Cézanne, and I lost my friend in a series on poplar trees. I had just left the Impressionists with a memory newly touched by fresh and beautiful images of thick brushstrokes and exaggerated, dreamlike colors.

However, I decided to give the other pieces some attention and began to explore the modern art section. I looked at a soapbox sculpture by Andy Warhol and tried to interpret its meaning, then peeked at a collection of forks and knives dangling on a string from the ceiling. After more searching, I finally entered a room with seven or eight paintings, all of which dated after the 1950s.

There were a few interesting paintings in the room, but none that really struck me as anything special, so I was about to leave. Suddenly, though, I noticed a woman sitting on a bench in the room, staring intently at a painting. She was dressed in the navy blue uniform that identified her as a worker at the museum, and she had gorgeous chocolate skin. She appeared to be in her early thirties, and her eyes drooped from the exhaustion of a long day. But there she sat, looking at the painting. Her mouth frowned slightly as she stared, as though the painting resonated some long-forgotten yearning.

I looked at the painting to try to understand her captivation. I wish I could remember its exact details, but all I can recall is that it had a violin in it. My mind was still trapped in the confines of a Monet painting of London’s Waterloo Bridge in the fog. I had stared at that painting for quite some time, getting lost in the swirls of gray wrapped around the bleak stony blue bridge. The painting looked just like the city had one day in December of 2009, when I was on a break from my studies at Oxford University. A light mist covered the ground as the wind blew fresh snow in my face, and I was walking through London trying to find peace and solitude in what had been a miserable day. I had gone to Hyde Park to see if it was really as picturesque as the Romantics seemed to imagine, and the cast-iron street lamps shone through the snowy mist with a glow reminiscent of nineteenth century oil lamps. I closed my eyes and held tight with wet mittens to my cup of Galaxy hot chocolate, hunched against the cold as the moisture from my breath began to freeze and melt on my scarf with every inhale and exhale.

I hadn’t seen Waterloo Bridge that day, and staring at Monet’s painting, I wished that I had walked to Hyde Park from Baker Street instead of taking the Tube, even if it would have taken me several hours.

Knowing how much the Monet had affected me, I wondered with even more intensity what memory or emotion the violin painting induced in the woman. Suddenly, as people often do, she sensed me staring at her and turned slightly, scowling just enough to let me know that my gaze was unwelcome. I pretended to observe the painting directly past her. She turned back to her painting, picked at her nails for a bit, and looked back at it, having already forgotten our brief encounter. She exhaled deeply, and I could sense that her mind was in the painting, far from the museum and Philadelphia.

I had the sudden desire to ask her about the painting. Why did it provoke such an emotional response? What did she see when she looked at the brushstrokes on the canvas? What did she feel? What was her story, that a simple painting of a violin could entrance her when she worked at the museum and had seen hundreds of paintings every day of her career? I wanted to ask and even felt my mouth begin to open; but I panicked. I didn’t want to ruin her moment, to break her train of thought. Suddenly I thought the worst: what if she wasn’t entrapped by the painting? What if I was over-romanticizing the situation? She might have been bored and simply staring at whatever met her eye-level, and that painting could have been nothing for her but a distraction from her tedious day. How strange would it be, then, if some creepy red-haired girl interrupted her boredom to ask what she thought about art?

In my hesitation, I lost all courage. I wanted to beg her to tell me what she thought, but for some reason I could not. I walked out of the room and made my way back to the Monet. My friend and my sister were nearby and ready to look at other exhibits, but I stopped once more to stare at my painting. I thought about that day in Hyde Park and how the cold mist felt on my tender face, and I closed my eyes to remember.

Cricket Pt. 1

The first time they met was at a party. She walked in right as he was climbing the stairs, over which he promptly tripped and tumbled down. But he didn’t break his neck, which was good, and he bumped into a gorgeous girl whose large breasts cushioned his head for the rest of the evening, which was very good.

The second time they met was at a bowling alley, each with their separate group of friends, who all seemed to know each other. He was bowling horribly until she came over to borrow a pencil; he bowled a strike then and every time after the whole night.

The third time they met, she introduced herself and gave him her mobile number. After he got home, he misdialed and accidentally phoned the local radio station, who informed him he was their tenth caller and had won 500 quid.

The fourth time they met was at the corner pub, just the two of them. The bartender confused him for an old friend and gave them free drinks all night. When they said goodnight, they kissed outside her place for a solid twenty minutes before her flatmate stumbled across them, crying over another lost love. And when they parted, his brother called and apologized for everything that had happened over the last 4 years.

So he called her Cricket, because she brought him luck. And she called him Alistair, because that was his name.

Cricket was tall and beautiful in the most ancient sense of the word. Her skin was pale and smooth, her hair long and chestnut brown. She had no marks or scars except a tiny freckle on her upper right arm, which she referred to as “The Freckle.” Her eyes were big and blue and framed by long, black eyelashes that brushed her sunglasses in the summer. She had a pretty, heart-shape face, and her small nose had just the slightest upward tilt, giving her an air of sophistication. Her lips were naturally pink, and her cheeks had just enough red in them that she never wore rouge, except for costume parties. She had the envious quality of being both thin and curvy at the same time, with a glorious hourglass figure that made Marilyn Monroe look rugged and angular, and she was stunning in her usual attire of dark-washed skinny jeans, long jumper, and ballet flats. She spoke as one who had grown up in central London—which she had—but tried to sound like she had gone to Oxbridge—which she had, Oxford actually—so that she ended up with a brilliant accent that an American impersonator would have completely ruined.

Alistair reminded Cricket of a statue from her Greek mythology picture book. He was taller than her, about 6 feet, and muscular, though not so much as to have his muscles show through his clothes. He was slightly tan all year long, with hair the color of dark chocolate, and his face was round except for his jaw, which protruded ever so slightly in a very handsome manner. His eyes were brown, but with golden glints, so that his mother would get lost in them when he was a baby. He always had a 5 o’clock shadow, even after shaving, but his facial hair was fine enough that it never scratched. He often dressed in old jeans and hand-me-down shirts from local thrift shops, giving him the appearance of one who really didn’t care about his appearance; and in actuality, Alistair would always rather sleep the extra ten minutes than put any effort into his clothing. He spoke as though he had grown up in the North—which he had, Newcastle-upon-Tyne—but had spent some time in America—which he hadn’t, this being a testament to the quantity of Hollywood films he had watched growing up.

They fell in love one night while sitting on his sofa and watching the news on BBC. By now, he had everyone calling her Cricket, even her mother, and she had upgraded from jumpers to long-sleeved shirts. As the newscaster informed them of the latest tragedy in Iraq, she curled into his chest, wrapped in blankets, and breathed his scent: soap and, somehow, a hint of cinnamon. His lips got lost in her hair until they found her scalp, which they brushed gently. An advertisement flashed for Crème Eggs, which were finally in season, and she sat up enough to kiss him. Their eyes closed, their lips meeting as two strangers moving apprehensively to a favorite song, the fires danced deep in their hearts, warming them to the tips of their fingers and the ends of their toes. Parting for breath, they opened their eyes, and the gold in his eyes was lost in her ocean blue.

The feeling was mutual and spoken without words. He merely sighed and cupped her cheek in his hand, and she blinked slowly in affirmation. They could have screamed it out the window or composed a symphony about it, but the quiet understanding between the two of them was that their love was like that of lovers of old, and he would gladly launch a thousand ships for her and she would gladly succumb to the snake’s deadly bite for him. When they finally spoke, it was regarding the next night’s activities.

“Are you going to Tom’s tomorrow?” he asked, brushing her hair from her face.

“I am. Are you going?” she asked.

“Yes. Phil’s given me the night off, I had to promise I’d take Saturday night for him.”

“Saturday? But I thought you were going to go to Bristol with me to visit my sister.”

“I was,” he said, “but this was the only way I could get Phil to work for me. I’m sorry, love, but I couldn’t blow off Tom’s engagement party, and I’ve already met your sister. Plus, I’ll make loads working the bar on Saturday, and I’ll take you somewhere nice if you like.”

She understood, and she wasn’t upset, but she pretended she was, knowing that he would try to cheer her up by tickling her. He always knew when she was fooling him, but he loved the game and went along. Soon enough, the two were laughing and breathless and lying on the floor in a stupor.

At Tom’s the next night, they met with their friends after she left the law firm. Jack was there, and so was Marianne, and Peter and Aggie and Susie A, but Susie K was at home with the flu. Mitchell was there—it was at his party that Cricket and Alistair first met—but he was desperately in love with Susie K, so he left as soon as he heard she was sick. Betty drank too much and started flirting with Alistair, and Cricket bumped into an old boyfriend, but Tom was so happy they came, and his fiancée Julie was lovely. Julie was fluent in French, and so was Cricket, so the two got along well enough to reminisce about their university days for half an hour. Tom took the opportunity to speak with Alistair, with whom he had worked for several years before joining the police.

“Alistair, Alistair, Alistair,” Tom said. He was a middle-aged Scot who was more beer than blood. His face was pink from drinking, but experience allowed him to held his ale well. “I’m so glad ya came! I was worried, cuz Cricket thought cha might hafta work, but ya came!”

Alistair smiled at his friend. “Of course I came! Phil nearly choked when I asked, you remember how awful he was. One night I asked for, and I thought he would give me the boot. And I’ve worked there 5 years! But I held my stand, and eventually he gave in.”

“’ow could I ’ave doubted ya for a secon! Ol’Alistair!” He put his arm around his friend and smiled. “’ower things goin with the beautiful Cricket, eh? Bet she’s a bit a ’eaven.”

“Things are great, Tom, really. I’m happy, you know?”

“Aye, I know! Julie, mate, I jus don’t get ’ow she ended up with me!” As if to prove his point, Tom let out a brilliant belch that had Alistair grabbing his side in laughter. “But you’re wit

Cricket, so stranga stuff ’appens!”

“What do you mean?” asked Alistair.

“Cricket! Oxford University, gonna be a barrister, dad’s a doctor, mum’s practically royalty. For Chrisake, Ali, she’s speakin to me girl in French, and you can’t even say ‘Bonjour.’”

Alistair sighed. “Tom, don’t you think I know that? Jesus, I feel like an idiot around her sometimes. At the end of the day, she’s been off trying to save the world, and I’ll have served a group of American tourists their first pint of ale, only to watch them make faces and spit it out. Honestly, my biggest accomplishment of the day is getting one of the new boys to clean the toilet for me.”

Tom chuckled. “Aye, Ali, I’m only jokin. The girl’s obviously nuts for ya, no idea why though. Jus ya ’old ona ’er, promise? Cuz I’m spectin ya to make me Uncle Tom someday, eh!”

Alistair shook his head, but continued to smile at his old friend. Tom talked about the local football team for a few minutes, but Alistair only half-listened, watching Cricket out of the corner of his eye, listening to her perfect French accent as she talked about God-knows-what. When Tom finally left him to go to his Julie, Alistair went to Cricket, grabbed her around the waist, and kissed her hard, because he knew he didn’t deserve her, and she kissed him back, simply because she wanted to.

The Waiting Room

Jeremy Ferris was fifteen minutes early for his appointment. That was the way he liked it. Always punctual, always ahead of the game, never having to disappoint anyone or waste anyone’s time, and never an inconvenience.

And on that 16 February, a cold and rainy London afternoon, Jeremy was, of course, early.

“You’re fifteen minutes early,” said the receptionist, a petite ginger with a large mole on the right corner of her mouth. A white placard above her left bosom read “Doreen.” “Your appointment is at three o’clock.”

“Yes, I know,” said Jeremy. He had trouble looking the woman in the eye, her black mole twitched ever so softly when she spoke.

“Well, then, if you’re here, you might as well take a seat in the waiting room. It’s right over there, through that doorway,” Doreen the receptionist said, pointing to her right.

“All right, then,” Jeremy replied. “Thank you, ma’am.”           

“Hmph!” was the answer from the reception desk.

           

Jeremy made his way across the marble floor of the building, his prim black shoes clicking smartly as he walked to the waiting room, a small, carpeted space with one door, several gray plastic chairs, plain white walls, and no windows. There were five other people in the room—an elderly woman knitting a yellow scarf, a young Asian mother and her son reading a children’s book, a tall, black, middle-aged man in a blue business suit, and a teenage girl picking at her fingernails and mouthing the words to whatever song was playing through her headphones.

As he entered the room, the man in the blue business suit asked Jeremy to close the door. Jeremy did so and sat to the left of man.

“Awful weather we’ve been having,” said Jeremy with a smile. “’Course, it’s pretty normal for this time of year, eh? Least we don’t have any sleet today!”

The man turned and stared at Jeremy. He nodded.

“Hope my wife’s doing all right,” said Jeremy, nervously babbling. He was never good at conversation, but silence always bothered him. “She has a cold, you see. Just a cough, you know, but still. She had pneumonia last winter, and I’d hate to see her get sick again.”

The man stared at Jeremy, then picked up a magazine from the table on his other side, and began to read.

Jeremy, sensing that the conversation was going nowhere, gave up. He twiddled his thumbs, glanced up at the florescent lights, shifted his weight, and sighed loudly. He peeked at the mother and child, watching the boy’s face light up as he listened to his mother read a story about a beautiful princess, a talking horse, and a brave prince. Jeremy smiled, thinking of his own wife and their coming child. They had discovered not even a week before that it would be a boy, and Jeremy thought of himself reading to his future son someday.

A young woman in a tight black dress opened the door. Her brown hair was done up in a bun and she was holding a clipboard and wearing brown horn-rimmed glasses. “Mrs. Temple?” she asked. “Mrs. Jane Temple? It’s time now. Will you please come with me?”

The elderly woman glanced up, smiled at the woman, gathered her knitting, and rose.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long,” said the woman in black.

“Oh no, dear,” the old lady said in a thick Welsh accent. “It’s all fine, all fine indeed. Lovely, really.”

The door closed behind them.

Jeremy sighed. As much as he didn’t like making others wait for him, he hated waiting for others. But, he thought, that is the idea of being early. Always punctual, that was him. Why, to be late was to be rude, and Jeremy’s mother raised him to be better than that. Never late, always early, always polite and well-dressed and well-mannered—that was how his father was, and that, she always reminded him, was how he would be.

Jeremy looked up at the teenage girl a few seats over from the mother and son. She had taken her headphones off and was staring at him.

“Did you ever notice,” she remarked, quite dreamily, “that if you stare at someone long enough, they eventually look at you?” Her thick London accent lilted slightly, giving her an air of sophistication well beyond her years. “Like sometimes, when my mum is driving, I stare at the people driving the other cars. And even though they are supposed to be watching the road, they always look at me. Some of them look right away, but others I have to stare at for at least thirty seconds before they catch on.” She got up and moved to the seat left of Jeremy. “You see, I have this theory. The ones who look right away, those are the idiots, the gullible, self-conscious prats who constantly worry about how they are perceived. They always want attention, and thus catch on when anyone looks at them. But the others,” she paused for dramatic effect. “The others are the intelligent people, the ones who are aware of themselves and do not need the affirmation of strangers to be complete. Still though, I think that the very fact that people look proves that we are all psychically connected, although the idea of being connected to some people is pretty repulsive, if you ask me.”

Jeremy smiled at her. “Well,” he asked, “what about the people who begin the staring? What are they?”

“Hell,” she said, getting a glare from the mother across from her. “I never really thought about that.” She sighed. “I like you. My name’s Tif, one “f,” thank you very much.”

“I’m Jeremy,” Jeremy replied. He began to stretch out his hand, but thought better of it and just smiled. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” murmured the girl. “So, you’re waiting then. Me too. All of us, really. Well, I guess that’s pretty obvious though,” she chuckled. “This is the waiting room.”

“What are you waiting for?” asked Jeremy.

“Same as you,” answered Tif. “My appointment. I’m a little late, though. Oh well, they’ll have to learn to cope.”

“When were you due?” Jeremy inquired out of boredom and curiosity.

“2:00” said Tif, grinning. “Like I said, they can cope. How about you?”

“Oh, my appointment isn’t until three,” Jeremy replied. “I’m early.”

“Early!” Tif exclaimed, surprised. “Why would you—”

The woman in black opened the door again. “George Writhe? Mr. Writhe? We are ready for you.” The woman tapped a pen impatiently on her clipboard.

The middle-aged man in the blue suit stood and followed her.

“You made your appointment quite last minute, Mr. Writhe! It is lucky we were able to squeeze you in,” said the woman.

The door closed behind them.

Jeremy sighed. It had to be almost 3:00. Were they running behind because of Tif? He snuck a look at his watch before Tif could start talking again.

“What!” He exclaimed. His watch had to be wrong, there was no way…

“Are you okay, Jeremy?” Tif asked, concerned.

“It’s nothing,” Jeremy assured her. “It’s just…I got here at 2:45. And my watch, my watch reads 2:47. But…it can’t be right. The battery must have gone, is all.”

“Do you always invent logical solutions to illogical problems?” provoked Tif. “Your watch is working, you can see the second hand moving. It’s only been a minute. Time is just moving slower here.”

“Yes, we’re bored, and time drags on,” Jeremy thought aloud.

Tif rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she said.

The mother and child across from them were silent now. The story had finished, and the boy had closed his eyes and put his head on his mother’s lap. The mother stroked his hair gently. Jeremy watched for several minutes, thinking about his wife. It was a Friday, and they had plans to order Indian food and watch a movie. He liked Fridays, always the same routine, take-out and a movie, and they would fall asleep holding each other. Sometimes they would even make love, depending on their mood after the film. But it was always just the two of them, and Jeremy enjoyed that.

He broke his thought process and glanced at Tif, who was picking her fingernails once again. She caught his stare and frowned. “Can’t be long now,” she said.

The door opened once more. It was, of course, the woman in the black suit, come to announce another ready appointment. “Mrs. Sue Lang and Roger Lang. Are you ready?”

The Asian woman sighed deeply. She picked up her son, who was heavy-eyed and near sleep, and rose to follow the woman.

“I’m sorry that your appointment had to be so early,” said the woman in black. “It was the only time we could take you.”

The mother smiled, nodded her head, and followed the woman out of the door, which promptly closed.

Tif rose to her feet and clapped her hands together. “Well,” she remarked, “it’s only you and me now, Jeremy. I say we fuck this place and grab a pint. I know a great pub not far from here, the bartender’s name is Smithy, Irish bloke, doesn’t ask for my ID and gives me free beer because I dated his wanker son for a bit. What do you say?”

Jeremy smiled. “Well, I can’t miss my appointment.” He looked at his watch. It read 2:50. Jeremy was sure that it had been more than three minutes since he had last checked the time, but, well, nothing was making sense today, and he didn’t want to bother about it again. “Why don’t we make a rain date?”

Tif’s smile fell. “You’re a bloody idiot, you know that?”

Jeremy was taken aback. “Pardon?” he asked.

Tif sat down next to him and stared him in the eye. “Look, Jeremy, tell me. What is this appointment for?”

Jeremy thought. “Well, obviously…you know. You’re here too.”

Tif continued to stare at him.

Jeremy frowned. He tried to think, but he could not remember why he was there. All he knew was that he had made an appointment for 3:00 on Friday, 16 February. That was all that mattered. But he remembered thinking that he needed a dentist because of a possible cavity, so that must have been the reason for his appointment. “Dentist,” he said. “I think I have a cavity in my lower right molar.”

Tif sighed. “All right, then. We’re at the dentist. Sure. Do you remember making the appointment?”

Jeremy thought. He could not, for the life of him, remembering calling the dentist’s office. In fact, he had felt the cavity only yesterday, so he couldn’t have made the appointment for today. But he must have. There was no other explanation. “Look, what’s your point here anyway?” he asked.

Tif smiled. “Just thought I’d aggravate your brain a tad. Remember, ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’”

“Arthur Conan Doyle,” whispered Jeremy, “Sherlock Holmes.”

“A friend from Baker Street.” Tif looked deep into Jeremy’s eyes, as though she were trying to see into his soul. “Just…remember that. Okay?”

“All right,” Jeremy said, thoroughly confused.

The two sat together in silence. At one point, Tif reached out her hand to Jeremy, who took it. She was pale white, and shaking softly. Jeremy squeezed her hand and smiled at her. She smiled back—weakly—and sighed, never letting go of Jeremy’s hand.

The minutes passed. Then, the woman in black came once again, clipboard in hand and pointed stilettos resting precariously on the polished marble floor. “Miss Tiffany Jones? You’ve kept us waiting for quite some time.”

Tif rose and made to follow the woman. “Yes, I have,” she said quite frankly. Then she turned to Jeremy. “You know, while you’re alone in here, you should read the newspaper. Really. And remember Holmes. And by the way,” she paused, “the ones who begin the staring? They’re the ones who have nothing to lose.” She winked and walked after the woman, who now looked irritated from having to wait even longer for a cocky teenager, and the door closed behind them.

Jeremy shook his head. The girl was so dramatic! He had never, in all his days…But still, how did she know about his not remembering making his appointment? That was strange. He sighed. Ah, well, that’s the future of our species, he thought to himself.

The newspaper was lying on a side table across the room. Jeremy rose and grabbed it. It was the day’s issue of the Times, though Jeremy hadn’t seen it yet. He flipped through the front few pages, noting such cheerful headlines as Sunny Days Ahead! and Queen Visits Glasgow and other more serious stories as Suicide in the Financial District. He was looking for the sports pages, having missed last night’s Arsenal vs. Manchester game, but they weren’t there. So he turned to the obituaries, the only section other than the news page in the paper.

There were no photographs, which was odd, but the paper must be trying to save ink to stay on budget, thought Jeremy. There was a story about a kind old lady who had passed away in her sleep. She left behind multiple children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and was greatly loved and would be missed, have a good time in heaven, Nana. Next was a man who worked for a local bank. Jeremy found himself wondering if this man was connected to the Suicide story in the news, but quickly pushed the thought from his mind. There was a tragic story about a family involved in a car accident. The father and daughter survived with severe but treatable injuries, but the mother and son passed away. And then a story about a young teenage girl who had been in a coma for several years and finally died quietly in the hospital. The girl’s name was Tiffany.

Jeremy put the paper down slowly. No, he thought, it’s a coincidence. But still, how odd? An old lady, a businessman, a mother and son, and a teenager girl named Tiffany. All of the descriptions fitted with the people in the waiting room, minus himself, of course. He looked at the names of the other deceased, but he could not remember the names of the people he had been sitting with in the waiting room. No, no. Tif. One f, she had been clear on that. This Tiffany had two fs in her name. And hadn’t the woman in black mentioned Tif’s last name? Johns? James? What was it! Jeremy shook his head.

Once you eliminate the impossible…

What was going on?

Whatever remains…

This was strange, very strange.

No matter how improbable…

Jones! That was her name! He looked at the paper again.

Must be the truth.

“Tiffany Jones,” he read aloud, “passed away Thursday after spending three years comatose. She was survived by her loving parents and several good friends. We will miss our beloved Tif.” He put the paper down.

What is this place?

The door opens. “Mr. Jeremy Ferris? We are ready for you.”

Jeremy stares at her, not moving.

“Jeremy? You were early, were you not? Thank you, it makes it easier for us that way. I’m sorry though, that you had to be alone.” The woman smiles. “Come, you’ve been waiting for us. Follow me now.”

Jeremy stares. At last, he rises and approaches the woman. He watch reads 3:00—right on time. The woman turns and walks out of the room. Jeremy follows her, slowly. The door closes behind them.

Back in the waiting room, the words on the newspaper shift. There are no eyes watching this phenomenon, just a few gray chairs and windowless walls. The movement in the newspaper ceases, and all is still. The new words glow black in the florescent lighting, the new ink sheen and neat:

“Jeremy Ferris passed away Friday afternoon after sustaining injuries from an accident en route the hospital, where his wife was receiving pre-natal care. He is survived by his wife and son-to-be, as well as his mother, Martha, his siblings, Brian and Sydney, and many friends. Rest in peace, Jeremy.”

In which Bacchus’s Nectar Produces Divine Comprehension, or Late Saturday Night

This cool night stirs inquiring thoughts

In bookish minds of three young friends,

Who slightly drunk gaze at the stars

And contemplate life, God, and love.

We all look down the empty street,

Wind blows cliché through leaf-bare trees.

Is heaven real? We ask out loud.

I watch his thinking face and laugh.

Still, “Nothing can replace this night.”

There’s something funny in the dark

Finality I yet ignore:

That every moment’s snatched and filched

By time’s tormenting tyrannous rule

And memory can’t capture this,

Imperfect as it always is.

A chilling breeze and far-off noise

Restores my focus back to now,

The dim streetlights and chatting friends

Discussing life and love and God,
And asking me if heaven’s real.