Alex Carrick’s Blog

With the exception of a section towards the end of this story, all of the events recorded below occurred in one special year. The season and the locales are noted in italics.

**

Early spring, Barrie, Ontario, Canada:

The first officer on the scene struggled to come up with a reaction.

He thought it wasn’t much of a “scene” per se and there might not have been a crime.

This sort of thing was a common occurrence.

It would have to be checked out, nonetheless.

What a bother on his day off.

What was perhaps most unfortunate was the location. It mattered as much as the event. 

The police were always finding abandoned cars. Their hulks were likely to appear almost anywhere.

This time, though, the vehicle in question was a Mercedes C-Class sedan.

Regardless of the year or condition, that wasn’t the kind of automobile that got left behind very often.

Yet there it was, sitting bold as daylight at the back-end and bottom of the quarry.

Anybody could have cut through the chain on the flimsy gate and deposited the car, stolen or otherwise.

Upon reflection, the entrance was still intact when the officer reached the grounds early that morning.

He remembered getting out of his own standard-issue vehicle and using a key on the padlock.

Maybe somebody had found access from an adjoining property. He’d check that out in a minute.  

Could it be there was a body in the trunk? Or was the car used for a getaway in a robbery?

It wouldn’t do to get lost in speculation.

He’d start by running the plates. Hopefully, they’d be in the system and the matter would be quickly resolved.

Almost assuredly the location would turn out to be a coincidence.

The gravel pit was used as a police firing range throughout the week.  

That’s why the officer was there, to shoot off a few rounds in a spot that was perfectly safe.

On the floor of the quarry, the sandy and stone-pitted walls would absorb any stray bullets.

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Beginnings oft times are brutal. Unfortunately, so are endings.

In between is mostly a race.

A mad dash to grow up, acquire knowledge and earn a living, whether honestly or not.

Events spin out of control. The passing show’s a blur.

On the final leg, if we’re lucky and fate hasn’t already intervened, we race towards death.

By the time the finish line appears, speed has become an addiction.

That’s not where Frieda was currently situated.

Her world was only beginning to accelerate.

On this night, both sides of life’s conundrum – birth and death – would be in evidence.

Circumstances were intervening, both favorably and with feigned indifference.  

Frieda was lying flat on her back in a horse-drawn trailer on a lord’s estate.

She was in pain extremis.

Through no fault of her own one of the most natural things in the world was leading towards a frightful denouement.  

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There once lived a king who loved the theater.

His taste crossed all genres – romances, sophisticated comedies, broad farces and stomach-churning tragedies.

He particularly liked historical pieces that featured his ancestors.

Watching his predecessors parade around in crowns and tiaras while engaging in outrageous behavior was a self-centered delight.

The royals’ peccadilloes were well documented and knew few bounds.

The history of his family was filled with crime and passion, mystery and murder.

It was replete with drama and perfectly suited for public staging.

He wished he could have been an actor. Due to the circumstances of his birth, that wasn’t to be.

In compensation, he’d always surrounded himself with an acting crowd.

He liked their heightened sense of drama.

It didn’t hurt that so many of them, especially the women, were such “good lookers”.

Their presence provided a shot of youth. Past his personal half-century mark, he needed to replenish his “juices” from time to time.  

To ensure a steady supply of new talent, he established a feeder system for his Theater Company.

Once a year, he sent his only son, the Prince, on a pilgrimage across the country to scour for talent.

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“His brain was trashed,” she said.

“Excuse me?” was his response.

“I don’t know how it happened, but his brain was trashed. You know, like a hotel room after a rock star’s attack of indigestion,” said Corina.

“Wow! Any idea how it happened?” asked Chief Inspector Beige.

“I’m pretty sure I answered that question.” Corina the coroner could turn petulant when perturbed. “I have no idea whatsoever.”

“So it wasn’t a heart attack? Or a stroke, like we thought?” queried the inspector.

“Nope,” was the terse reply.

“Drugs?”

“No evidence of drug use. Same with alcohol. He was estranged from his family, but his ex-wife and kids swear he’s been clean for a decade.”

“Okay, this is getting weird,” said the inspector. “So what about his brain? Define trashed.”

“It’s been turned to mush. You know how the grey matter is supposed to look like linked sausage, hinting there might be some kind of order in there?”

“You mean the cortex and lobes?” asked Beige.

“Yes. Good to know you were paying attention in grade-school health class.” Corina was having too much fun being snarky to stop cold turkey.  

Beige tapped his noggin with his right forefinger. “Hey, I’ve still got all my faculties.”

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What he liked about her was her laughter.

What she liked about him was his silence.

Her laughter was quiet, rich and reflective. It was doled out sparingly. When forthcoming, you knew it had been earned. It carried neither price tag, nor was gained at another’s expense.

Sometimes she giggled. Those were special occasions, when they explored each other in some new emotional or physical way and surprise or shyness sought verbal expression.

Mostly her laughter was throaty, the sound an old soul makes when struck precisely-so by a perfectly-wielded gong.

His silence was the opposite of awkward. It was warm, enveloping and often humorous.

Come dance with me, his eyes suggested. In a white bright room of our own imaginings, where we’re safe from outside terrors and the waltz can last as long as we like.

Banishing the fragility of existence was the chief extract from their bonding.

She’d arrived in Canada while in her teens. That was 50-plus years ago.

She’d never forget the one excellent piece of advice her parents had given her when they said their good-byes in Beijing. “When you get to Canada, buy the warmest coat you can find.”

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XaniaXYM-529’s attention was glued to one of thousands of monitors hooked up to the enormous rumbling machine that was focused on the planet a considerable distance away.

He was luxuriating onboard his species’ most modern space station.

From earth, the craft was hidden in the flotsam that made up Saturn’s ring.

The giant device at the heart of the ship was spewing forth information on every single individual on terra firma.

Their whereabouts; what they were thinking; how their daylight or night-time hours were being spent.

People were equipped from birth with a monitoring device that, for lack of a better word, was called a soul.

Wirelessly, this fed data to the machine, which was a whirligig of awesome proportions.

It occupied pride of place in the centre of the room and resembled nothing so much as a giant vanilla cupcake.

The contraption processed and emitted “stuff” in two directions.

Not only did it absorb “intel”, but through sending out “frizzle” waves, the Xanians were able to shape, guide and re-order events on earth.

(The author apologizes for the brief use of technical jargon in the last two paragraphs.)

In their realm to the side of the “playpen”, a select group of Xanians paid close attention to the action across the solar system.

It was their primary form of entertainment.

They could never get enough of causing grief.

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An actor, a writer, a politician and a rich dude were sitting on the back portico of the latter’s mansion.

They quaffed a non-alcoholic concoction while looking out over an enormous aqua-blue swimming pool and a garden vista that stretched a quarter of a mile before being bracketed by a security-enhanced fence and towering evergreens.

On the surface of things, the rich dude’s existence was the best of all possible worlds and the others were content to bask in the glow and feed off the scraps scattered at the fringe.

The fact they’d known each other all their lives was the reason they were still so close despite their nuanced differences and divergent career paths.

What they were doing now was playing a familiar game that never bored them – comparing the thickness of each others’ skin.

Not in a literal sense, although that might have been fun. After a few bottles of wine at one long-ago social gathering, this had been suggested.

Get out the calipers and take a leaf from Shylock’s book. Cut off some flesh and measure the depth of the cutaneous level in millimeters.

Consistency should also be considered.

The inside walls may have become crustaceous as the result of being forged by boiling blood.

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“Dinosaur Spots Comet in Sky.”

“That’s the headline I’m going with,” said Dilly the crocodile to Tony the T-Rex, as they faced each other across the entranceway to the latter’s luxurious cave.

It was the most modern of eras in an alternative universe containing the 88th iteration of “standard” earth where the animals had evolved to rule the planet and humankind was nowhere to be found.

Dilly had received his rather silly and soft nickname years ago, but had come to appreciate its value for disarming interview subjects. 

He worked as a reporter. The name of his paper was the Daily Drumbeat, since that was the method by which the news was distributed.

Tony the T-Rex was mayor and financial mogul in this particular zone of the jungle.

“Why have you come to me with this story?” asked Tony.

“I thought I should give you a heads-up,” said Dilly “and present you with an opportunity to confirm or deny it.”

“Why would I have anything to say on the subject?”

“Because you’re the dinosaur referred to in the article,” said Dilly.

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“China has one. Why can’t we?”

Trevor Deeds was reading a quote from a magazine article while he waited for his appointment at the doctor’s office.

The featured story examined a number of proposals to build a wall across the entire U.S.-Mexican border.

Several artists’ renderings were included.

There was speculation it might need to be twenty feet high, with a string of electrified barbed wire at the top.

It might even consist of two parallel tracks, with towers on the interior one to keep an eye on interlopers in the space between.

Maybe it would be the second man-made structure that could be seen from outer space.

Only the Great Wall of China held that current distinction.

It was strange to contemplate that the U.S. might choose to emulate its new chief rival.

Try as he might to follow the logical arguments in favor of such a measure, Trevor knew in his gut the idea was seriously wrong-headed.

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One can easily turn reflective with the passage of the years. Birthdays serve to stimulate strolls down meandering and wayward paths.

As I approach “the golden years”, I know I’m supposed to be thinking of travel, playing golf, putting my feet up, reaping my rewards. But I’m not sure any of that is for me. 

So here’s what this October 8th means in the context of my own particular time line.

**

When I’m 64?
That day has arrived.
I’ve worked my whole life to get here.
It’s quite a milestone.

In these tough economic times,
government will probably expect me to work ‘til I’m 74.
Maybe that’s what I want anyway.
Confusion nonetheless.

What does the future hold?
A good deal of apprehension,
I know that much,
based on the experiences
of my own older relatives.

Will my health hold up?
Going to the doctor,
the optometrist, the dentist,
can become a second career
beyond a certain age.

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