The First Day

Time slips away from me, lately more than I’d like it to. Memories tend to fade, distort, warp, or vanish altogether. But as poor as I remember things, as scary it is for my mind not to recall, the feeling of warmth and belonging will always be within the depths of my heart.

It was a Thursday. A warm Thursday, with a soft breeze. I was in grade eleven in highschool, 2014. Sebody I’d gone to school with in earlier years of highschool, told me to meet them after school. They were going to take me to a club. Not one of booze – even if I wanted that kind of club, it just wouldn’t be possible – but a club of hope. A group of dreams and stories and love in the darkness.

That final bell rang. Books were gathered. I met my friends at my locker, and together, we made our way to the long line of mustard yellow school buses. The buses that would take us home.

At the folding doors, I stopped. I didn’t climb those steps. My friends looked at me funny, wondering what had gotten into me. I smiled, stepped back from the doors, and went to the student lot, where the one who promised a club said they’d be.

And those buses all left, leaving me. But I didn’t care. I was lost in talk of hopes and dreams.

I was let down…. A message sent: Hey, I can’t take you to the club, something came up. But if you still wanted to go, here’s the address.

My dad saw me. What are you doing, here and not at home?

I told him of the club. I knew he’d say no. I never did anything besides going to school and going back home. But I didn’t care. I needed it, like going to this club was my next breath, Abbi needed it to live.

But, I don’t know what changed, what went on in his mind…. He said: C’mon.

Not: We’re going home.

Sure, it could’ve been a ploy. A change of words to earn my trust, so he could lie and ruin what I only asked for.

I got in the truck. My dad started driving. There was silence forms long moment, before he asked: When is it?

Happiness made my heart flutter. I nearly stuttered myself stupid telling him it started at 6pm, and ended at 9pm.

Next: Where is it?

Using the message as my script, I tell him it’s at 1148 7th Avenue at YAP Friends, across from City Hall.

Looking at the time, it was just after 4pm.

To pass the time, we bought Timmie’s. But I was so excited, I couldn’t calm down enough to drink my hot chocolate, and eat my strawberry donut.

It was getting closer and closer to 6pm. As we drove, I watched the street signs, reading each one we passed, hoping the next sign inwould read would be seventh avenue.

We were at the building early. There was nobody on the street. No cars parked at the curb.

My heart sank. Maybe we need to wait. There was still fifteen minutes. There was still a chance.

Every minute was agony. Each second was so close to crushing my soul.

Then… a couple kids walked down the street, and stood in the doorway. They were laughing. Two girls and a boy. One girl had a backpack, the other a book bag, and the boy had an expensive music case.

Then a couple of cars pulled up, parked in front.

A man and a woman got out of one car. Another boy got out of another car. A different woman from a different car.

They were making their way inside – the man opened the door, letting everybody in.

The boy with the instrument case was closest to the truck. Mustering up all of my nonexistent courage, I asked the boy if this was the club I was told about.

He smiled kindly, and confirmed my hopes and dreams: Yes, this is Street Spirits.

As scared as I was, spending three hours with people I’d never met before, I was happy. I praised every moment of those three hours, burning those soon-to-be family names in my brain: Kjirsten, Isaac, Nicki, Hailey, Chelsey, Elise, Pedro, Kaiser, Andrew, Teresa, Chuck. In time came more.

As soon as I left, all I wanted was to go back.

Street Spirits taught me many things: courage, empathy, love, sorrow, that it’s okay to swear in the moment….

But best of all, they taught me family. No matter what happens next…. I feel I have finally felt like I belong somewhere. That I’m not an outcast. That, again, it’s okay to swear!

When my mind evades me, and I can’t even remember my own name, I will always and forever remember Street Spirits.

QM

cops

Everywhere I turn, there’s always cops.

I leave my house when I wake up, my backpack slung over my shoulder. It’s noon. I slept in because I couldn’t get to sleep until morning. The sirens kept me up. My neighbor upstairs kept screaming at his wife. His baby cried. The dog kept barking.

Over my shoulder, a uniform in a black and white watches from the curb. I’m the troublesome type. His hand goes to his CB, his eyes stay on me. I turn a corner on foot. And engine starts and follows me.

I see the black and white from the corner of my eye. It pulls up to the curb as I cross the street, and duck down a back alley. Lights and sirens.

And I run.

I don’t even know why I’m running before I start. I just run. I don’t ask questions.

The black and white chases me. It’s fast, too. It catches up to me, and throws me over its hood. I land behind it on the cracked concrete. My backpack lands beside me. The black and white stops. The uniform gets out, runs to me, kneels on my back, kneecap between my shoulder blades. The uniform is screaming. Telling me to shut the fuck up. Telling me how long I’m going to rot in prison.

Cold metal clasp my wrists. They bite into my skin until it draws blood.

The uniform lifts me from the concrete, and snags my backpack. I feel pain cracked across the side of my skull, yet I don’t even know where it came from. I can feel a warm stream run down my chin. Could be from my nose, or my lip. Everything hurts too much, and I can’t honestly tell.

I’m in the locked back seat of the black and white. The uniform is in the front. He speaks into the CB with confidence and pride, like a hunter to his buddies after taking down a ten point buck with one shot. Tells them he caught a druggie punk from a local gang. Caught him running, probably to dump some coke he was trying to sell.

I’m in a cold grey room. My hands are cuffed to the table. There’s two uniforms now: one from before, and another one that’s more quiet.

The loud one boasts to me, how he’ll catch every single one of us. We’re doomed. All I gotta do is rat out my buddies. I don’t speak. The loud uniform cracks me across the face. My cuffs are the only thing holding me so I don’t hit the ground.

The quiet one lifts up my backpack, and hands it to the loud one. The loud one laughs, grabs it, unzips it. The loud one dumps my backpack out on the table. Once everything stops falling, the look on his face is one of surprise and shock. Almost regret.

On the table in front of me are my textbooks. English. Poetry. Play writing. Journalism. Abstract art. A few pencils. My current novel, Of Mice And Men by John Steinbeck. Some loose papers with scribbles and unorganized poems.

The quiet one glares at the loud one. He unlocks my cuffs. Helps pick up my books. Tells me I can go, and apologizes for the confusion. I accept my backpack and leave.

I manage to catch the last bus to school. I arrive late. My poetry professor says I’ve got blood on my shirt. He asks what happened. He says Julie should take me down to the nurse.

Julie has worry on her face. I’ve never seen her look like that before. She looks like she’s about to cry. I like it better when she smiles. She gently holds my arm, as we walk to the office wing.

Julie tells the secretary that I need to see the school nurse. The secretary looks shocked for a moment, and tells us to sit and wait while she gets the nurse. She leaves. Julie and I sit down in padded chairs along the wall.

Julie takes my hand, and holds one of mine in both of hers. Her eyes glaze over. She looks at me, just as a tear falls down her cheek. In a voice just above a whisper, she asks me what happened. And I tell her.

Everywhere I turn, there’s always cops.

QM

The Guy With The Rings

There’s a guy that I’ve seen around town. He’s always dressed in black – leather jacket, ripped jeans, biker boots. His eyes are always covered by dark shades, so I don’t even know what colour his eyes are.

His hair is dark, long, and it brushes his shoulder blades. He has a few lip studs, some more in his brows, and a couple in his ears. Sometimes, I see that he’s got a chain necklace, with some sort of star on it.

This guy, he never carries anything with him – no backpack, no books, no duffle bag – nothing. His hands are always empty.

Well, empty except for all the rings that decorate his knuckles.

Big rings…. Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of them, that’s for sure….

But, I’ve watched this guy, the guy with the rings…. And honestly, it would take a lot to get him to that state of anger…. As menacing and intimidating as he may seem, I’ve never seen him hit anybody….

I’ve seen him buy soup and sandwiches at a local downtown diner, and pass them out to cold souls on the street… I’ve seen him being thanked for his actions, and not expect anything for what he does…. I’ve seen him hold a stranger’s hand as they give a prayer to a god he doesn’t know….

I’ve seen him offer his own jacket to a frozen human, as he guides them to the nearest aid center…. I’ve seen him talk to people who need help, and then see him do all he can to help them…. I’ve seen him change the world….

The guy with the rings is a walking messiah, though people upon a first glance would label him a pariah. He’s the superhero we need, but not a single comic book would be about him. He’s a heart of gold, clad all in the colours of darkness.

If you see the guy with the rings, don’t be afraid. He won’t hurt you.

He’s the saviour you’ve been hoping for.

QM

Street Spirits Road Trips

As sad and potentially boring as it sounds, I want to sit in a van and drive to another city, not caring that it could take up to twelve hours to get there. I want to lean back in the seat, and watch the world blur by as the van turns corners and scales hills.

I want to stop for a quick moment at a corner store, and stretch my legs as the van gets refueled in a town that I don’t know. I want to talk with the locals, that’ll comment that we’re far from home, and ask us where we’re headed.

I want my secondary family to talk excitedly about our destination, and the work we’ll be doing there. I want to run improvised lines like we’re doing a dry run of an imaginary script.

I want to marvel at the city we’re going to be guests to as we see the Welcome sign. I want to agree with my secondary family when they say that this city is wonderful, and different from our hometown.

I want to get settled in the hotel we’ll be staying in for a few days. I want to compare my room with the ones that my secondary family is staying in, and laugh when they make a comment about the bed being nicer than theirs back home.

I want to go to dinner with my secondary family, and discuss details about why we’re here to brainstorm. I want to admire and marvel at my family’s ideas, and love what we all come up with.

I want to be buzzing with excitement at what the next few days will bring. I want to love every moment of the next few days, as my family and I share stories and try to change the world, one performance at a time.

I want to feel the tiredness and slight regret when we have to leave back to our own city when our job is done.

I want to reminisce about the work we did, and talk about our favorite parts of the whole experience. I want to agree with every part, because I loved it, too.

I want to live in that moment, and pray it’ll never end…. But it will.

I want to be happy in that bliss…. But I know it’ll dissolve as soon as I see the sign that welcomes all travelers to my hometown.

I don’t want the bliss to go away…. All I want, is to be with my secondary family, and commit every single moment to memory, so I’ll have something in my life that will always stick in my lapsing mind.

QM

A Trail Of Blue Smoke

Riz lit up a smoke with shaky hands, cupping the end of it to make it light. Once lit, Riz flicked the butane lighter shut, took a long drag, and exhaled a blue puff of smoke into the night.

I watched him now, with a critical eye – I knew Riz smoked; he’d been smoking since we were both fifteen, when he stole his father’s pack and ran like a bat outta hell. Back then, he said he needed to smoke because it cleared his head, made it easier to think. He needed to think, he said, because if you can’t think, you can’t do anything.

Back then, he needed to think. He lived with an unpredictable drunk father, who beat on him if he breathed the wrong way. His mom ditched when he was six, and there was nobody else in his family who gave a fuck about him.

I guess that’s why we got along so well – because I cared about him, from the first moment I saw him.

Watching Riz now, his shoulders were tight – he had a lot on his mind. Whenever he had a lot on his mind, his shoulders always looked tense, and his jaw was the same. His blue eyes were wide, maybe from lack of sleep. Maybe from whatever he’d been drinking the night before.

Riz’s hand shook, as he lifted the smoke back up to his lips, inhaled as hard as he could, then exhaled like he’d lost all of the air inside his lungs. He closed his eyes, and tilted his head to the night sky.

The silence between us was taut, but it wasn’t awkward. We never had awkward silences, even when there was nothing else left to say. It was just a silence.

“We gotta get out,” Riz said then, his voice a bit raspy. “I can’t take much more of this shit.”

“Where are we gonna go?” I asked back; not that it really mattered. I didn’t care where I was, as long as Riz was safe.

He tilted his head forward, until his blue eyes rested on the gravel road beneath our feet. “We’ll go south. To Vancouver, maybe. That place is so… so different, it wouldn’t be hard to belong there.”

“How are we going to get there?” I didn’t drive, and Riz lost his license when some drunk guy stole his car and smashed it; Riz’s name was on the registration, and the cops only cared about jailing somebody. They didn’t care who.

“I’ve got a bit of cash…. I beat Fisher at a poker game last week, and I sold a few grams for him, he let me keep my earnings.” Riz took another long drag off the smoke. “I might have enough for a one way bus ticket.”

“I’ve got some savings, too,” I said. My parents kept telling me to work my ass off to pay for school, for courses I didn’t even want to take. I had about five grand saved up, all from working a minimum wage job over the winter.

“So we’ll bus. I mean, it’s a bit better than hitchhiking, right?”

“Right.”

Riz looked up, and met my eyes, then. “You sure you wanna do this with me? I mean, give up school, give up your future…. Just to stick by me?” His voice made my heart hurt, like he felt guilty about it. Like it was all his fault.

I took his hand, the one that wasn’t holding the smoke. “I’m creating a future, sticking by you. And that’s all I’d ever want.”

A soft smile played out on his lips. “Ditto.”

Hand in hand, we walked – we’d first go to his place, so he could gather up all he’d take with him. Then we’d stop by my house, sneak in the window, and do the same thing.

As we walked, I held my fingers up, silently asking for the smoke. Careful not to burn me, he places it in my fingers. Lifting the smoke to my lips, I take slow drag off of it before handing it back to him.

“I thought you didn’t smoke.” He also took a drag from it.

I exhaled slow, letting the smoke escape my mouth in wisps. “I don’t. But maybe I can start.”

QM

SHORT STORY – Character Development

Ello! Just a note, here: I wrote this short story during a three day event trip to Burnaby, BC with Street Spirits, a local theatre company in Prince George, BC. We went to a mental health and wellness meeting to perform two segments of promenade theatre, and a piece of invisible theatre. It went incredibly well, and I wished it didn’t end so quick. Very positive. Loved it.

Anyways, this is a piece I wrote on the journey. (Also thought I should post something other than a rant….)

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She is strong. A brave soul, don’t take no shit from nobody, protective of those she cares about. Hard as stone. Motherly. Independent. She is the Stone Woman.

Changing hands, she is young. Giddy, free spirited, expressive with her emotions. Soaking life in. Learning the ways. Experiencing the world. She is the Wild Child.

She experienced emotions today, the Stone Woman did. And she wept. Her heart shook, her soul ached, her spirit softened. She broke. She felt. She lived.

She experienced age today, the Wild Child did. She cried. Her brain stressed, her thoughts changed, her repent surfaced. She regretted. She forgave. She lived.

End of the night, hearts in disarray. The Wild Child sings a song to heal her heart, soothe her shaken soul. Her angelic voice drifts softly around the carriage. Her meaning sinks into the skins of those listening, accepting this part of her soul, this part of her newfound feeling.

The Stone Woman sang with her. Her soul spoke a nature of rarity, mixing with the words of the Wild Child’s. Both embraced and danced about in soft cheer beneath the passing city lights in the foreign city sunset. In gentle hope. In lovely discovery. In family stronger than blood.

The Stone Woman became youthful. The Wild Child became wise. Together, they stitched each other’s hearts, helped the other heal.

And if that isn’t character development, I don’t know what is.

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So yes, there it is. Let me know what you think; I’d like to hear from you, dear reader. I don’t mind any feedback.

Thank you again.

Lost in eternal character development,

QM