ÿþ<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <head> <title> Poetry and Prose from In Posse Review</title> <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html" charset="utf-8" /> <meta name="author" content="In Posse Review, http://www.webdelsol.com" /> <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="19_a_style.css" /> </head> <body> <center> <br /> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"> <tr> <td valign="top" width="35px"> <p> <img src="insposse.gif" width="30px" height="187px" alt=" " /><br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;</p> </td> <td valign="top" width="15px" bgcolor="#0f0000">&nbsp;</td> <td width="15px">&nbsp;</td> <td align="left" valign="top" width="400px"> <h1>Two Short Shorts</h1> <h2>Tom Abray</h2> <p>SNOW</p> <p>From outside came harsh voices and then a banging door, softer than usual, because it had snowed during the night. I tried to keep working, but I was too distracted. One look, I told myself, and I slowly moved to the window. </p> <p>I watched through a crack in the curtains. Hiding was probably unnecessary. There were eyes in many of the windows around the square, but the guards took no notice. They were the arms of the law, the fingers. What others saw or thought did not matter. </p> <p>I heard the muffled slink of the chains. Just outside the station they were unshackling the prisoner's legs. I had never noticed this before. What was the leader thinking? Admittedly, there was no risk of escape, but still, why not leave the shackles? It was psychological, I thought. Now the prisoner would contemplate escape. But he would not attempt it, and he would be forced to admit to himself that he was a coward and under the control of another man's will. </p> <p>And if he happened to run, well then, even better for the guards. </p> <p>This prisoner chose defiant pride. He walked with his head-up, just a little slower than the guards would have wanted, but not slow enough that they would strike him. </p> <p>If it were me, I thought, that's how I would do it. </p> <p>My eyes settled on their tracks in the snow, four sets, but each indistinct and lost because they overlapped the others. </p> <p>I knew the leader would do something to break the prisoner. I knew he was becoming furious. His fury emanated from him like heat off a red coal. </p> <p>At each footfall, I expected to see his weapon flash and the prisoner fall to the snow. But he restrained himself, dutifully, and they reached the centre of the square. They quickly tied him to the flag pole. </p> <p>Now it was up to the leader. At this point he had unlimited powers, as was necessary. He said something and the other two reached for the prisoner. They loosened his waistband and he glanced down quickly, showing the first signs of panic. </p> <p>The leader moved in close to the prisoner's face. No one but the prisoners ever knew what he said. The words always had a strong effect and today, too, the prisoner began to plead. The words were swallowed by the snow. As if I were the prisoner, I recoiled from the imminent torment. </p> <p>With a word to the guards, the leader crouched down and began, almost playfully, to collect a pile of snow. He pretended to be enjoying himself, or perhaps he was not pretending. He said something and then he scooped up the snow and slowly shoved it down the prisoner's pants. </p> <p>A whooping howl flew across the square. </p> <p>Now they were all working on the prisoner. The guards packed handfuls of snow down his pants and the leader pressed it against his crotch. My own testicles crept into my body. </p> <p>It was not long before the prisoner's legs gave out. He fell to the ground, sobbing. The guards laughed and then they stuffed his shirt as well. </p> <p>There was a sound in the room. It was nothing, but it made me realise I was standing in my chambers, not sitting in the snow, in the middle of the square. I turned from the window, ashamed for having watched. </p> <p> Two of the guards followed the footprints back to the door, but the leader continued across the square, making new tracks in the snow. I saw him pull his directives from his chest pocket. He stopped to initial the paper and then continued. Soon I could no longer see him. </p> <p>I sighed and moved toward my desk. I wanted to sit, but I could not. Then there was a knock at the door. </p> <p> "Come in," I said. I was surprised to hear my voice so strong and clear. </p> <p>The door opened and the leader stepped forward. He saluted me. I nodded slightly and held out my hand. </p> <p>He crossed the floor. The hard soles of his boots rapped against the marble. He was well aware, I thought, of the wet marks he was leaving, but it would have been beneath me to point them out. </p> <p> "Your honour," he said, holding out the directives.</p> <p>As I took the paper, I looked into his eyes. They were dull and cold on the surface, but deeper down I saw that he was laughing. </p> <p> "Thank you," I said. "Dismissed." </p><br> <p>A SPOT OF BOTHER</p> <p>Beringer could feel Kepperman's presence in the room. Even though Kepperman had always seemed fond of him, in his Kepperman way, Beringer preferred to remain invisible whenever possible. At this moment he kept his head bent as he unjammed a stapler with the nib of his pen. </p> <p>It didn't work. Kepperman had seen him. There he stood, just to the right of his desk. </p> <p> "Beringer? I have a favour to ask. The janitor forgot to throw the garbage in the bin last night and I have a tip that someone from the central office is coming around on inspection today. Would you mind looking after it?" </p> <p>Kepperman's fingers rested on the edge of Beringer's desk. </p> <p>Beringer agreed. What else could he do? </p> <p>As Kepperman walked away Beringer turned to look at him. Kepperman moved slowly, like a huge cruise ship near the shore. He was all shoulders. From where Beringer sat he could barely see Kepperman's head. </p> <p>The garbage bags were piled neatly in the back, at the end of a long hallway, about five metres past the men's lavatory. They appeared to be clean and well-tied, but Beringer took off his coat anyway. He could not afford to rip it, or even worse get a stain on it. A rip could be fixed by a good tailor, but a bad stain could ruin the entire garment. He draped the coat over a fire extinguisher and pushed open the back door. He threw the bags through the opening and then stepped outside. </p> <p>It was a beautiful day, sunny and cool, but it was especially cool in this dead-end alley. </p> <p>Beringer looked at the bin and recognized immediately that something was wrong. The top of the bin was up. Even Beringer, who worked at a desk in sector B, knew the lid was supposed to be closed at all times, except of course when the bin was being filled or emptied. Oh well, he thought. It was none of his business. He turned to pick up a bag and noticed the door. </p> <p>It had shut behind him and there was no handle on the outside. Instead of picking up a bag, he went over and tried to pull it open by wedging the tips of his fingers into the crack. He had no luck. The door was very heavy and for all he knew the latch had even clicked on the other side. </p> <p>Well, he thought, first things first. One by one he threw all the bags into the bin. Then he climbed up the ladder and shut the lid. Now at least something around here had been done properly. He climbed to the ground and looked down the alley toward the street. </p> <p>On his left was a pile of cardboard boxes. As he passed, a few of the boxes fell and rolled into his path. </p> <p> "Wait," said a voice. There was a man, sitting on the ground, slouched against the wall of the building. Stubble grew on his chin. His hair was a mess. He looked wasted and frail, as though long undernourished. </p> <p> "Don't go," he told Beringer. "It's too bright now. Those people walking by will spot you. You must stay here until it is dark, and even then you must be very careful." </p> <p> "Until dark?" said Beringer, amused. "I have work to do." </p> <p> "In there?" The man pointed toward Beringer's office. "Who are you kidding? Not me. Surely not yourself." </p> <p> "I've been there six years," said Beringer. </p> <p>The man sat up a little, leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. "Listen," he said, talking with his hands, which made him seem more youthful. "I understand. I used to work there myself, a while ago. I sabotaged myself too. I once left the lid up on the garbage bin. There was a man named Kepperman then. I suppose he's still there." </p> <p>At the mention of Kepperman's name, Beringer began to nod. "He's there alright. More than ever." </p> <p> "Old Kepper finally pushed you too far, did he? You're furious at him. That's why you locked yourself out." </p> <p>Beringer looked toward the street. He'd just about had enough of this know-it-all. He was growing a little angry, in fact, but when he tried to show it, by lowering his chin to his shoulder and glaring out from under his brow, the way Kepperman sometimes did, the man only smiled and watched him with his large brown eyes. </p> <p> "Mainly you are lonely, though, aren't you," said the man, whom Beringer had now recognized as the missing janitor. "What's your name?" </p> <p> "Beringer." </p> <p> "How many people can you talk to, Beringer? I mean really talk to." </p> <p> "It's not really your business, but I happen to be married. Every night I talk to my wife." </p> <p>The janitor shook his head. "Your wife? What do you say? Come on. Nothing." </p> <p>Shaking his head Beringer turned toward the street. </p> <p> "Forget about it," called the janitor. "Settle in. You're here now." </p> <p> "You're something!" said Beringer, swinging around. "To think I stood here and let you slander Kepperman." </p> <p>The janitor leaned against the wall with a wise look. "Who do you think locked the door, Beringer? You may have let it close, but it doesn't stay shut unless locked from the inside." </p> <p>Beringer looked around as though he were lost. He'd only wanted to throw out the garbage. He had even closed the lid. So maybe he'd let the door close. So what? Sometimes doors closed. </p> <p>The janitor reached out to him. "Come, take my hand, sit down beside me. Tell me, what is your real name? </p> <p>Like a sullen child Beringer hesitated until he could not contain himself any longer. "Joshua," he said. </p> <p> "Joshua, come here. I'll make a little place for you beside this old box. Now tell me. You closed that door yourself, didn't you?" </p> <p>Beringer ran his finger along the edge of a box. "I don't know. Maybe." </p> <p>The janitor patted him on the shoulder. "There you go! I knew it!" </p> <p>An amused smile crossed Beringer's lips. </p> <p>The janitor patted his shoulder again and even squeezed his arm. "Tonight we'll sneak home. When we come back tomorrow morning, they'll have hardly noticed we were gone." </p> <p>Beringer straightened. "Come back?" </p> <p>The janitor laughed. "Of course. Only in our dreams are there any other possibilities. But for now, rest your head on that little flap and don't worry. I'll let you know when it's safe to go." </p> <hr /> <h2>Tom Abray</h2> <p>Tom Abray was born and raised in southwestern Ontario. He moved to Montreal in 1989, fell in love with the city and never left. He has two children and teaches English literature at John Abbott College. </p> <br /> <br /> <div id="logo"><em>In Posse:</em> Potentially, might be . . . </div> <p><img src="tedhead.gif" align="right" alt="logo" /></p> <h3><a href="http://webdelsol.com/InPosse/index.htm" align="right"> Return</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; </h3> <br /> <hr /> </td></tr></table></center></body></html>