The Howling
At night, in the middle of curses and delayed essays, I fear for my life. Focusing on my writing unhinges the rest of my consciousness. I find the dreaded illusion of finishing soon, when the digital numbers change to two in the morning. My milky eyesight stares restlessly at the base of the word processor finding the page number. Weakened muscles curve my spine and dip my head closer to the keyboard. And yet I labour on like the miner fatigued and dizzied by the underground fumes.
When the zombie like rhythm of my work reaches a constant march through the paragraphs, I hear the cry that stops it all. My bones then feel like a tree branch in an ice storm. My foggy eyes regain their diurnal capacity. I check over my shoulder at the window of the studio. I stare at this transparent barrier, so weak it is and susceptible to the outside weather. From the outside this bellow barges through my crystal illusion of a wall.
The cry goes off again, and I recognize it in all its diabolical intensity. Decibels high and thin, penetrating me iron cold. The sound is sad and desperate, the terror of tortured innocence. That is the sound of a dozen babies crying! It is a cry for help loaded with warning, for why would babies cry at night and out side my door? Only some horrendous work could cause such a scene.
Minutes later, after enduring the tearing of my heart and the puncturing of my nerves, I walk toward the door. The screaming is intense, but the innocent need help. Though cold, I do not reach for a blanket, thinking it might become a liability in the event of a fight. In front of the door, hand on the knob, my wild imagination races through the possibilities. How can I confront the psycho engaged in such horrible deeds? What if I too become a victim? I gather the courage to open the door.
The otherwise calm night has a breeze that cleans my sidewalk of the fine coat of snow.. Through me ghostly breath, I recognize the silhouette of Nose Hill park. The shinning clouds covering the moon outline its curvy hills. At the top I find the culprit’s companions. Miniature dunes of snow are disturbed by the footprints of the culprit. I follow the footprints with my eyes. In front of my house I find him. Showing me its side, but turning its head to me, the coyote freezes me with its eyes. He utters his tortured baby howl.
When the zombie like rhythm of my work reaches a constant march through the paragraphs, I hear the cry that stops it all. My bones then feel like a tree branch in an ice storm. My foggy eyes regain their diurnal capacity. I check over my shoulder at the window of the studio. I stare at this transparent barrier, so weak it is and susceptible to the outside weather. From the outside this bellow barges through my crystal illusion of a wall.
The cry goes off again, and I recognize it in all its diabolical intensity. Decibels high and thin, penetrating me iron cold. The sound is sad and desperate, the terror of tortured innocence. That is the sound of a dozen babies crying! It is a cry for help loaded with warning, for why would babies cry at night and out side my door? Only some horrendous work could cause such a scene.
Minutes later, after enduring the tearing of my heart and the puncturing of my nerves, I walk toward the door. The screaming is intense, but the innocent need help. Though cold, I do not reach for a blanket, thinking it might become a liability in the event of a fight. In front of the door, hand on the knob, my wild imagination races through the possibilities. How can I confront the psycho engaged in such horrible deeds? What if I too become a victim? I gather the courage to open the door.
The otherwise calm night has a breeze that cleans my sidewalk of the fine coat of snow.. Through me ghostly breath, I recognize the silhouette of Nose Hill park. The shinning clouds covering the moon outline its curvy hills. At the top I find the culprit’s companions. Miniature dunes of snow are disturbed by the footprints of the culprit. I follow the footprints with my eyes. In front of my house I find him. Showing me its side, but turning its head to me, the coyote freezes me with its eyes. He utters his tortured baby howl.