The Wager

He had mere seconds to live, though he didn't know it. He felt no final breath as yet, saw nothing of his life flashing through his mind. There was only the dark stranger, and his question.

The conversation had started innocently enough: two men on the subway, going about their daily routines. One a businessman, sat weary from his day at the office, the other a Catholic priest, who had said he was returning from visiting a member of his congregation. There was something about the priest the businessman didn't feel comfortable with. He looked pleasant enough, and a jovial look in his eyes. But there was something behind the eyes that the businessman didn't trust.

The priest sat, reading a book on philosophy, and chuckling. The businessman, curiousity catching his heart, inquired what was so amusing.

"Pascal's Wager," the priest replied, "the belief that it is safer to believe God exists, because if He did, you would lose nothing." The priest leaned forward slightly, engaging the man. "As a curiosity, what do you believe?"

"Well, I'm not Christian, Father," the businessman replied. "I can't say I believe He exists. I mean, look at all that happens around us: wars, terrorism, famine, poverty. If God exists, He's not doing too much to help His flock."

"Ahh," said the priest, "but God helps those who help themselves."

"I can't see how that really works. We do the hard work of making it through every day, and we thank God for us breaking our backs to bring home a living wage?" The businessman shook his head. "No, I can't believe it."

"But those are all the things made by Man. As not created by God, they are fallible, just as we are." As if to illustrate his point, the lights of the subway went out as it slowly rolled to a halt. "Look at the beauty of the Rocky Mountains, the Grand Canyon. Look at the vast wonders in the natural world, crafted by God. Can you look at what He himself has created, and still not wager he exists?"

The businessman thought a moment, before finally replying, "Yes, I can look at the wonders of the world, and not believe in Him. What exists in the natural world exists only because it exists. It was not put there by a divine hand, only growth and evol - "

The businessman cut himself short as he noticed the temperature rise suddenly. The smell of brimstone on the air, he turned to look back at the end of the subway. As he stared in horror, flames seemed to burst from around the door at the end of the car. As the flames leapt higher, moving toward him, he turned back to the priest, and found himself staring into holes where the priest's eyes had been. As the void behind those sockets began to glow red, a raspy, unearthly voice echoed through the subway, forming two words: "Wrong answer."

The Wedding

To say the time preceding the wedding had been rather tense to this point would be akin to describing a battleship as a tug; it doesn’t do it justice. The groom’s ex-wife was causing problems with the new wife, a petite girl half the groom’s age, the chapel they were set to marry in had burned to the ground under suspicious circumstances, and at the last minute, someone called the caterer, using the bride’s name, and ordered a complete change of the menu two days before the wedding reception.

The groom was furious, the bride was in hiding, both families were busy accusing the other of sabotage, and the ex-wife was opening a betting pool for how long the newlyweds would last. But the groom could not be deterred, and improvised. The location of the wedding was moved to a local park, the ex-wife was told to shut up, and the guests were informed that the main course had been shifted to barbecued hamburgers.

The day of the wedding arrived, and the ex-wife had managed to get in with another guest. At the point of objections to the union being requested, the groom’s entire family, and even the pastor, locked eyes on her. She merely looked around casually, as if she hadn’t noticed the question. The bride and groom kissed, and the marriage was finalized.

It was at the reception that the next crisis unfolded: the caterers had been informed at the last minute that the wedding had been cancelled, apparently by the bride’s mother. The bride ran from the hall, wailing at the injustice of it all. In fact, all but the groom left the hall, with him sitting in his chair, completely bewildered.

The groom decided that with everything else that had gone wrong over the last few weeks, no one would care if he grabbed a slice of cake. Though originally deterred by the smell of bitter almonds, a sure sign the cake was topped with his least favorite confection, marzipan, his stomach eventually won out. As he chewed the first piece, he suddenly felt a wave of vertigo as a headache slammed hard through his skull, and he collapsed to the floor, having difficulty breathing. As he felt the life drain out of him, he remembered a story he had once heard that the smell of almonds was also associated with hydrogen cyanide.

Delivery

He had no idea what was going on around him, no clue why a dozen police cruisers were chasing after him. He was only biking around, fulfilling his role as a bicycle messenger. The police had no reason (that he knew of) to be chasing him. He would gladly stop, but he also had a package in his bag that needed to be delivered in the next five minutes. It would be close, he knew it, but he could manage it. So long as he didn't hit any red lights.

The package itself was going to a major investment firm from a private residence. Neither side of the delivery, the origin nor the recipient, had ever used his firm before. When he was originally told about the package by his dispatcher, he sighed. Since neither side had an account with his firm, it would be a cash call. He hated cash calls - something always went wrong.

But regardless, he accepted the call with a perfunctory acknowledgement, and rolled off to pick it up. The package origin was an apartment building in one of the city's seedier areas, but he didn't ask questions. The person sending it out seemed decent enough, not one of the crack-heads that dominated the area. Even gave an extra tip on top of the amount owed. Which was nice - another coffee between calls. But the courier had a strange feeling about the package itself. It's not that he could put his finger on it, but something felt off. Regardless, cash in hand and package in bag, he set off.

The trouble started about ten minutes later. First one cruiser, then two, then it seemed like they were popping out of the concrete. And he had to move quick. He knew a few shortcuts in the area ahead that would be guaranteed to shake the police. Through one plaza, then the next, he went a full two city blocks with only being on an actual road for no more than two seconds. He even locked his bike up one block over and ran along the financial district's underground concourse to the proper address. Back to street level inside the office tower, the tallest in the city, he popped into the right elevator just as the doors clicked shut behind him. He finally felt he could breathe.

Exiting on the forty-ninth floor, he turned toward the reception - and froze. Eight uniformed officers were waiting for him. Turning to them, he simply asked that he be able to deliver the package before he was arrested. The police dove for him, stopping short as he pulled the small package from his bag. Fear and a kind of grim acceptance fell over them as they stared bewildered at the bulky envelope in his hand. The courier had no clue what could've mitigated this response, until he heard a soft ticking sound. Staring around, trying to find the source, he soon joined the police in their fear upon realizing the source was in his hands.

Auction House

It was scheduled for the second Saturday of every month at the old Skyler farm north of town. The farm had been abandoned, its soil having finally given up. No one went out there. There was no reason to. Except for that night.

The auction itself was invitation only, its suppliers remaining anonymous. Records of each auction lot were kept, but were destroyed soon after the auction concluded for the night. And everyone was always notified the auction was cash only.

But tonight's auction was different. Each person that won an auction lot would also get a car key, their entry to a 2006 Ford Mustang. Thousands of dollars were spent for a chance at the car. But the auctioneer had kept the real key for himself.

It wasn't until the end of the night that they heard the first siren. Within seconds, one cop moved in and had the auctioneer in cuffs, the possessor of stolen property. The Mustang had been taken from Toronto three days earlier. Everything else was the spoils of countless burglaries across the province. The cop, a detective, impounded the car and money, though curiously leaving the auctioneer behind.

When police responded to an anonymous tip half an hour later, they were baffled by reports of a detective having been there before them. A detective none of them had heard of before.

Tears of the Ages

Divorces abound, one family in three
One lightning bolt, one of three family trees
Made by society, one of a million phages
As the world cries forever tears of the ages

Wars out of reach, out of sight, out of mind
Shadows of a past far that were far left behind
In the times of knights, dragons and mages
As flowers under snow cry tears of the ages

Rape and arson, millions dead
The soul of the world on its final bed
But we pocket blood money and cash in sin's wages
As our very world drowns in tears of the ages


This poem was originally written in 2001, shortly before my entire collection of works was lost. That same year, Tears of the Ages proceeded to the semi-finals in a North American poetry competition. It was recovered from a poetry web site over six years after its original destruction.

History's Requiem

Those days so bright 'neath sunlit skies
Contrasted by the torn goodbyes
Memory's fade to blackness bleak
Is all I have left now to seek

In darkness now I stand alone
My soul lets out its lonesome moan
My eyes seek hope in veiled skies
Long after will succumbs and dies

In times gone my mind dare not dwell
I turn away, I say farewell
To history, to times now gone
And ne'er again will come the dawn

Dear Beloved:

You were right all along. I know it's meaningless to say it now since you can't hear me. But I want you to know I'm sorry I didn't listen. I didn't listen to anyone.

I keep thinking back to that night. It wasn't that long ago, but it feels, like a whole other lifetime. I could say that I couldn't resist the peach schnapps, or I could say you could've stopped me. But I could've stopped myself.

I guess the lion's share of the party was fun. I was glad you talked me into forgetting work for the night, despite the fact your sister was there. I never liked her. Then again, she never liked my drinking. I guess that's one thing I should've tried to have in common.

And so the night ended. I wasn't in the right state of mind to drive, but you didn't force the issue. Besides, we had done it often enough - what's once more? I don't remember the accident, only waking up in the hospital, with you laying in the bed next to me. There we lay, with no words said. There never would be again. Because, in the darkness of that night, one of us died.

I know you saw the funeral. I wish I could tell you that I enjoyed it. I suppose the better choice of words would be that it was as memorable a farewell as one could ask. But I can't tell you. After all, it was me in the casket, not you.