From Chapter 1: Some Years Earlier

With all the sensibility borne of a alcohol and a short temper, Roy slammed his forehead with a great crunching sound against the mound of muscle.

And it was right at that moment when time stopped for Aloysious. He glanced around the room. The ceiling fans were stopped. Gina hung motionless above a bank of manufactured cloud that didn’t stir. The mound of muscle was frozen in a grimace of pain, his body in the midst of falling down; the phalanx of equally muscled friends with looks of shock and anger stretched on their faces. Aloysious stood up. Everything remained still then a heartbeat later the world started to vibrate and he exploded in a cacophonous wave that suddenly thawed the motion in the room.

It was a violent thaw -- people knocked against each other, every bottle of booze at the bar shattered, and the closest people, mainly the wall of flesh and his friends, had their clothes shredded.

Gina seemed to be the only one unaffected. Hands on her hips, she actually appeared annoyed that someone had exploded at what was to be the climax of her routine.

Aloysious snapped back into existence. Roy didn’t even have to shout a drunken question at Aloysious before they started stumbling toward the exit.

Aloysious didn’t know what it was, but he knew he had to get the hell outside, to the relative safety of the Murder Capital of the World.

“Hey, boy,” Roy rasped. “What’s happening to your skin?”

Prologue: The Future

The bar was full of the haze of cigar smoke, the smell of cigar was heavy in the air and accented by stale, spilled beer. The seat on which Aloysius sat was uncomfortable, the padding long squashed flat by an army of drunks before him.

He shifted again, the tenth time in as many minutes. The wait was itself uncomfortable, never mind the seat.

Someone dropped money into an jukebox across the room. Instead of warming to life, lighting up with bent neon tubes, the speakers crackled and hissed, and suddenly Aerosmith’s “Crazy” was ricocheting off the walls. It was earsplitting and it wasn’t making the wait any easier.

Aloysious knew he was in the right spot, could feel it. He'd already downed two Red’s -- Brewed in the Heart of Saskatchewan! the label touted -- and the third sat in front of him. He’d insisted that the bartender just leave it in the can. The “I like it that way,” explanation seemed enough. But Aloysious could tell from the bartender’s expression and sudden silence that he had Aloysious pegged as someone who wanted to get drunk fast and for not much money.

The change from the $10 bill sat in front of Aloysious. Three beers for under $10. That was the magic of Red. It was cheap and loaded with alcohol.

Aloysious glanced over his shoulder. A couple of biker types playing pool, two grizzled ladies of the evening crowded into a booth by the door not saying anything to each other, and a smattering of single guys, empty shot glasses lined up like some kind of glassware firing squad. Aerosmith was still raging. Aloysious looked down at the can then let his eyes slide toward the change.

He didn’t want to to acknowledge that he saw it but he had to admit it. The coins were vibrating, just ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly.

He scratched his beard, extended the scratch to the back of his neck. The coins were very visibly vibrating on the bar.

Whatever was about to happen, the thing he knew was going to happen, the thing that brought him here to this time, this place, this corner of Alberta, was just about to smash through a wall. Or possibly tear off the roof and reach into the bar to snack on a pickled patron.

He lifted the third can of Red to his lips.

Flashlights

Explosion proof!

I have this vague recollection of how I got my first "grown up" flashlight.

I was 8 or 9 and it was a gift -- Christmas? Birthday? I don't remember. I still have it. It's a black 2D Maglite. Over the last ~25 years I've had the flashlight, it has picked-up numerous nicks, scratches, at least one set of batteries leaked inside the tube, and the rubberized cover for the on/off button recently came off and has been lost. Still, it works and that's the important thing.

Even before that I had this weird attachment to flashlights.

Definitely a Chill Developing

Heading out to work the other day I couldn't help but feel the chill of Autumn.

Most of the leaves haven't started turning yet but there's that definite damp cold, not quite crisp, hanging in the air. It's enough to sting your face if you're racing down a hill.

It makes me think of street hockey, light fading sooner and much more quickly, but also sleep and Halloween.

We've moved to a place where getting "trick or treaters" at the house might not happen. I'd wager that it won't happen unless we specifically invite them. There are community events planned but it looks like my kids are going to miss out on what I remember so well about Halloween: Sprinting from house to house with only sugar on my mind.

Foggy

My weekly commute is one long ferry ride. On this particular ride, the route was covered in intense fog. Besides an unreasonable terror with the thought that The Mist had finally become a reality, it created the feeling that we weren't moving.

The sway of the boat, the thrum of the engines were a couple of signs that at least the feeling of motion was present. Inching toward some destination. But a look out the window provided only a sliver of water visible close to the hull. It certainly looked like the boat was moving. But really, we could have been stuck in a giant fish tank with a jet of water pushing against the boat and the only thing preventing us from banging against the back of the tank was the throb of the engine. It was a really odd feeling of equilibrium.

No backward. No forward. Almost like Time had vanished. It was unnerving.

Septic Sure is Something Else

Up until a few weeks ago, I didn't give much thought to what happens to the contents of a toilet bowl when the handle is pushed down because, hey, who thinks about that stuff? Get it out of my sight so I don't have to look at it!

For the last couple of weeks, I've spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about it, pondering over it. That flushing action takes the contents somewhere and it's the process of getting to that somewhere and the somewhere itself that have stolen my attention.

Crash course on our septic system is this:

1. Flush the toilet (drain the sink, run the washing machine, etc.)
2. Water flows down the drain into a big concrete septic tank
3. The solids settle out toward the bottom
4. The liquid stays on top reaching a specific level before spilling into the pump chamber
5. Once the liquid in the pump chamber reaches a specific height, the septic pump activates and pushes the liquid in the pump chamber up to the distribution box
6. The distribution box is essentially a junction box with branching lines of perforated PVC pipe to distribute the liquid across an area that's known as the septic field.

It seems that at any point along the way the system could utterly fail.

The Welcoming Committee of One

After days and days of packing up our possessions and lives, and some days to move all of them out of the city and into a quiet -- more accurately, a small island -- setting, I had finally put my feet up on the recently assembled coffee table and let out a bone-weary sigh.

It was quiet outside.

No sirens. No cars. No commercial jets.

Birds, a slight rustle of some leaves in the late afternoon breeze... just the hint of ocean air but filtered through cedar, fir, and arbutus trees.

I let out another bone-weary sigh.

"Dad, Dad!" my oldest daughter yelled from the front yard. "You've gotta see this!"