Lover’s Compendium and A Life Fantastic

Oskar Westin

Lover’s Compendium

and

A Life Fantastic

© Copyright Oskar Westin

All rights reserved.

eISBN: 1230008075291

Book design: Oskar Westin

This collection is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Lover’s Compendium

Naïveté

An unsigned contract

Intimate knowledge

Seasoned

A Life Fantastic

The young prince

Unloved (a matter of taste)

Songs of broken ribs

A minor problem

Writer’s notes

About the Author

Also by Oskar Westin

Lover’s Compendium

For Michelle

Tickling in my nose

fresh-cut grass

A scent of lemon

dancing in the trees

My eyes water

tears and pollen

drifting with the breeze

Naïveté

I hosted a small house party last night. I didn’t invite many friends—I don’t have many friends—but it was an open invite, and my few friends had more friends than I could imagine. This was a blessing as much as a curse. The curse was the mess; the blessing was Fatima. Fatima arrived late. We had never met, not before this day. Meeting her changed my life.

The doorbell rang, and I staggered to answer it with two empty beer bottles in each hand—my heart stopped. It didn’t just skip a beat. It full-on stopped. It took all my nerve to hold onto those bottles.

“Are you Christopher?” she said. “I’m Fatima.” I played the stoic as Fatima’s eyes shocked my heart back into rhythm. I invited her in, raised my empty bottles, and offered her a drink—a fool’s move. “No, thank you,” she said as she passed me, moving to the kitchen to chat with her friends. Her head turned over her shoulders. “I will see you later?”

Her question-statement lifted my body off the ground—an unknown feeling. I drifted from the front door to the recycling bin. The glass bottles bounced like bubbles over empty cans and paper plates. Next, my euphoric gliding spirit brought me to the kitchen, the living room, and the rec room. Strange bodies stared as I wafted by. But where was Fatima?

“Hey, yo, Christopher.” It was Nabil, a friend of Fatima’s. “Did you meet Fatima?”

“I did.” The words rolled from my chest.

“She’s cute, yeah?”

“Yeah, right,” I said.

“You like her.” A Cheshire-Grin overtook his face, all teeth and gums. Don’t get too fond. She’s a brown girl, Christopher. And you’re the whitest white guy I’ve ever met. Your name even starts with Christ. You do not want to meet her parents.”

But I love her.

The words danced on my tongue, but I didn’t find the air to breathe them into the world. The colour of my skin shouldn’t matter. True love conquers everything.

Nabil walked off as I narrowed my vision, ignoring all the guests but the one who stole my heart with a glance. I slithered to the basement, slipping from room to room while people were drinking, smoking, and having illicit sex in the sauna. Despite my generation's ostentatious disobedience, I did not drink or do drugs. And sex was still foreign to me. But love. I would dump all my uncorrupted principles in a sour mop bucket to be with Fatima: her dark hair, brown skin, and hazel eyes. We would make beautiful babies.

Still, where was Fatima? Had she gone? Did she not offer to see me later?

— • —

“Christopher?”

I was alone in my bedroom, bunched under my covers. I had teleported from the basement. I couldn’t find Fatima anywhere. The party carried on without me⁠—.

“Christopher?”

—What a mistake to fall in love. It makes you high, then sinks your ship to the deepest chasm⁠—.

“Christopher, can I come in?”

—I wish I hadn’t met her. Fatima probably left with some other boy⁠—.

“I’m coming in now.”

It is Fatima’s voice.

My door opened, and an angel crept into my room. At first, she sat on my bed and then crawled into my nest. I didn’t say a word, and neither did she. We were holding hands above my duvet. Our clothed bodies touched lightly below the covers. I was paralyzed—frozen in this moment. Soon, one of Fatima’s hands slipped under the covers and rested on my stomach. I was frightened by her tenderness. Was she frightened by my stillness? I prayed that she wouldn’t run from my longing. What would she think of me? Of my lustfulness? I loved her eyes, not her sex. How could she possibly understand? This wasn’t me; I didn’t want this. I just wanted to love her, to stare into the void: our future. I breathed her in. Cinnamon hearts. My body relaxed, and I found my voice. “Hi,” I said.

•

Time passed, and we were together. My room, the house, everything disintegrated. Fatima and I stared at the stars. Our home was the night sky. As we floated through the cosmos, I called out The Big Bear, Little Bear, Orion, and Polaris.

Fatima spoke. “That one is called al-Qiblah. And it is found in the constellation named al-Rakabah. You know it as North Star and Little Dipper—Little Bear you might call it.”

Creation expanded beyond understanding.

“Do you seek the North Star often, Christopher?”

Fatima held my hand. And I shook my head. “I don’t follow the stars,” I said.

“Do you follow anything,” she asked.

The universe shrank like a decalcified sea cucumber.

— • —

We were back in my room. I couldn’t answer her question, so I said nothing.

“It’s late, and I should go. My parents⁠—”

“I understand.” It seemed the right thing to say.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” I said.

“Me too,” said Fatima.

Today is the morning after.

I clamber into the shower—a cold one. As my nerves freeze, I start to breathe again. I am a different person. New life, new purpose. I must be with Fatima. She is my centre. My heart. My core.

I’m still in my towel. I let it fall to the floor. My mirrored closet reflects my body. I am fit, with wet brownish hair. To think that Fatima might see this body at some point is unnerving. I size myself up; I am certain she would be impressed, but still, I am gripped with expectation. I have never been naked in front of a girl.

I catch myself staring at my body for too long and grab a navy-blue tracksuit from my top drawer. Fatima lives in Sherwood Park. I will go to her.

I lift my father’s red Schwinn from its rack in the garage and walk it to the curb. The sun is low, and the sky is pink as the earth tilts towards a mid-morning blue. Green lawns moat each house in our subdivision, shiny black driveways drawbridge to every front door. I ride my father’s bike down the street, to get to Sherwood Park. Motionless pink and grey brick houses fly by as I pedal onwards. At the final bend of our crescent, I bounce my bike over the curb and follow the trail that leads to the ravine—the Schwinn hybrid quivers between the tall grass. I cross a bridge to the gravel path leading into the forest, a tunnel to a new world. The dark green canopy swallows me as I rush through it. Dashes of light shine through the brush as our tilting globe gives rise to the sun. My legs drive me forward until I burst through the dense overhang. This is my favourite part of the gully: an explosion of light reflects off the riverbed to my right, and the trees on my left give way to cattails and pussy willows. Soft winds offset the breeze from my forward motion as I pedal. My hair dances to and fro as the red Schwinn moves on to the next gateway. This new portal of tall brush grows on either side of the gravel path and connects like a net above me. With the sunshine behind me, I duck my head and slide easily through this open burrow. This short tunnel opens to a broad path surrounded by old trees, rooted in the soft brown earth. These are branches that I climbed in my youth, but I face a different challenge today.

Fatima. I am coming for you.

It won’t be long before I find my love.

The Sherwood Park Village stands before me: a community of beige townhouses. As I walk my father’s bike through the neighbourhood, I am wary of the tall towers looming over me. Every window is a threat, eyes looking down on me and my bright red bicycle. I feel like a child, alone and vulnerable. An older man stares at me from his garage as he sorts through his recycling; ogre-like tufts of grey hair grow from his ears. A snarling dog snaps at me through a wooden trellis. Impish children run through the streets, causing havoc. This terrible dream torments me. The trees and townhouse swirl around me. A mix of green leaf and stone-coloured oatmeal. My nightmare.

I lose my balance. Where is Fatima? Gravity has lost its point.

“Jesus, Christopher. What the hell are you doing here?”

My red bike drops to the ground. I turn toward that voice: so delicate, with her unexpected inflections. Soft v-sounds rather than the harsh W. Fatima wears an embroidered pale blue nightgown and black hijab. The modest nightgown covers her from her shoulders to the tops of her feet. She is not wearing shoes. Her rounded toes are as perfect as the hazel of her eyes.

“What the fuck, Christopher,” she whispers. “You must go.” Fatima shoos me away. “My parents will kill me if I am alone with a boy.”

I’m still staring at her feet.

“Look. At. Me.”

I do as I am told. Her eyes: on fire, as brilliant as the sun. Her face: stern as the concrete sidewalk.

“Come here,” she beckons. “Christopher,” she softens. “Yesterday was wonderful. I like you very much. But this cannot go on.”

My nightmare continues. “Is this because I’m white? I thought… I mean, I love you. And you love—like—me too, don’t you?”

“The colour of your skin doesn’t matter to me, Christopher. But I am Muslim. You are Christian,” her voice floats on a breeze I cannot hear. “You must go before my parents call me inside—coming, baba. I am putting away the rubbish.” Fatima turns away and drops an empty bag in the garbage bin. Her modest gown enfolds her and draws her away from me.

“Who is that boy, Fatima?” A mother’s voice carried across the infinite space between us.

“He asked for my study notes, mama. He is nobody. That is all.” Her voice, which I cannot hear, evaporates.

The day has left me. The sun sinks, and the crescent moon rises as I wait for the stars to shine. It is not yet dark enough to find my way. The North Star is lost in a haze of twilight⁠—.

“Christopher.”

She is gone, and I am alone with a red bicycle, like an abandoned child in a meaningless playground⁠—.

“Christopher?”

—I am white, and she is brown. This is something that I understand but cannot accept.

“Christopher, can I sit with you?”

—I wish I hadn’t met her.

“I’m coming to you now.”

It is Fatima’s voice.

She is dazzling, barefoot, now dressed in violet shalwar kameez. Rather, she is wearing shalwar trousers, but the matching top is cropped to show her belly. It is firm and soft. Fatima’s evening Hijab is mint-green. She walks to me, and her feet disappear into the long grass. I stare at the exchange of brown and green mixed with pink toenails.

I’m filled with nervous energy as Fatima sits next to me in the grass, nestled between green and lilac butterfly bushes. The bushes offer a modest sense of privacy from nearby windows.

“Christopher,” Fatima starts, “I have to say to you something.” The lilt in her voice is gentle and solemn. “I know that you love me—” My spine curls, and I start to speak—“No, let me finish.”

Fatima’s words are firm. A jumble of worms and snakes crawl in my belly. She puts her hand on my bouncing knee, then takes my hand in hers. I am looking at the grass between my legs, avoiding eye contact. Her grip on my hands tightens.

“You are a complicated boy, Christopher, but you do not have a Faith.”

Fatima’s tongue slips from her mouth. Her lips are dry, I want to wet them with my kiss, but I cannot because I am cold inside. I don’t need to hear what she has to say. I have faith in love and goodness. I do not need a mythical star to tell me so, and I don’t need to be here if Fatima can't accept that. I stand up and walk towards my bike. Fatima stands behind me and puts her arms around my waist. She nuzzles her head against my shoulder.

“Stupid boy,” she says. “I have a Faith. And it is important to me. I respect my family and my community. And you need to know I will never take a boyfriend unless he has these things.”

I want to tell her she is wrong, but I know she is right.

The warmth of her breath tickles my neck.

“If you are serious about us,” she says, “think about your ways. I will wait for you to find yourself, my stupid boy.”

Looking upwards, I hope to find my place in the celestial sphere, in a kingdom not larger than a pinhead. Is there room for my ambiguous creed, or will I drift away like so much flotsam?

An unsigned contract

It was quiet under low, brown-tinted lights. Our table was empty; our guests had gone. It was time for us to leave, but we didn't. We couldn't. The bar-height table was clear except for the bill.

The football game was on in the background—English, not American. I checked the score, and she checked her nails. Technically, these were her friends, but we hadn't established a code of conduct for our relationship. I focused on the cheque. While she rambled on about her mother. It was her birthday party, so her mom should have been here, but how was that my problem? Paying for twenty of her friends was my problem.

The game ended. She had stopped talking. Her hand was on the table. Her lips were moist; my lips were dry. She leaned across the table and whispered in a breathy voice.

I called the waiter and paid the bill. I'm not proud of it, but her silent promise was enough to get her home and into bed.

Intimate knowledge

My husband of two years doesn’t know that I know. He is so loving and trusting, my husband—I know that. And he works so hard to support us.

He is working late again.

What he does in his spare time is no business of mine. What he doesn’t know is what I do in his spare time.

My husband, he loves me. But in his spare time, he leaves me. In his absence, I drink absinthe to dull the day. When that pastime runs dry, I find another. A lover to pass the time and mask my pain. After a while, my lover is trite, and my liver can’t support him nor my absent husband.

Is it time to move on?

From absinthe to vodka, from blended whiskey to scotch, there must be a better way to pass each day. Pills? I’ve considered—but I’m not there yet.

I’m toying with a blade today.

Not a razor—a safety scalpel that protects cesarean babies. I make a clean lateral incision above my pubis and crawl into myself, becoming my cocoon. I gestate for time immemorial.

When I am reborn and forgotten, there is no lover, no husband. There is nothing. I am free from all things. With this freedom, I sleep forever. And no one will raise me from oblivion.

* intimate knowledge is an expression of the emotions felt by mikaela (mischa) mickiewiczs, from the novel summer’s breath. in writing summer’s breath. mischa’s plight was the driving force behind that novel.

Seasoned

Face down in a book on the train. I look forward to closing the last chapter of this book and writing my own words. Writing: a pastime, like reading. It’s a way to lose myself, to forget my wasted life. That said, I’m either writing or reading, never both—that feels like cheating. Cheating on reading or writing; not quite like a lover’s tryst. Do the words I read care about the words I write?

“Hello, Charlie.”

The lilt in her voice was easy to ignore—then again, you could have more than one lover in an open relationship. Is that the same as cheating?

“Charlie?”

Samantha’s face is displaced by the pink hat on her head—it was garish and didn’t suit her.

“Hi, Sam,” I say. “Your pink hat. I barely recognized you.”

“My secret disguise,” she says, leaning in for a hug. I rest my chin against the pink hat and hold her a little longer than I should—we have a complicated history.

I gaze under her soft-pink, wool-blended flat cap; her commonly bright eyes never seemed so dull, coloured deep green, but with grey rings circling her irises, like a viscous sea clinging to deadwood. My nose pinches, and I smooth my beard. “How are you?” The words croak from my throat. God, her eyes look old.

“Same.” Her lips curl, and her nose flares. Her eyes darken further, hiding something like ancient ruins eroded by time—our time: long past.

The subway doors chime as we reach the next stop.

Samantha and I used to work together. There were rumours about us before we had even met. That’s the way of things at a conservative old-world, white-collar business; political infighting, interpersonal conflict, discriminatory practices, and subpar performance. The rumours were manifested through glances, passive-aggressive jokes, or hushed whispers. Of course, all of this was unfounded. When we became friends, we did our best to steer clear of each other while in the office. Our friendship wasn’t secret but for the implied innuendo. Instead, Sam and I met by the park bench near the backwoods at noon to walk and talk together. We would meet there separately, start our walk, and chat about the weather, life, and death in passing. We met like this for our first summer together and partly through the fall. It ended in the winter—I kept walking, but Sam didn’t. The whispers of our fictitious intimacy were getting louder. I couldn’t be a friend to Sam without casting her in the role of office slut. The damage was done. I walked alone all winter, lost in the crystals hanging from sleeping branches. The icy path I travelled concealed autumn’s decay. I questioned my friendship with Sam. Why had we met in secrecy—was there something between us that I didn’t see? Or was it a mutual dependency that died with the cold? Would our hibernating solitude thaw in the spring? If so, what could we do but skulk in the shadows?

I quit my job in March before the snow melted. The anticipation of semi-seasonal office talk put me out. It wasn’t fair to put Samantha through that.

I close my eyes.

Sam is still there when they open—this is not a dream.

She is real, and the next station is her last. After that, she’ll be gone. I have one minute to tell her everything and thank her for the times she rescued me from self-destruction. My body shrinks, and I fill my lungs with stale subway air. My lips part: Now is the time to share my regrets. Share my feelings. Rekindle our friendship.

“James and I moved in together, Charlie,” she says, “isn’t that great?”

The moment passes. I swallow my tongue. Time mushrooms and sinks. Electrons collide with protons, and neurons fire shots before convening in my stomach. A knotted ball forms and unravels. I cannot believe they are moving in together. I blink, expecting the metal doors and reinforced windows to bounce back my reflection, confirming that Samantha was an illusion.

Sam and James were an off-and-on couple for as long as I’d known her—off mostly. The relationship didn’t seem serious; I only heard about Jim when Sam complained about him. I admit, my view of him was one-sided: he was the oaf who treated my friend like garbage.

I search my memory for the last time I talked to Sam before today. It was earlier this year, in late August or early September. Was she with Jim at the time?

Silence echoes through the noisy train car.

Sam had texted me and asked how I was doing. We agreed to meet near her home, away from the office, for a walk and chat. This was the first time I’d seen her since I started my new job in the spring. Summer had passed; I remember the leaves were changing, so I guess it was September. We strolled through her neighbourhood towards the lake and looked at old mansions. Some were for sale; we pretended we could afford them and joked about pooling our resources to share a grand house by the beach—our future. We took a break by the boardwalk and sat on great granite slabs by the shore. A fine mist blanketed the beach to the west. The sky was pale grey, and the faded leaves danced in time with waves. We took off our shoes and listened as the sea crested against large pebbles in the sand. I’m confident I didn’t say anything substantial that day, not about my feelings for her or my regrets. And she didn’t mention Jim. We shared unspoken memories. I recognized them in the twist in her smile, the light in her eyes, and the curve of her hip. I hope she recognized something in me. We sat by the stirring water for an age. We grew old together for a while.

She didn’t mention Jim.

“Moving in with Jim?” I say, dry, like salted perch. “Congratulations.”

Congratulations? Such a fool’s expression. Should I tell her that James was an asshole? She knew that already—she must. God, I am vapid. Words cannot express my disappointment—no, my disapproval. What is she doing with her life?

The tracks click beneath the train car

like a ticking time bomb.

After we left the beach in September, we walked barefoot along the cool boardwalk. I carried both our pairs of shoes in my bag. Our hands brushed gently like two leaves from a fallen tree. The little finger on my right hand joined her left. The evening mist tickled our ankles.

When we returned to Sam’s place, we made love for the first and only time.

I left her apartment later that evening. I took my tan sneakers from my bag and set her desert boots by the door. I imprinted those shoes in my mind. I imagined the day when my sneakers would sit next to them again.

Was she with Jim? Was it cheating?

Samantha’s eyes look suddenly young again. Their grey rims had cleared. I aged ten years in that final minute as she regained her youth. Samantha leans in one last time. I put my arms around her, and she presses against my cheek.

“It was good to see you, Charlie.” Her voice tickles my neck.

I love you, Sam. The words danced on my tongue but couldn’t find my lips.

“Say hi to James.”

“I will.”

Sam adjusts her pink cap as the doors chime behind her.

It’s time for me to finish reading my book so that I can start writing again.

*seasoned was written after the first draft of a short story called confessions, which later became the novel summer’s breath. i didn’t realize that there was more to that story until i wrote this story on a whim, on a train, heading home after a long day at work.

A Life Fantastic

For my kids,

who reflect

fantastic things

unto others

The young prince

Born into thin air was the young prince.

He has all but wants nothing.

And the nothing he sought was ne’er begotten.

The young prince with no name

will be known as Dorion, and I am Carion.

The Young Prince was born young and remains so despite his years. As a prince, he lives in a castle and spends all his life within.

His castle is misplaced in time. It just so happens that one day his time misplaced appeared in place with mine.

When I was a child, The Young Prince Dorion was revealed to me through a looking glass. Not in the reflection so much as in between the reflection and myself. At first, he was a haze or phantom. I dismissed him as a smudge on the glass covering the mirror. I wiped him away, and away he went like a blurry shadow. But he would reappear in a puddle or concavely in a spoon. Each appearance was less a blur and more a substance than the last. The well-defined shapes of Dorion’s shadow appeared to me every day for a time. And in time, I learned quite well to spot him through my own reflection. It was simply a matter of looking a fraction of a slice beyond myself, and there he was, Dorion, wandering the halls of his castle.

I would peek into Dorion’s world when given the chance. And he was none the wiser. I was nothing more to him than a cool draft wafting through the dungeon from an unknown vent in his stronghold.

Dorion had a system and followed his patterns, day by day, but they often took him back to the beginning; that is, they took him nowhere. And though it may seem dull and repetitive, I loved his lonely spirit even more.

A year passed. My life was ever-changing as Dorion’s was still. But I cherished him from my side of the glass. Until one day, I saw nothing of him, not through my looking glass, puddles, or spoons. Dorion seemed lost forever until many years later, on my sixteenth birthday, when my childhood years were behind me.

I received a shiny round disc, from my mother, not unlike the kind I might use for makeup—if I wore makeup. My gifted reflection in this shiny round disc revealed Dorion as clearly as a crocus on a summer’s day. Dorion paced his halls, as he had always done, and it occurred to me that while I had a mother who loved me, my lonely prince had none. Even so, he was young and beautiful as ever.

Dorion knew nothing of the world; I knew this as his castle was without windows. He saw neither the sun’s rise nor the final hours of its setting rays. Still, he was happy to follow the systems and patterns I remember from my youth. I watched as he wandered through ill-lit halls, a bright reflection in my eyes despite the darkness of his castle. He rounded the corners of his boxed palace and climbed the spiral stairs of its tallest tower. I stared beyond my new looking glass, desperate to learn more.

In a darkened room, Dorion read from a lambent book on a pedestal next to his plush throne adorned in gold and purple. Though my eyes may have tricked me, the words in Dorion’s book appeared as if of his creation. That is, the words did not exist until he read them. This seemed a mystery to me but natural as breathing to him. His eyes sparkled with wonder as his stories unfolded. On this day, the story he told was called The Shadows.

THE SHADOWS

The shadows woke at dawn, dressed in empty robes, and immediately put their minds together.

How will we finish our work today?

We cannot work until we break our night’s fast.

We must eat.

Every day the shadows would go through this exercise. Ask the same question and provide the same responses. Always one question, always two answers. The shadows would take turns through an indescribable process based on pheromones and lunar cycles. Still, the outcome would be the same. One would ask, and two would answer.

The remainder of the day would carry on like this—the shadows swapping roles and conditions in steps of ones and twos.

Who will yoke the oxen?

We cannot yoke them until they are collected.

We must collect.

In ones and twos, the day went on.

Not too often, the field was discussed, and how they could be plowed. The Shadows took to this in ones and twos; if the season were right, the shadows would consider their harvest.

Is the crop ready to sow?

We cannot sow until it rains.

It must rain.

So it was, in ones and twos, every day from morning to night, that the shadows would decide and never would a thing be done.

No breakfast eaten.

Ne’er an ox was yoked.

Nor the fields be plowed.

Lest the harvest come.

Despite the ones and twos, no work was done. Yet, the imperceptible system which governed their choices was infallible. Perfect in every way.

The shadows woke at dawn, dressed in empty robes, and immediately put their minds together.

As dusk enfolded, they would disrobe and loose their minds for another day where naught was done.

— • —

The story ended. I closed my eyes. The moral was clear to me. The best-built machinery cannot function in the face of cyclical rhetoric.

Dorion was trapped, and I decided that I must go to him.

The next morning, before waking; in the moments between sleep and consciousness; in that liminal space before self-doubt, where everything is real, my body drifts above Dorion’s castle. I am not surprised by this or its boxy shape. The surrounding countryside, however, is entirely unexpected. I imagined Dorion’s castle to be much like the English countryside; surrounded by green fields for miles, with sparse rocky crags and perhaps a nearby river flowing to a small town. Solitary and beautiful. But no, I was wrong. Dorion’s land is brown dirt and desolate. There is nothing. My heart fills with dread. Perhaps the lovely prince is dead. Surely his spirit had made his lands fruitful. Now that he was gone, his earth was lost.

I am empty with sorrow, yet I summon my strength and focus. This is a dream, and I can fly. A tight flex of my abdomen allows me to descend upon the barren land toward Dorion’s castle.

I must find him. To make his land fertile, invigorated with life and love.

With gentle ease and a softer belly, I drift around the outer limits of his castle; my toes nearly brush the broken earth. I am looking for a way in, a portcullis, a window, anything. But the castle walls are as sterile as the land, barren, dry, and flat.

I place my feet on the earth. The ground has substance, and suddenly so do I. This is the real world now. Grounded as I am, I hear a whisper from the castle walls.

There must be a way in.

My corporeal body steps forward.

I reach for the wall—as my fingers draw near, they tremble with anticipation. Will the castle crumble to an arid pile of dust in my presence? I reach for it again. An electric shock—a static pinch—I withdraw my hand. Nothing happens for an age. A false sense of cold sweat crawls over my body—a nightmare sheen. Still, my body is dry as I float above the dust despite my footing.

I clench my abs and glide forward with confidence. There is no wall; this is a dream. At this moment, it feels like slipping face-first into a viscous bath—this is the feeling of entering a person’s soul. I become Dorion as my body passes from the empty wasteland into the embrace of his castle. I feel him in a way he does not feel himself. I am inside his fortress, his spirit, his system. The whispers and whistles I heard when I was not Dorion are replaced by spurring gears and ticking cogs. It is the machine of discovery and dismissal.

The castle is dark, but Dorion reminds me it is morning, and while I am him, I also feel his presence below me. I let go of my body and sink through the floor. He is there—rather, his shadow. I float behind him. He does not make a sound, and he does not have a smell. As I said, he is a shadow, a spirit.

I drift closer. He stops, and I hold my breath lest I frighten the young prince. Carefully, I coast beside him. If he turns, will he see me? As I see him. I know he won’t, but I fly back a few paces.

The young prince moves forward and approaches a small door leading to a set of stairs. I see a foreboding black and gold gate at the top of the landing. Dorion’s spirit is taught. He does not want to go through the door, but he must. And he can only do this alone. He must face the other shadows and bring about change in his system. He must do this, and I cannot help him. Or, for all I know, he is resigned to joining the shadows in ones and twos forever and a day.

Now, I am free, and he is fixed.

What am I to him, and what is he to me?

I awake and consider it a blessing that he did not see me. He must find himself and cannot know I love him. I will not visit him again until his system is ready, and he is ready for mine.

Ten years pass. Today is my wedding day.

I am dressed in white, as is my nearly wed husband. We are outdoors in a vast field, not far from Bournemouth. The sky is bright blue, and rocky crags frame our wedding party. There are no castles nearby. My Young Prince has all but slipped from my life. I see him from time to time pacing his halls hoping to discover his purpose, without longing. He is forever young and absorbed by his system—his absence.

Still, I love him.

My husband will be known as Aorion, and I am Carion.

Our wedding party lines up in ones and twos as I have written our vows.

Who will wed this man to this woman?

We cannot wed them until they are bound.

We must bind them.

So it was, in ones and twos, every day from morning to night, that the shadows would decide and never would a thing be done.

No couples bound.

Ne’er vow was blessed.

Nor the fields be plowed.

Lest the young prince return.

Unloved (a matter of taste)

We had our opinions.

The majority agreed: the drink tasted smoky, like bourbon. The one person among us, who drank bourbon straight, disagreed. That was me.

Not one of us—one in four—enjoyed the drink.

On that we could all agree.

“Do you taste the peach flavour?” asked the one who ordered the drink. Let’s call her J. I certainly didn’t. I tasted water with a hint of something on the sides of my tongue—not peach. The aroma was tangy, with a touch of mint, which made sense; two large, ribbed, spiky green leaves saw to that.

“There’s smoked tea flavour in there,” J read off the drink menu.

That explained the dryness on the top of my tongue.

“I taste bourbon,” as the menu claimed. J was the first to say so But I knew better.

J offered the drink to C. He took a sip from the side of the glass. “Yes. Bourbon,” he said.

“Do you want it?” said J to C. Hoping to be rid of the unloved drink.

“No,” said C. It wasn’t his cup of tea.

The lonely glass fogged in solitude; his cloudy orange liquid grew pale as the ice melted. The green mint browned without purpose.

And then, K joined us. She was taller than J, who was taller than C. I’d say that K was as tall as I was. Her hair was long and matte black, and she had attractive features, not unlike K or C. They made a beautiful trio. If you added me to the set, we would look broken. I was what you could call unrefined, ugly even.

The so-named bourbon peach drink stared at K through watery eyes, ebbed like the tide, hoping to flow again.

“You should try this drink,” said I to K. Her lips parted.

The ice in the glass smiled at her, ready to gush forth into her mouth.

“What do you think?” I asked.

K’s face said everything. Pinched brow, tight lips, sour cheeks. “Ugh, bourbon,” she said.

That’s three against me. Still, K, C, and J were wrong. Watered-down bourbon doesn’t count as liquor.

It was a refreshing beverage. Sad and unloved for a lack of taste

—Nobody drank him⁠—

Songs of broken ribs

So many cicadas. Can you hear them?

Where should I start?

Male cicadas burrow from darkness, then contract, expand, and crack their ribs. That’s what they do—that’s why we hear them. Females make clicking sounds if they like a particular song. Males mate and die. Females lay eggs, and then they die. Empty shells cover the earth, welcoming rebirth.

But can you count them?

I can count the shells, measured by litter and death. But in life? I don’t know.

I can count them.

I hear each scream, cries of pain. Cracked backs, suggestive clicks subdivided into gender, blended with sex.

And then death?

Yes.

And then life.

A minor problem

The blur of dry, olive-green grass and sparse broadleaf aspen reminded me of my youth. I grew up in the rural parts of Brandon, Manitoba, the Wheat City—flat land in every direction. A limitless horizon that only served to assimilate my hopes into nothing.

I was three years old when my mother let me tap the whimsical keys of her sizeable upright piano. The boxy cabinet was timeworn, but the sound that echoed through its bulk was a mystery. How could something so solid create such beauty? My mother would play Tchaikovsky and Chopin with a demure flourish for my father and me in the evenings, only after I had finished my chores. It was that Romantic Style that captured my heart. As an older boy, aged ten years, I would steal away from my farmer’s duties to let my fingers dance in silence. I did not dare press the keys for fear of being found out; this was the first of many secrets to keep from my parents, especially my father. “Hard work makes a man,” he would say, “not fancy notions.” Fancy notions, that’s what he called them when I was young.

Aboard the train to Elma Station from Winnipeg. The blurry landscape slowed as my train stopped in the railroad town that used to be called Yaroriw. There wasn’t much to see but dirt roads and yellow-green fields bleeding into the blue sky; like all rural stations, you showed up, then made your way onward. And so, I hailed a cab, and on I went. My appointment was at a small cabin a few kilometres north of Lee County. My driver dropped me off and promised to return later that day; I expected to be finished by seven o’clock. I left the taxi and took in my surroundings. The sparseness and smell of fir trees in the summer brought me back again.

My father stood like a stoic, modulating his emotions against my mother’s heartfelt tears. He didn’t offer any words of condemnation, but his manner was clear, you’re not fit for farm life, so leave or be damned and take your whimsical musings with you. Whimsical musings, he said. Behind closed doors, with my mother, he called it blasphemous, ungodly sodomy.

I wandered down the dirt road towards a tiny, one-story, grey-wooded cottage with a white door at its centre. I tried to imagine how a piano could fit in such a small space. The house had a single, white-framed window to the right of the door and a red brick chimney plotted at the back. This was the place according to the directions I’d received by letter. A cobbled path brought me from the side road to the cabin. The closer I got, the more distinct the features of the house. The white paint was peeling, and the brick mortar of the chimney was cracked. I hesitated before knocking; the door hinges looked as fragile as the crumbling smokestack. I peeked in the window instead. The inside of the house didn’t look as shabby as its outside. Someone had recently swept the floors and placed fresh flowers in a vase on a wooden table below the window. I supposed it was time I rapped on the rickety door. To my surprise, the door opened before my knock. A young girl looked up at me.

“Hello,” said the young girl. Her voice had a mix of confidence, distrust, and practicality. She wore a white summer dress patterned with yellow marigolds over light-blue socks and red sandals.

“Hello. Is Mrs. Friesan—your mother—home?” It was Mrs. Friesan’s name on the correspondence. She had asked me to help her with a problem.

“No. Momma won’t be here till later.” I was at a loss. I had little experience with young children.

“Your mother told me to meet her today. She had a question about a piano.”

The girl’s grey eyes blinked at me. Then, after a turn, she set a stern face and explained that, actually, I was the one who had a question about the piano.

“Are you Meredith?” I asked.

“No, Meredith is momma’s name. I am Amelia, and I am six years old.”

My eyes pinched, and I scratched my head.

“Are you the piano tuner?” Amelia asked.

“I am.”

“You can come inside,” she said before stepping away from the door and wandering to the table near the window. “Do you like my flowers?” She jiggled her little head at her cuttings.

I stood in the open-door frame, considering the flaking white paint. I lifted my left foot, then put it down. What was I to do? I didn’t want to be alone with this girl in a house in the middle of nowhere.

“Do you want some tea, mister?” Amelia wandered to the kitchenette near the fireplace.

“My name is Tom,” I responded without thinking.

“Do you want some tea, Tom?” She filled a kettle and set it on the stovetop.

“Well, I suppose I do.” My right foot carried me into the house, followed by the other. I found myself at the table by the window; I hadn’t noticed that I’d sat down. There appeared to be a magic spell guiding me around the cabin.

“I do like your flowers, Amelia. Thank you.”

Amelia brought the tea kettle and two cups to the table. It took her two trips, but she carried herself with pride as she did so.

I looked around, and sure enough, a piano stood in the back corner of the front room.

“Is that your piano, Amelia?”

“Momma says so. It’s very old. Can you fix it?”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“I told momma that the piano didn’t sound right. The man at Pinawa told her to write a letter to you. I read the letter before momma sent it.” Amelia looked me square in the eye. “Did you get it?” I nodded. My hands rested around my teacup. My right foot was quivering under the table without reason.

“I read your letter. What was it you said? That it didn’t sound right?”

“That’s right.”

I lifted the cup to my lips and took a sip. My leg calmed immediately. It was an herbal tea, possibly from the same purplish wildflowers in Amelia’s vase, a mix of anise hyssop flowers and wild bergamot.

“Can you show me what you mean? After we drink our tea, of course.”

“I can,” she said. “Hey, mister, do you have any kids?”

“No, I don’t, actually. I’m not married.” It was hard enough to explain to my mom that she would never be a grandma. How was I supposed to explain that to a six-year-old girl?

“Ok,” she said. She didn’t question me any further.

After tea, Amelia walked over to the piano, pulled out the bench and asked me to sit with her. She sat near High-C on the keyboard, and I sat near Middle-C. My fingers trilled over the keys from G to B to D, ending on C, then back down from D to B, then G.

“G6, G,” her grey eyes looked at me again.

“That’s right,” I said. My fingers dropped on D, F, and A-flat.

“D diminished,” she whispered.

“You know your chords, Amelia.” Her lips curled. “Why don’t you show me what’s wrong with your piano.”

Starting below High-C, she tapped A, then C, then E.

“That sounds very good to me. Can you play C, E, and G?”

“Yes, but it sounds fine when I do that.”

“Can you play it with me so I can listen?”

Amelia played the notes from High-C, and I played from Middle-C. We played the scales from top to bottom and back; I checked the sharps and flats. The piano sounded perfect to my ears, considering its age.

“Your mother told me the piano needed tuning, but it sounds fine.”

“No. It doesn’t. I told momma to tell you it was broken.”

Again, I was at a loss. What else could I do? I opened my tool kit and took a deep breath to find my centre. “Can you play that chord again, Amelia?” She played the keys, one at a time, A-C-E, then together as a chord. I closed my eyes and listened; my palm rested on the cabinet. “Play it again, please,” I asked and slid my hand behind the piano to the soundboard. “Now, the major chord.” Amelia did as I asked.

“Can you hear it?” she asked.

I couldn’t hear, but I could feel it. The major chord was fine, but the minor was the problem. I stood up, walking behind Amelia as she played with delicate fingers. I motioned for her to stop before lifting the hinged top board and placing my mute on all but a few strings. “Keep playing,” I said and raised a tuning fork to my ear. Amelia danced up and down the scale.

“I can hear it, Amelia,” I said. “Can you pass me my tuning lever? It’s in a pocket in my bag, on the right side.” Without a word, she reached into my bag and handed me the lever. I positioned it over the High-C pin and asked Amelia to play again. Scarcely a turn of the pin, and Amelia stopped.

“It’s fixed,” she said with a smile. I smiled back, admiring her wisdom and courage. It’s not every day that a strange man walks into your house and fixes a piano, but to her, it was as natural as picking flowers from the garden.

I collected my tools and sat with her on the piano bench. We played Chopin’s Waltz in A Minor. I played the chords while she played the melody.

I’ve come to terms with my parents. I will never see them again, and I will never see my fancy notions on stage. However, years later, I was lucky to see Amelia performing at Roy Thomson Hall. It warmed my heart to see her passion come to life, and secretly, I felt I was part of her fantastic story.

Writer’s notes

I’ve been imagining, sketching, and writing stories, lyrics, and poetry since childhood. I’ve been actively writing and tracking my scribbles since the early 2010s. There are stories everywhere, floating within reach, almost ready to share.

Lovers Compendium

Lover’s Compendium is a collection of stories that started as or were related to love from the start. From naïve expectations to seasoned reality, these short stories explore discovery, negotiation, loss, and exploitation, all in the name of love.

A Life Fantastic

A Life Fantastic reflects reality against an unreal but plausible universe. A conversation about a drink at a bar can turn into an introspective tale about an unloved beverage, a mention of screeching insects, and questions why they are so noisy to begin with. A sorrowful minor scale can lift spirits when tuned to the right frequency.

About the Author

Oskar is a musical, fun-loving, casual writer of novels, poetry, flash fiction, and short stories. Oskar's prose poem, Want, received honourable mention and was published by Off Topic Publishing on December 22, 2022.

Oskar was born in Sweden and grew up in Canada. He has two adult children, dogs and cats and lives in Toronto with his wife, life partner, and best friend Michelle.

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