Happy 144th Birthday, Canada!

(And, as usual, a happy and prosperous Dominion Day for Andrew Cohen.)

Here is the first part of a short story of mine, which I will be publishing in segments over the next little while.

Fruit
By Liam Volke

I pull my toque down further over my bare scalp, and check my cell: two text messages, one from Bo reminding me that my pelvic exam is today at noon, and one from my section editor, asking “Holly why the fuck haven’t u submitted anything 4 a week?” I was supposed to have something by now, to show for these business trips I’ve been taking to the urban core for a feature article. The only people who seem to call me are my editor and Bo, and the only things Bo talks to me about these days are the exams I haven’t been showing up to. Never mind that while sleeping last night, he draped his stocky branch of an arm over me at one point. It then retracted over my shoulder and back where it came from. As if even his subconscious thought better of it.

I put away my cell, and enter the park. There are more people than usual, this morning. Numbering at fifty, they bring candles, flowers, chocolate, photographs, letters, stick-figure drawings. One woman brought an urn carrying her father. They are all here for the girl named Ash.

Every morning, Ash appears rooted to the ground—literally, held down by thick, sooty white roots that coil around her knees, sprouting leaves. Then I blink, and they’re gone: she looks like a sickly and unkempt sixteen-year-old, sitting at the foot of a poplar in the city park. A crowd huddles around her like they would a fire in a garbage can, in this snowless winter. Ash’s body is tense but still, as she sits like a slouching guru. At her feet a man and a woman grovel, turning to the sky and then to each other in tears, ecstatic. They sob out strings of words, unintelligible. I flutter my knees for warmth a few metres away, and fire out notes.

The two people in front of Ash are a couple, caught in the throes of religious rapture as they hold each other and kiss and shout. The woman tries to say “I love you” but it comes out as “guy lah rue.” They’re not speaking in Tongues--not yet, anyway. Ash just watches, like a wooden idol in bangles and a winter jacket. Eventually a few people come and help them up. Others weep and applaud. Ash is a healer, self-proclaimed.

“You’re late,” Ash says with a thin rasp, as I approach.
I smile and take out my notebook and recorder. “I always seem to just miss the miracles, don’t I.”
“Not really," she says. "Marital issues be gone! Nothing special.”
The crowd in the park mills about. Some leave for work, but most are squatters. Followers, they call themselves. They’ve been here since before I met Ash three weeks ago.
“Shall we get to work?” I ask.
“Holly so serious. Holly a serious journalist. Holly needs to ligh--” her eyes glaze over. She remains motionless for almost a minute. Then, she returns. “Fuck that’s annoying.”

Ash said she started having seizures a little over a month ago; I first saw it happen to her last week. She didn’t move, and it was difficult to tell if she was even breathing. It was like looking at the effigy of a girl, not a real one. It would start, once every few days, and by now it’s once every few hours. She told me it’s the way the ‘Thing’ works.


I'll post the next part soon. For now, have a great day!