Number-one bestselling author
the end of
the Forever Forest.
Sunlight was starting
to pour through
the tree tops
and it left
diamond shaped shadows
on the ground
all around us.
My hand was
still clasped firmly
in yours, it’s
warmth bringing me
comfort. I watched
the Forest change
around us as
we neared its
end. Gone were
the shadows that
had been ever
present, absent were
the dark creatures
that used to
fill the trees
branches. Instead, there
was only the
whisper of the
wind as it
moved through the
tree leaves, sounding
as if the
trees themselves were
whispering at us.
“What do you think we’ll find when we leave the forest?”
I asked. You
turned to me
and said simply:
“We’ll have to see.”
At the very
edge of the
forest, on the
top of the
highest branch, on
the very last
tree that graced
the path, a
black bird sung
to us. As
we watched it,
yellow feathers began
to sprout from
amongst the black
until the bird
was no longer
black but a
brilliant shade of
gold. I looked
at you, confused.
“What’s happening?”
“Don’t you know? You’ve changed, so the forest must change, too.”
As we moved
past the tree
and out of
the forest completely,
the wind increased
and I heard
cracking of wood,
and the bending
of branches. I
turned around, my
hand still clasped
in yours, and
watched the trees
change and morph
before us. The
burnt black bark
of the trees
began to flake
away, filling the
air with what
looked like soot.
As the pieces
of bark fell
through the air,
they, too, changed.
They began to
shimmer and pulse.
It took me
a moment to
realise that the
pulses followed the
beats of my
own heart. Everywhere
a piece of
bark fell, a
flower grew up
out of the
ground, quickly, as
if it were
thirsty for air.
Soon, the forest
floor was covered
with them. I
laughed out loud
to see such
brightness in a
place that had
held me prisoner
for so long.
“It’s beautiful.”
I said softly.
“So are you.”
You replied. The
heat that ran
through my body
whenever I thought
of you intensified
and for a
moment we both
glowed as bright
as stars. We
walked a little
further, into a
meadow filled with
grass and trees.
It astounded me
that, just beyond
the forever forest,
there had been
such beauty, just
waiting to be
found, but I
had been to
lost amongst the
shadows to see
the centre of
the meadow was
one tree, still
blackened. I wondered
at its placement
so far from
the forest, and
amongst such beauty
as the meadow.
“Why is this here? Why isn’t it back there with the rest of the trees?”
You looked at
it for a
moment and thought.
Then you said:
“Even in light, there is darkness. As in darkness, there is light.”
We walked nearer
to it. Up
close, we saw
that it wasn’t
blackened by soot,
instead, the tree
was made from
what looked like
a black stone.
“It looks like black onyx.”
I said. Nervously,
I approached the
tree and ran
my hands along
its trunk. My
fingers saw two
similar shaped grooves.
I pointed them
out to you
and you came
closer to me.
“They look like handprints.”
You said. I
nodded and put
my hand in
one of them.
Nothing happened. I
looked at you.
“Maybe we both have to place our hands on the tree at the same time?”
I said. You
nodded and placed
your hand in
the second indentation.
Still nothing happened.
Then I had
a thought that
went off inside
my head like
a brilliant light.
I reached out
and took hold
of your other
hand. The moment
our hands were
connected, the tree
and the air
around it began
to hum. The
song-like noise grew
louder until the
very air around
the tree began
to vibrate and
started to glow
with its own
inner light. We stood
back and watched
as the tree
began to shift
and change shape,
morphing into something
new. It became
a curved archway
and I could
smell different scents
coming from it,
could hear noises
of people, strange
sounds so unknown
yet so familiar.
When the archway
was done shaping
itself into its
new form, there
was a blast
light that was
warm on our
faces. Then it
was still. We
looked through the
archway and saw
a new path,
leading towards what
looked like a
great mansion, a
house that stood
empty but even
from where we
stood, I knew
it was lonely
for someone to
live within it.
“It’s waiting for us.”
I whispered. Beside
me, you nodded
and squeezed my
hand. I turned
and stood on
my toes to
kiss you, trying
to communicate everything
into that kiss.
When I pulled
away, I saw
we were both
glowing once more.
You took my
hand and smiled
happily at me.
“Our forever home awaits.”
You motioned at
the archway and
the house that
waited for us.
“Shall we?”
“We shall.”
When we stepped
through the archway,
the forest, that
had held me
for so long,
let out a
chorus of birdsong.
It was the
most beautiful feeling
in the world
to me, outshone
only by my
love for you
and your love
for me.
myself until I
reach its resting
place. It looks
as it always
has, timeless but
aged nonetheless. I
run my hand
along its stone
rim, feeling its
warmth. I hear
the voices whispering.
I look down
into the darkness
of the well.
It smells of
water and salt
and something more.
There is a
scent of potential
in the air,
something waiting to
be described, to
be detailed on
the page. I
never know where
my mind will
go or where
it will pull
the stories from,
but they all
come from here.
They all come
from the well
inside of me.
Sometimes, the water
level is quite
high, the stories
and voices pouring
forth so quick
that all I
have to do
is hold the
page so that
it can catch
the droplets. Other
times, the water
level is lower
and I have
to use the
wooden bucket that
is secured by
a thick rope
to gather the
water within it.
This is one
of those times.
I start to
lower the bucket
gently downward, trying
to place the
scent. It’s not
brick or mortar,
nor grass or
soot. It is
something thicker, with
more substance. It
reminds me of
what wishes would
smell like, if they
had a scent.
The bucket hits
the water and
I feel the
rope pulling taunt.
As I begin
to pull the
bucket up, the
scent grows stronger
until it is
all I can
smell. Something clicks
within me and
I know the
scent. It is
indeed the perfume
of wishes. It
is the scent
of ink, waiting
to be shaped
upon paper into
words, into story,
into being. As
I pull the
bucket even higher,
I can hear
the voices of
characters I have
yet to write
speaking softly to me.
“Keep going, you’re almost there. Almost there.”
I give one
final pull on
the rope and
bucket is on
the edge. It
teeters for just
a moment, almost
righting itself, but
then it topples,
spilling all over
the ground. Where
it hits, waters
and plants begin
to grow, and
the land is
no longer barren
I feel the
water, the ink,
surging within, waiting
for me to
shape the ink
into places, into
people, into being.
I open my
eyes and sit
back, inhaling deeply,
the scent of
ink strong within
me.
I don’t normally post about this kind of stuff on here, but as it’s something I wrote and my blog will reach the highest number of people possible, I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion.
To Whom It May Concern,
I wish to make a complaint about one of your drivers. Today (Wednesday May 20th, 2015) he was driving the 1 Ottawa/Rockcliffe at 3:02. It was bus number 5172.
The driver is normally rude and belligerent with passengers. I’ve watched him kick off multiple people for various reasons and even threaten to contact the police against a young adolescent. I realize that bus drivers have a stressful job, but that doesn’t excuse his behaviour.
This afternoon an autistic teenager got on the bus with his caretaker. He noticed a transfer on the ground so picked it up and tried to hand it to the driver. He had really poor motor control so he just kind of threw it at him. You have to understand: this teenager could barely speak, had difficulty walking and no control over his body.
The driver stopped the bus and told the kid and his caretaker to get off the bus. The caretaker explained that he was severely autistic. One of the things he likes to do is clean, so he was trying to be helpful. This was how the rest of their conversation went:
Driver: I don’t care, I don’t like s**t thrown at me.
Caretaker: Look, he has special needs. He’s autistic.
Driver: I don’t f*****g care, I don’t like f*****g s**t thrown at me.
Caretaker: Look, I get it. You deal with people every day. I get that. But you’re not looking at the bigger picture.
Driver: Go sit down.
The caretaker said it wouldn’t happen again.
When they went to get off, the caretaker said “Thank you for letting us stay on the bus.”
The driver made no reply.
I know that drivers have to put up with the public and that many of us can be rude or dismissive of bus drivers. They have to deal with many stressful situations that often bring their lives into danger. They do a job that I wouldn’t and couldn’t do.
However, no one, and I repeat, no one deserves treatment like I witnessed today. It was rude, terribly unprofessional and perhaps one of the meanest things I have ever seen. A special needs child was just happy to take the bus. He wasn’t doing any harm. Neither him nor his caretaker deserved that kind of treatment.
Bus drivers deal with the public on a daily basis. As such, they should treat riders as they would wish to be treated. Drivers are responsible for keeping their passengers safe. How safe do we as riders feel when we witness treatment like that? This is but the most recent in a string of bad behaviour from this driver. My only regret is that it took me so long to say anything.
I know that I will likely not get a response to this letter. To that end, I am posting this letter to my blog, Facebook and Twitter. It is my hope that someone sees this letter and does something about it. My opinion of OC Transpo wasn’t great to begin with, but it fell quite far this afternoon.
Yours truly,
Jamieson Villeneuve
through the suitcase
for some time.
It had sat
forgotten in my
storage locker. I
unzipped it and
found many forgotten
items. Among them
was an engagement
ring that a
man from my
past had given
Its shine
was gone, its
lustre dimmed. I
did not remember
who I had
been when he
had placed the
ring on my finger.
I could picture
him though: a
little lost, afraid,
surrounded by people
in the bar
where he had
given his proposal.
There was never
any question in
his mind that
I would accept.
I wore the
ring but after
only a little
time, it felt
too tight, as
if it was
burning my skin.
This was not
a fear of
commitment, but only
what I would
become when I
was wedded to
him. I remember
one of the
first things he
said when meeting
me face to
face for the
very first time.
“Well, you can stand to lose a little weight, you’re quite fat. I’ll design a workout for you though.”
There were no
terms of endearment,
only criticisms. He
would look at
me after I
had said something
off the cuff.
“Oh, my little freak. Who’s my little freak?”
As I came
to know him,
I realized how
little we had
in common, how
little we had
to talk about.
“Why do you read so much? Would you please put down the book and stop ignoring me?”
That was his
constant bitter refrain.
“What joy can there be in books, my little freak?”
When I found
the ring, all
this came rushing
back to me,
condensed into a
single memory, as
if there was
a time lapse
camera inside of
my head. I
saw who and
what I had
been. It was
made even more
clear to me
what I had
become. I was
stronger, I was
more whole and
made complete by
the love of
a man who
loved me unconditionally,
who loved everything
about me, who
cherished every thing
that made me
all of who
I was. I looked
at the ring
with no remorse
for what had
transpired, no hate
towards that man,
nor did I
hate who I
had been. Instead,
I looked at
the ring and
said, softly:
“Thank you for showing me that I was worth more. Thank you for showing me what I didn’t want. Thank you for showing me that I was stronger than I thought I was.”
Then I let
the ring fall
from my fingers
into the trash,
along with who
I had been.
I turned away
and instead focused
on who I
had become.
bus in the
front seats. He
had his legs
crossed, and thus
he had three
seats to himself.
He had long,
shaggy black hair
and he wore
sandals on his
feet that were
falling apart. Even
from my seat,
he smelled of
something akin to
rust and dirt,
as if he
carried the scent
of earth and
grass with him.
His hands were
together as if
he was in
prayer. There were
a stream of
words coming from
his mouth that
I couldn’t fail
to overhear from
my seat. I
leaned in a
little closer while
everyone else kept
as far away
from him as
was humanly possible.
“They say God doesn’t exist, but I know that God is many things, he’s the ground we walk on, the clouds we walk under, the sky they are painted on. He has many names, so many names.”
A woman sitting
closer to him
than I was
let out a
snort of laughter.
He didn’t stop
flow of words.
“See how they laugh at you, how they choose not to know you. Even the most un-religious person must agree that our home came from someone. The angels tell me you exist and so you must, my faith is that strong.”
He kept his
eyes closed, but
still managed to
look peaceful as
if he were
talking to a
friend. Perhaps he
was. Maybe there
was a link
between him and
a higher power.
The woman laughed
this time instead
of snorting. The
man turned his
head towards her,
though he still
didn’t open his
eyes. He pointed
a finger at
her and she
almost shrunk into
her seat.
“You are married to a man who you do not love. Love him or let him go.”
She gasped and
put a hand
to her mouth.
He pointed to
a man sitting
behind the woman.
“You are too angry. People are afraid of you. Let the light in to chase the darkness away. Only then will you be happy.”
The man made
a sound like
he was clearing
his throat and
coughing at the
same time. He
turned his head
and pointed at
me. I wondered
what he would
say, what wisdom
I had to
learn, what God
or the angels
had to say.
He was quiet
for a moment
but then spoke,
ever so softly.
“Sparkle on.”
He said. It
was as if
the whisper came
from someone else,
sounding different than
his normal voice.
I wondered if
one of the
angels spoke through him.
“Sparkle on.”