From a series of narratives and rants written collaboratively in the exquisite corpse form (write a sentence and pass the paper to the next person) by Sheila Carroll, Jake Garrett, Sarah Maitland, Lisa Olivier, Christine Pincock, Chelsea Rooney, Marlisse Silver Sweeney, Tracy Stefanucci, Aimee Taylor, Tsering, Kathryn Wood and (vicariously) Mary Leighton. The authors, who were participants in Creative Non-fiction (cw 405) at the University of B.C., wrote the pieces in March 2007.
Whenever a crow moves the jigsaw cutter to ease the work for his beak, I have to walk to the driveway and bring my tool back. That’s what my father used to say. I think it was some sort of metaphor. A metaphor for what, do you suppose, a crow type of cutter? Crows, I hate crows too. Besides their metaphorical presence. They are called crows for a reason. They remind me of my mother-in-law, loud and hateful. Caw, caw, caw. They sit on the fence behind my house & shriek at me. They call especially loud when you step on their necks. Crows can solve murders . . . at least when the bodies are dumped in the woods. When crows circle in the sky and dive bomb—go to the site below and check for any dead bodies. There will usually be a couple, worms eating at the eyeballs and that sort of thing. It might haunt you a bit, but a good drinking binge will knock that memory right out. Which is sometimes a desirable state, unconsciousness. Especially when you’ve got something to be particularly embarrassed about. Playing the “I was so drunk, I don’t remember” card is always handy. Yesterday I got an e-mail—I was bonked by the Martini Fairy. I hate forwards. Everyone knows there is no such thing as the Martini Fairy. I learned that when I learned about the tooth fairy. A disappointing day.
When did you decide you were the most important person and where were you and what could you have been thinking and who were you emulating and why oh why did you have to become a modern-day Napoleon, Caesar or god?
I am not prepared to answer this. And I don’t know God all that well, but I’m sure he’d be willing to help. God seems like that type of dude. A guy you could call at 3 am with problems and he wouldn’t hang up right away. Unless your problem has something to do with mass murder. Rape.
Premarital sex. Then he might hang up. Out of shock. But I bet he’d call you back. If you apologize. He’s all about forgiveness. It costs a lot of money to make that kind of phone call. Last time I called God, my bill was $20,000 for 2 mins! Now I just stick to text messaging. He doesn’t return the message, ever, but occasionally I think he’s listening in on other calls I make. I get this creepy feeling when on the phone to my boyfriend in Texas that someone else is on the line.
I’ve also started changing my e-mail password daily, because I can sense someone trying to log in and read about my life.
His name is Kurtis. He pretends to care about the fate of my play and my cat, but really he just wants to fuck with my life. He has a right, I suppose. I screwed him over.