Tales From The Jansen Park Cemetery: Maybe I Just Want To Fly

It was a walk out in the graveyard.

Up the slope on that weathered path. Past JAMES DAVID SLOAN 11 MARCH 1974 - 31 OCTOBER 2001 "MAYBE I JUST WANT TO FLY". Past that broken headstone that could only read MARY-JANE CHASE DRA-, the rest of her name, her birthday and her death lost to the ages. Then the path meanders, weaving past the two wizened oak trees, gnarled in the night's incapacitating darkness. My heart was beating hard, an intimate, excited presence in my chest.

It was a walk out in the graveyard - familiar sensations on a familiar night.

The door to the crypt was ajar, and that well-acquainted, dull joy crept into my being.

I stepped into my destination, and was immediately greeted by a hulking, dark figure sprawled on the floor. By moonlight, I discerned the visage of Crankwood, eyes unfocused and jaw slackened. He grunted a hello that told me that, unlike me, his journey was incomplete.

I snapped my glowstick alight, and stepped over Crankwood, deeper into the crypt.

By the wall to my right, I made out three figures huddled together. They turned toward me, their faces eerie in the sickly green light.

I did not fear, for these were familiar faces.

There was Alientorque, his skinny, pallid hands clutching his personal goblet.

With a hand around Alientorque's bony shoulders, Hotwired smiled at me. It was an unfocused smile that made him look absolutely crazed.

Accompanying the two of them was Cityagent, still sober, standing upright. His straight hands held his full goblet close to his waist.

"Artdirector!" a low voice called from further inside the crypt. I walked past the three, as Cityagent took a gulp of Liquid from his goblet.

I wasn't surprised to hear my Name called, given the occasion. As I walked towards the voice of my summoner, I withdrew my own goblet from inside my jacket, its obsidian blackness lost inside the gloom of the crypt.

Moments later, the glow of my lightstick fell upon the handsome features of Armand. As soon as it did, I replaced it in my jacket.

"Hello Armand," I greeted our Giver.

"Bonjour mon ami," replied the Frenchman. I could hear Liquid being poured into my goblet. "Le poudre?"

The powder. Something so insignificant in the daily clockwork of life, yet something so powerfully influential in its slow trudge towards twilight. "Yes please."

I heard and felt the faint fizz that effervesced in my goblet.

"Monsieur's room is behind me."

"Merci, Armand." He could not possibly see my smile in this dark, but I consciously gave him one anyway.

I felt my way past Armand, groping in the dark with my left hand until I could feel the rusty door handle. I pushed it, opened the portal, went through it, and closed it behind me. I retrieved my glowstick and threw it on the floor.

My private domain came alive with light. The walls were lined with human skeletons, desecrated remains from my first days here. From my jacket's breast pocket, I withdrew my M:Robe, and stuffed my earphones into my ears.

I drank from my goblet.

And then I pressed play.

My M:Robe blasted Ibi Dreams Of Pavement. Broken Social Scene.

One of the skeletons came alive, and told me of winding avenues whose bricked road led to a man named Muriel.

I felt a sensation much like a bullet lodged into my back. But there was none.

Red triangles invaded my vision and blurred.

One of the triangles became maroon squiggles. The difference was subtle, and I could not spot it.

A rapid percussion beat crept into my head.

I vomited.

And then I flew.

A man saw Gaza turn into light, and I was there, I was there.




I found myself the next morning outside the rusty gates of Jansen Park Cemetery. The padlock on the gates were heavily cobwebbed.