Snows

Aquarius

 

A lot depends upon you, and you only know the half of it. Where would 'Hair' be without you! They'd have no big opening number. Anyway, as a sign of the air, you breathe it in well. Into your lungs. I read the other day that, topographically, lungs are exterior organs. Interesting! You carry the air along with you wherever you go. No one can mention air without thinking about you, you, you. You have a good sense of balance, and you started walking earlier than anyone under any other astrological sign. You are incapable of misplacing your car keys. When someone yells: "Look out behind you!" you always look, much to the amusement of the yeller. Two water-waves represent you, not quite like the Zener card, which has three, but kind of close, which causes you to attract people named Zener. At least twice you've looked into a mirror to say: "What a nice face!" because you are descended from Ganymede, don't you know. In fact, sometimes you think you're a water sign, but no. You're up in the heavens, being a servant. Yes, that's right. You're a servant. Of the highest, yes, but a simple servant nonetheless.

 

*

 

(Another Obituary)

Own Private Ira Hayes

 

Someone set up a theatre program in the high school. Though I wasn't involved in it that year, I was involved for the next six.

The organizers of the theatre program were two volunteers, a married couple, Ted and Kate Lonsdale. Ted was the more involved person, as director. All through high school theatre was the most important thing to me, and it undoubtedly kept me out of lots of trouble (for I got into trouble often enough, thank you), and really I don't know what would have become of me if not for the Eastdale Theatre Company.

I lost touch with everything after high school, of course. Maybe twenty years later, I found out Ted and Kate got divorced. Ten years after that, I learned Ted had stolen a lot of money from Kate, and it appears he spent it all on alcohol and/or drugs.

Five or so years ago, I heard he'd been evicted from a Toronto rooming house, and he was living on the streets, and one week ago I heard he'd died in a homeless shelter in late 2018.

 

Ann: I always think that he was once somebody's baby boy.

 

*

 

Remorse

 

Not too long ago, I did something very bad and, more precisely, very evil. I hurt someone merely for the pleasure of it. He didn't do a thing to deserve it; rather, in fact, he's one of the sweetest people I've ever known. In any case, I did it, and it can't ever be undone, and I will have this feeling of remorse for a very long time.

You know how punishment can be lessened if the criminal 'shows signs of remorse'? I now know what remorse feels like. It's like having a very bad stomach-ache that simply won't go away. It's the knowledge that you can't ignore your sin, and the sense that it can never be washed or wished away, and it feels very much like fear.

It's also the sense that you deserve this punishment. You did it, as I've said, and there's no way to undo it. I have sinned, I have committed an evil act, and I will never get clear of it. For the rest of my days, I'll carry my burden of remorse.

One final note: when in remorse, one is less likely to commit another crime: I deserve a guilty conscience.

 

*

 

The Rain

 

No-one had predicted rain, as far as knew, and no-one had mentioned rain, at the party we'd just left.

It was happenstance that we were both putting on our shoes at the same time, there at the bottom of the stairs.

So, though barely knowing the other, we set off together, "Why not?", to the subway station a ways away.

In front of a storefront, the rain came suddenly, like nothing before, a downpour, a flood of waterfall.

We quickly ducked into the storefront, with our shoulders touching as the rain came and came.

We had to shout, though all we had to say was "Look at that!" while the cars plashed the sidewalks well.

We shouted against the rain, "Look at that!" and we were as alone as alone could be, there in the middle of a big city.

With ease we each settled into the other's skin and soul and loins even, with the flood a foot away.

I suppose the rain stopped eventually; we've never been sure of that: because we'd been changed.

Don't you think the rain will never stop, my darling?

It thunders in my ears; you can hear it through my ears.

 

*

 

Fatal car crashes replacing romance, evidence suggests

 

A meta-analysis of surveys and actuarial tables appears to show that, among the younger set, interest in engaging in fatal car crashes is fast replacing interest in pursuing romance.

"The kids today would rather have their bodies lacerated by hot metal and get decapitated than kiss and coo," wrote the head researcher on Twitter, where it received 72,000 likes.

The analysis took into account twenty-seven on-line surveys plus federal and state accident brokerage tables.

In an interview with Edge News, the head researcher stated: "There are ways to be popular that don't involve putting the pedal to the metal and encountering a concrete wall. Is it just a cry for attention?" The interview has been viewed ninety million times so far.

The research has yet to be peer-reviewed or published, but that's not stopping me from trying to earn a living.

On the Oprah Winfrey show, one girl told the story of her sister. "I thought she secretly went out to see a movie with a boy. As it turned out, she secretly went out to be in a fatal car crash." The audience members applauded with gusto, and were then given blenders.

 

*

 

The Literature of Prime Numbers

 

I tried to map out, a couple times, number lines of primes, 0 10 100 1000 10000 100000 10000000, and I've failed to find a pattern, aged myself eight.

Some mathematicians in the 20^th century used computers to map out, in the same way that I'd tried, prime number points along the line of natural numbers, in cardinal frequencies. Some Bantam Books publication (Dancing Wu Li Masters? Tao of Physics? Motorcycle?) had a graph about how, if you use this certain calculus, and if you use these factors, you will see this picture on your cathode screen: [insert illustration here]

I presented my researches to Thérèse. Thérèse is a normal person, and she does not care in the least about prime numbers.

I told her that reality, if not verified by primes, must be illusory and 'all in our heads' and quite unverifiable.

She pretended to not know what I was talking about. She said: "What are you talking about? It looks to me that what's going on is that you're numbers, you're primes, is their refusing to do what you scientists want them to do. That's alot like how our relationship goes. You, hate?"

 

*

 

All Lee

 

Two weeks ago, I wrote something to someone that was incredibly offensive. It was a single degree away from using the big N. Thus, being such an ingratitudinairan, I want to respectfully thank the people I love.

Mary MacDonell, for thirty years my spouse. How could anyone be as tolerant as she is?

Frank Faulk, who has gone really far-and-beyond in loyalty and who has seen me cry more than once

Linda, who has given me grace, who has shown grace, who has forgiven me, who seems to love me, who is my pal

David, who, being a boy, makes me aggressive and all but whom makes it a fair fight, his idiocy vs mine

Tim and Maddie next door, being so pretty and so ordinary Ontario folk. They'll never see this, so I can praise them

My brother whom I've wronged awfully: he's tried to not be like our father, while I've turned out to be that

My sister Joanne, who's like a rock in a stream, indefatigable

Roy, Tammy, Al, Carla, Bob, Arthur, Marlene, Anna, Zoë, all I want to bless, and if I could make love to you all: I would jump at the chance.

 

*

 

Teenage Wildlife

 

I awoke alone; she wasn't in the bed, she must have sneaked out, silently, perhaps to see the sun, perhaps to cook something nice, in solitude. I got up and went down to the kitchen. I asked the servant where the missus was; she thought she was still in bed. "What do I know about your doings?"

Hours went by, and I started getting agitated. I couldn't concentrate on my work involving the classifications of emotional states, because something terrible had obviously happened. I had to go out in search of her.

As I walked the streets, travelling from one hunch to another, my mind was on fire. People don't simply vanish! She had to be somewhere! Cafes, shops, a bank, nothing. I thought I'd have to use the police force, I thought I'd better check hospitals and morgues, I didn't quite know what to do.

I returned home to make some phone calls, and she was there, waiting for me. "Where were you?" I asked. "I was giving you a new emotion for your research. Despair, panic, abandonment. If that's the only way I can participate in your life, then so be it. There's more to come."

 

*

 

My Neighbour

 

I can't pretend to say I understand why exactly he did it, but my neighbour decided to put a big and almost obscenely-shaped chunk of ice on my back porch. I found it this morning; it weighs about three pounds, and it's shaped, as I've said, obscenely. At first, I was naïve, thinking it had fallen from someplace overhead, but there was nothing overhead except a tree. All upwards I looked, and I made my second guess, that it has slipped off the roof, but what could be up there to make such an obscene shape? I didn't think that explanation was enough.

Then I thought of my neighbour, and everything fell into place. He seems like such a nice guy who'd never pull such a prank, and that fact convinces me he did it. Next time I see him, I'm sure he'll act like he had nothing to do with it. He'll even act shocked if I accuse him, such is his duplicity. I'll have to come up with a clever way to make him reveal it.... In any case, he lives on the other side of the street, so I probably won't see him until spring.

 

*

 

Something That Didn't Succeed Triumphantly

 

As is the usual case with kids, we figured out what we wanted to do, then we tried to figure out how to get it done.

The plan: a cottage somewhere, for a long weekend, just the four of us, to have a good time. Jim and I and Kathryn and Sandra out at some lake, having a weekend of fun.

As is usual, we thought about food first, so we were to a grocery store.

We got a cart to push, and we spread out to quickly get what we each wanted more than anything. The cart filled with steaks, hot dogs, hamburgers, buns of various kinds, cheezies, potato chips, cokes, candy, and chocolates. It was more than a weekend's worth, sure.

As is usual, we then got confused about the world's workings.

The cashier totted up all the food. The total was sixty-eight dollars. We looked at one another. "I have $2.75." "93¢ here." "Nearly five dollars." "Nothing at all." That was when we realized our plan would not work, though we'd spent almost two hours on it.

Leaving, Jim quietly told me: "Don't worry. You'll make out with Kathryn some other time."

 

*

 

Freezing

 

Help was too far away. The snow wouldn't stop. We had no matches or wood. It was getting colder. We huddled together on that mountain pass, wondering if we were going to die.

My buddy told me: "To get through thiss, we're going to have to think warm thoughtss."

"You think that'ss going to help?"

"I think it might. What have you got to loose?"

"Sso, maybe I should think about ... sssummer?"

"Yess."

So, I thought about summer, high summer, the second weekend in August. I was on a beach, under the hot sun. The soles of my feet were burning because I'd walked to my blanket from the grasses. I tried to look out at the water, but my eyes, as if in sympathy, watered every time I tried to open them. I should have brought some kind of a parasol with me, because I could feel my fair arms and fair forehead burning. Something started tickling me feet. I shook them. I was lying in a zone that was full to bursting with sand mites. Little critters you could barely see, and now they were going after my legs. It all made me want to die.

 

*

 

The Apology

 

Alone in his cottage living room, the P.M. looked out the window at the softly falling snow. "It's snowing, Mr. Butts*," he remarked. The radio was on, softly on, like the soft snow, reporting that his administration's police force had that day dynamited five semis off the Ambassador Bridge.

The P.M. continued: "'It's been a rough time, for all of us. I admit it: we went too far. Too many children met their demise. Oh, the children. Oh, the children.'"

The radio compared the Ottawa scene to Waco, but it had been far worse.

"'I stand here, before you all, to admit the nation's culpability in these tragic events. Cooler heads should have prevailed, yet the did not. Some compromise between the old and the new should have been forged, but it was not. We could have been friends, but we were not.'"

The radio made some estimates of the body count, women and children included, a number that would naturally rise in the upcoming weeks.

"'It was a tragic moment in our history, yes.'"

He turned to his imaginary friend to say: "Mr. Butts, this is going to be my greatest apology ever."

 

*The P.M.'s imaginary friend.

 

*

 

Honorifics

 

"Sir."

"Sir?"

"Missus and I would like a table for two, sir."

"Right this way, sir."

"Ah, sir, right by the window. Isn't that nice, Missus?"

"Yes, Mister, it's nice."

"Can I bring you, sir and Missus, some drinks?"

"Two glasses of house wine, sir, please."

"I'll be right back, Mister and Missus."

"Oh, Mister, look, there's my BFF out on the sidewalk with some gent!"

"Knock on the window, Missus, and get your BFF in here."

"Hello, BFF!"

"Hello, Sister-in-spirit! Have you met the Esquire?"

"Hello, Milady's Sister-in-spirit."

"Hello, my BFF's Esquire. This is Mister."

"Hi, Mister."

"Hi, Missus's BFF's Esquire. How goes it, Esquire?"

"Fine and dandy, Milady's Sister-in-spirit's Mister."

"Mister, ask sir, when he comes back, for two more chairs."

"Yes, Missus. Oh, sir, can we have two chairs, for BFF and Esquire?"

"I'm sorry, sir, the restaurant is full up."

"Sir, you have no spare chairs?"

"Not one, sir."

"Mister, let's go elsewhere."

"Yes, Missus. Sir, we're going to leave."

"Sir, you'll have to pay for those glasses of wine."

"Sir? Sir?"

"It's policy, sir."

"Can I talk to your Superior, sir?"

"Right away, sir."

"Monsieur, what is the problem?"

"Proprietor, Missus, BFF, Esquire-"

Etc.

 

*

 

A Nice Breeze

 

Being a researcher, I often get what I consider to be 'crank calls.'

One, today, set my 'crank' senses off. It didn't seem possible, to me, that a person could be so ignorant as to pose such a question. (I shouldn't have taken the bait, really.)

She asked: "Do you have any pictures of protesters in Beijing during the Olympics?"

Thus was I baited; thus did I answer, thus did I receive my comeuppance:

I replied (this is mostly fictional): "The last time there was a protest in Beijing, some three thousand demonstrators got mowed down dead. China is committing a genocide in its northwest, and it clumsily released a virus called 'Covid' onto the world thirty months ago. Even if there was a demonstration, do you think a regime responsible for some sixty million deaths in the 20th century would allow occidental eyes to witness it? I know China; I've read three of their classics (Journey to the East, Dream of the Red Chamber, The Three Kingdoms), so I can't be said to not know something about the Chinese. They're oppressed."

And then came my comeuppance.

(This is only slightly fictional.)

Her response:

"LOL. Never mind😊"

 

*

 

Abortion

 

I had a scenario: it was something like the kid's scenario, with them filling a cart with potato chips and hamburgers and hot dogs but then not having the money to pay for it because they're all fourteen/fifteen.

In the back of that scenario, behind this Ted Hughes imago, a funny-looking guy is watching, and it turns out to be me.

I thought about the past today. I imagined that house, 274 Arden Drive, where I grew up: and I instantly smelled its carpets, and its kitchen, and its basement. I remember the good and the bad. I remember them because I experienced it.

I am I, hooray. I'm phonily a Pisces, lonely and elderly, I'm looking for someone who can reverse time. (If you can reverse time, please DM me, @loverboy.)

I saw my house some eight years ago; I cried seeing it. I said to Mary: "All these houses here are with people I don't know."

A very square house, easy to look at on Google Maps. White and brown, still, maybe.

It's easy to move around in space, but impossible to move around in time.

There's a glib answer to that: but I can't accept it!

 

*

 

New York Times, 21 February 2022, book review section, colour article

 

Q: You wrote a piece recently, and you called it 'Abortion'. The piece had nothing to do with the medical procedure during which a foetus is killed and flushed out of a woman's body. Why did you have to mention abortion?

A: The title was a kick at myself. Sometimes I write stuff that I know, from the get-go, that it's garbage. It's not about the medical procedure of abortion; I'm not capable of balancing the ethics of abortion per se.

Q: You must have strong feelings about that. Tell me your strong feelings about that.

A: Look, lady, I really don't know anything about abortion. To live, to die, to never have lived? I'm not even convinced that existence is better than non-existence. There's a whole philosophical tradition going back to Cicero if you'd care to look it up.

Q: I'm just trying to get to know you. John.

A: Is there a hotel we could meet at, near your office?

Q: I know a place. DM me.

A: I'm such an awful person.

Q: I'll tell you my sins, when I'm lying on your chest.

A: Grats.

 

*

 

I

 

was riding around town on my orange bicycle the other day when I stopped at a streetlight and this kid from out of nowhere bumped into me. Then he bumped into me again, with a crazed look in his eye, and then he ran off to his mommy.

I locked my bike outside the mall and went inside. I think I was thinking about candy.... In any case, I know I bought something else first, probably with a hundred dollar bill, such that I put a bunch of bills in my coat pocket.

What happened next? Oh yes I went outside to check on my bike, which was fine.

Next stop was the candy shop. I found one, foreign foods and candies. They didn't have that big a selection, but I found a good amount. The woman at the cash register was annoyed at what I had, because none of it had price tags on them. Finally, the charge came up, and it was over $11.

I reached into my pocket--but I wasn't wearing my coat. I took it off when I entered the mall, and dropped it on the ground. Bad habit!

(Fortunately, no-one had taken it.)

 

*

 

Low Budget Text

 

He never wanted the expense of it all; he preferred to keep it all on a low budget. It was a conscious decision to go low; he figured someone else would take his low budget work and turn it into something big budget. That someone would be a kind of benefactor; but also that that someone would know how to turn a tidy profit. He didn't feel inclined to put things in bright lights; all he wanted was a keyboard with very ordinary letters on it; the standard letters, though sometimes he would upgrade, for effect, to something else entirely, like a foreign language or a special character or characters.

He felt like he was carrying on something of a tradition; he knew he couldn't put together anything that looked sensible and sane a hundred percent through. He knew his limitations, and he knew that if he went big budget his limitations would be known to all and sundry; no two ways about it. Publicity was for people with much greater self-confidence; he knew his limits.

Eventually, he got lower budget; he stopped writing altogether, and he figured he'd reached the proper point in his divine artistry.

 

*

 

GUILT

 

I looked like I'd been in a terrible knife fight.

Blood was running down my legs. I looked behind me to notice I was being shadowed by my own bloody footprints on the clean wooden floor of the apartment entrance and hallway.

I had already bled out enough for five people, and there was plenty more where that came from.

Ahead of me, I heard a door open. I didn't want to be seen, even if they did see all the blood, so I ducked into a door's alcove. One of new tenants, the one with the little poodle, passed by. I was holding my breath. Before she went out the front door of the building, she muttered: "My glasses." Was that why she hadn't seen me, or my blood? She came back, passing me again, still not seeing me. Her door opened, and closed ten seconds later. Surely, she'd see me this time! No, she passed me by, obliviously. She went out into the street; I heard the door pneumatically close.

Because I'd been still, I was standing in a pool of blood. Splashing blood about, I hurried to my apartment and got inside, where everything was bloody.

 

*

 

She Is Not

 

She is not many things. It's a long list, the list of things she is not. It is the set of everything she is not. She is one thing, and everything else is not her.

She is not you, whoever you are, and she is not me, whoever I am.

She was not born in Tuscany or Peking or France or the Lake District or South America or Mars or Venus.

She's doesn't have a degree in botany or hieroglyphics or calculus or any other maths or chemistry or Latin or philosophy or mechanical engineering or film studies or any other kind of studies.

She wasn't born in 962 or 22 or 2040 or 1000 BC or 1941 or 1666 or one million BC.

She isn't a hammerhead shark or a beetle or a spider or an antelope or a squirrel or a cat or a pterodactyl or any kind of dinosaur taken as a classification.

She doesn't weigh nine ounces and she's not eleven feet tall and she doesn't have a gigantic head and her hands aren't tiny and she's not knock-kneed and doesn't have green hair.

All these things she is not; none of them.

 

*

 

Pisces

 

You're most fortunate of all, you know. You're less than a tenth of the population, as are all the astrological mumbo jumbos, and you're also the last of the twelve, yet you're still number one. Hear me? Number one. No-one else comes close. Let's face it: everyone wants to jump your bones. Yeah, you got the charisma and endowments everyone else is clearly after, even if they all deny it. Anyway, enough flattery. Let's get down to plain facts. You know more than the rest, you're read more than the rest, you've thought more deeply than the rest, you understand the visual arts and music better than the rest, and you simply have more soul than the rest. Despite all that, you've never let it go to your head, how superior you are. If only you were the boss, all the problems would melt away like dew in the morning. It's hard to quantify how much better you are than everyone else, but I'll take a stab at ... eleven percent better in everything. I suppose I could be off in either direction, but I'm just some astrologer, go talk to a statistician for details. Conceived probably in June.

 

*

 

Sign Language

 

I was very happy with the results, and I may not have been careless to leave it open on my desk, ready for anyone to glance upon and read. As it happened, while I was off on some short-term business, Ethel Merman wandered by, and it caught her eye. She was reading it when I returned. I sat down casually while she finished it.

"This is pretty interesting," she said. "Where did you get all the little pictures from?"

"I took them from here, from there, from multiple sources, whatever struck my fancy."

"Do you have, like, a glossary of them?"

"The glossary is in my head. My vocabulary, as you might call it, runs to some two hundred thousand images. I think I'm done with the alphabet language and its grammatical rules."

She looked it over again. "It's something of a story, isn't it?"

"Yes," I replied, encouraged. "A princess gets rescued from a dragon, and she lives happily ever after, basically."

"That's it? That's all?"

"Well, yes. But's it's all done in pictures, see."

She turned again for study. "I get it now."

Encouraged and happy, I said: "You really get it?"

"Yes. You've re-invented painting."

 

*

 

Synchronicity III

 

There is no challenge to running down a hill. I have done it, and I have succeeded. I ran faster than anyone in history.

With the running down of the hill, he wondered if the story was correct. He had a bottle of wine in his hand, and they were going to drink it together.

How to get down this hill? It looked too treacherous to walk down, for then she would fall. Perhaps it's best to simply run, following the slope.

Years later, I found myself at the top of that hill again. It was no use pretending I could run down it; those days, and that girl, were long gone.

Some years later, he stood at the bottom of that selfsame hill. He wondered how he could ever have run down it. He knew he probably couldn't even scale it.

She recognized the hill from an airplane. She thought of mentioning it to her husband, it was all so long ago, but he wouldn't care and wouldn't be able to see it.

I know I can't be buried on that hill.

He knows he can't get buried there.

She decides not to ask. The silly past....

 

*

 

Fonds

 

Raymond: last week, I decided to split the unruly shipment into three parts for ease of delivery: those I saw having been killed, those I saw being killed, and those I killed myself. I thought it would be easy, since I chose to use different cameras depending on the category. This scheme fell apart, however, when I discovered that the third category was vastly more numerous than the first or second, and I ran out of film with that (third) camera, and thus I had to use the first camera, and then the second camera. (I figured I could remember the points on the films of the first two cameras where the subject matter changed.) I developed the film and scanned it for transmission, but I hit a wrong button with the first camera's collection, and it became too taxing to sort out who killed the people in the images. I'm sending that collection anyway, presto, and I'll provide you with an index once I've got this scanner problem sorted out. The second fonds contains: (0-176) people whom I saw killed, and (177-255) people I killed myself. I hope this message finds you well; I have to find shelter.

 

*

 

Fontanelles

 

Raymond: last weeny-bopper, iceberg decided to split the unruly shipping into three particles for ease of deltoid: those iceberg saw having been killed, those iceberg saw being killed, and those iceberg killed myth. Iceberg thought itself would be easy, since iceberg chose to use different camouflages depending on the catfish. This schistosome fell apart, however, when iceberg discovered that the third catfish was vastly more numerous than the first or second, and iceberg ran out of filth with that (third) camouflage, and thus iceberg had to use the first camouflage, and then the second camouflage. (Iceberg figured iceberg could remember the pointsman on the filths of the first two camouflages where the sublieutenant mattress changed.) Iceberg developed the filth and scanned itself for transom, but iceberg hit a wrong butyl with the first camouflage's collegian, and itself became too taxing to sort out who killed the pepper in the imams. Iceberg's sending that collegian anyway, presto, and iceberg'll provide youth with an indicium once iceberg's got this scar procedure sorted out. The second fontanelles contains: (5-181) pepper whom iceberg saw killed, and (182-260) pepper iceberg killed myth. Iceberg hopes this mestranol finds youth well; iceberg has to find she-oak.

 

*

 

The Gypsy

 

On a dark night, as I wandered aimlessly, I came upon a red-gold tent in a field. A sign above the entrance read: FORTUNES TOLD. I went through the vent.

Achingly empty, seeing fortune await

A vent in a tent or early or late

She offered me a seat across from her, and produced a deck of Bicycle cards. "You don't need fancy cards," she said. "The plainer the better."

My fortune was told with a deck made for poker

Fifty-two cards and, for flavour, a joker

She told me everything was bleak, and that I'd lost my way. Finding the path would be arduous, and involve a sacrifice.

She told me the truth that I knew in my heart

But failed to explain just how I could start

She said: "Let's go to the motel nearby. I could use a pick-me-up. I ask for nothing in return."

Explain the changes, if you can,

How settings do do to woman and man

In the morning, she was gone, and so was the wristwatch I'd left on the bedside table, and I'd found a new path.

Seldom it's known what fortune brings

To gain your soul, lose the things

 

*

 

Moving House

 

Sarah was awakened by the noise of big trucks. She looked out the window to see them: a giant flatbed, a truck with what looked like a twenty-foot circular saw on the back, and another with something like a massive trowel. She went outside to see what they were doing there. She found a man in a hardhat with a clipboard. He looked like the one to ask.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"We're moving your house."

"I never asked to have my house moved."

"It's not your choice."

He shouted something in a foreign tongue to the driver of the saw-truck.

"Where are you going to move it to?"

"We're moving it to a place like France, but not France."

He made hand gestures to another driver.

"The whole house? As is?"

"Yes, down to a depth of seven feet, dirt and all. We want to make sure we get you all."

"It'll go by ship? Will I be coming along?"

The man called: "Hoi, Denza! Parst colona!" He turned to Sarah. "You have to stay in the house at all times."

Sarah knew the inevitable when she saw it. She returned into her house.