Friday April 27, 2012 - 7:11 AM


I don't know what hit me.

I went to bed Monday night, and when I woke up Tuesday morning, I could barely get out of bed and my throat felt like it was full of sandpaper, closed up tight. Just swallowing air felt like I was trying to choke down a mouthful of broken glass. I was running a pretty nasty fever as well, my sheets were completely soaked.

Needless to say I didn't go in to school on Tuesday. Aunt Shelley made me a doctor's appointment. Turns out I have strep throat. I barely had the energy to get out of bed while she changed my sheets. Barely had the energy to get dressed and get to the doctor's office.

The rest of Tuesday is pretty much a blur. I spent the rest of the day Tuesday falling in and out of feverish dreams. There were pretty vivid, I know that, but I can't recall what was happening in them or who was in them. The only thing that sticks with me is this freaky laughing skull that occasionally flashed into my peripheral vision. And the name "Jimmy" was whispered in my left ear whenever I saw that image.

I have no idea what that means. But that's all I can remember about these dreams. Pretty freaky.

I was feeling better enough on Wednesday that I wasn't just a groggy lump. I mostly stayed in bed and when I was up to it I read. I finished reading the Sawyer book that Robbie had loaned to me. It was really good. An alien on trial for murder in a U.S. court.
But now I'm torn. I want to read another Sawyer book, I want to read that collection by van Belkom. I also want to read more stuff by Laymon.

But I didn't have any of those books with me to read. So I went back to reading Hamlet again. It's funny, I enjoyed Hamlet even more when in a semi-feverish state. The two kind of went well together. And I don't know, but reading about Hamlet strutting about and fretting about his peril reminded me of the things going through my mind, the guilt, the grief, the frustrated anger. It made me feel good in a sad sort of way. What's that saying? Misery loves company?

I felt good enough yesterday to get out of bed. My fever was still there and my throat still had that sandpaper quality to it, but swallowing was getting a bit easier. I sat up and spent most of the day watching movies from Uncle Bob's DVD collection. I ended up watching two different versions of Hamlet. One with Mel Gibson and the other with Ethan Hawke, which was like a modernized version. Except in the new one, something is rotten in the state of Denmark Corporation in Manhattan. Interesting.

Last night Harley called me. It was good to touch base with what I was missing in school. Not that I really cared all that much about what was going on in class, except, of course for Robbie's English class. Apparently, Robbie spent most of the week talking about books that discussed native issues in Canada, and they spent two full classes setting up mock Parliamentary debates over how to deal with the situation going on in Southern Ontario for years now. Apparently there are a group of natives protesting a new housing development and they have this highway and section of land that was sold or taken away from them blocked off, preventing the new houses from being finished. It has apparently stirred up a lot of controversy over the years, including a book written by a journalist who took a harsh view at the natives actions.

It sounds like I missed some fun stuff. Of course, Harley's take on the situation was pretty much a one-sided view of a bunch of lazy welfare slobs with nothing better to do than prevent other people from making a living. Big suprise there. I honestly don't know how I feel about the situation. From what I’ve read about it on the net, there are a lot of upset townspeople who couldn’t get in to their newly bought homes, and are prevented from getting to work and school. But the native people do have rights; I mean, we pretty much stole Canada from them, and pushed them off onto these reserves, corrupted their lifestyle. I kind of feel sorry for both sides. I don't know how I would have argued in those class debates.

That's one of the things I like about the way Robbie teaches his class. He really makes you start to think

After that Harley told me that Monica was back in school on Thursday. He said that she didn't look good, that her face was all swollen, her cheeks puffy. She had a pretty nasty black eye, a fat lip, and her right arm was in a sling. He said that she wasn't speaking to anyone except for a few of her close friends. I didn't ask if Sarah was one of the people she was talking to.

I know this sounds like I'm a chicken, but I was glad that I wasn't there and didn't see her.

I still have this odd feeling about her, like I might be responsible for what happened. I've tried to block that nasty dream where I'm the one hurting her, where I'm the one in the alley with her, trying to tell her to get away from me, and at the same time raining blows down on her. But I can't entirely push it away.

I'm actually feeling better this morning, possibly good enough to go in to school. But I faked it, pretended I felt worse than I really do. I need a few more days before I face Monica again.


Monday April 23, 2012 - 11:37 PM


This is so cool. Following Robbie’s advice, I decided to leave a comment for Robert Sawyer on his website blog. I told him how much I enjoyed the section of the book that my teacher read to our class and asked for his advice on which of his stand alone books he would recommend I read.

He responded -- pretty quickly too -- that his novels Factoring Humanity, Frameshift or Calculating God were the three stand-alone novels he was proudest of. I thought that was really cool, how he thanked me for my comment and then answered my questions.

I wonder how many authors do that type of thing.

So then I started scrolling through Sawyer’s blog archives and found a “book tag” thing he responded to. Apparently he was tagged by Mark Leslie. It’s interesting how there are all these connections somehow. Anyways, I followed the link back to Leslie’s site and found that he mentioned Sawyer’s Frameshift as a book that inspired him in a life-altering way. He didn’t mention what it was, but I wonder if maybe that’s the book that inspired him to become a writer.

He says to email him and he’ll reveal what it was about the book that inspired him. But just knowing it inspired him, and that he’s originally from this area -- well, that’s enough for me to want to read Frameshift and perhaps discover what that might be.

Today in class, Robbie went on about Canada Book Day (which, apparently, was today). He talked about how it had been inspired by International Book & Copyright Day, and that at one time a big deal was made about it. He said that April 23rd was chosen as an important “book day” because a bunch of different authors were either born or had died on this day. He mentioned a bunch of them, but the only one I remember was Shakespeare. Although Robbie wasn’t clear if April 23rd was his birthday or the day he died. Maybe it was both.

He said that he wanted to share different authors with us, particularly Canadian authors, and that, since on Friday he’d mentioned Robert J. Sawyer, he thought he would mention an author who was a friend of Sawyer’s and has been referred to as Canada’s answer to Stephen King. The fellow’s name is Edo van Belkom. Robbie said that van Belkom, an author from the Toronto area, not only won the Bram Stroker Award (the highest honour in horror), but has published more than two dozen books, hundreds of short stories and for a short time was even the host of a late night horror movie show on the specialty horror channel SCREAM.

Apparently van Belkom was also known by Sawyer, and Robbie showed us van Belkom’s book Death Drives A Semi, which was a collection of van Belkom’s short fiction. The introduction to the book was written by, you guessed it -- Robert J. Sawyer, and Robbie read to us from the book. He read a story about a superhero stricken with the one enemy he couldn’t fight. Cancer.

Wow. Powerful stuff. Robbie went on to read the essay that followed this tale -- it was the story on how van Belkom wrote the story on a laptop borrowed from his friend Sawyer while he sat in the hospital room where his wife was recovering from a cancer surgery.

It was great to see behind the scenes into the author’s mind and how he came up with the tale. Robbie went on to say that he’d been to a reading that van Belkom gave when his book had first come out, and that van Belkom was one of the best readers he’d ever listened to.

He mentioned that he thought this particular book was now out of print, and that van Belkom had also published a book called Scream Queen that poked fun at the reality television trend (something else we’d covered in class a few weeks ago) as well as a series of very popular werewolf books for young adults that were just as enjoyable for adults to read.

At the end of class, I was so excited to learn more about this van Belkom fellow that I almost forgot to ask Robbie if he had a copy of Frameshift that I could borrow.

He said he did own Frameshift, that he owned every single copy of books Sawyer had written, and that he’d have to think about whether or not he would lend me his copy of van Belkom’s Death Drives A Semi. He said that the copy he owned had been signed by van Belkom and since it was out of print, he was worried about losing that copy.

He then turned to me and asked whether or not I had finished reading the book he had loaned me over the weekend, Sawyer's Illegal Alien. I'd completely forgotten about it, because I was so into browsing Sawyer's website and then so excited that he had responded to my question on his blog.

I was a bit disappointed. I mean, I would have thought that by now Robbie would have trusted me with loaning me his books. I've returned all of them in good condition. But it also feels like I let him down by asking for another book without having read the first one. I've just gotten so excited over discovering so many new authors lately.

I can be so stupid sometimes.

Friday April 20, 2012 - 10:35 PM


I spent a bit of time last night after posting on my blog browsing through Robert J. Sawyer’s website. Wow, Robbie wasn’t kidding. There’s lots of great stuff there.

It’s funny, way back when I first started this online journal, someone left a comment, I think it was that guy named Frank, telling me that I should consider writing as a career. I’m still not decided, but I started thinking about that a bit after visiting Sawyer’s website, and he also has some articles posted there about the art of writing. Pretty cool stuff.

Many of my classmates were on his site today, and we spent half of the class talking about Sawyer and his writing. Robbie suggested that we start with something like Hominids, which was set in Sudbury, and then read the next two books in the series. But he suggested, for those of us who weren’t in to reading a whole three books that we go with one of his earlier works. He’d mentioned that The Terminal Experiment, Sawyer’s Nebula Award winning book, was a favourite of many, and that an alien being tried in the courtroom in Illegal Alien was also an enjoyable one, particularly for anyone who liked courtroom thrillers or was a Law & Order fan.

I stayed after class today to talk to Robbie and tell him about some of the things I found on Sawyer’s site. I’d mentioned how Sawyer did really seem like a nice guy, often responding to comments that fans left on his blog.

Robbie suggested that I take the time to comment on his blog, to tell him I liked his writing, that it moved me. And then he loaned me a copy of Illegal Alien, which I took home and am eager to start reading. I was going to ask to borrow Hominids, but I’ve never read science fiction all that much before, so I think I’d like to start with the alien one. An alien on trial for murder in a U.S. court sounds like it could be fun. (Maybe I also didn’t want to read that rape scene -- listening to Robbie read it was emotional enough for me right now, thank you very much)

Robbie did something when we were chatting that surprised me a bit. He confided something to me. Apparently, when our guidance counselor got wind of the discussion we’d had in Robbie’s class yesterday, he’d complained to the principal that Robbie was stepping into his territory.

At a meeting in the principal’s office, Robbie defended his position, telling them that if the guidance counselor was going to address the issue of a student who had been raped, he certainly had a funny way of doing it by not doing anything. Then he went on to explain that the best way to introduce literature was to make it relevant to topics that were pertinent to students.

He said that the guidance counselor said something like: “Literature. Humph. I’ve heard what you’ve been reading and talking to students about. Science Fiction. Cave men. Aliens. Hack and slash horror. That’s not literature. That’s crap. Mind-wasting rubbish.”

Robbie said that he didn’t have to listen to that from someone who was not only ill-read and thought only in stereotypes but could barely manage to do his own job, never mind tread on the job of the English teacher. He invited the counselor to take over his class so he could see how fast he could put the students to sleep.

The principal put a stop to the argument between the two, taking the side of the guidance counselor, and warning Robbie to not discuss delicate issues without first consulting either him or the guidance counselor.

Robbie told me that he loved being a teacher, loved connecting with students and helping open their eyes to the vast landscape of literature, but that he was tired of working with “close-minded jerkass literary snobs.” The same kinds of people who praise Dickens today, but if they were around when Dickens was writing, they’d have dismissed his work as commercial tripe that pandered to the masses.

I’ve never heard a teacher talk about another teacher like that. I almost pissed myself laughing.

Thursday April 19, 2012 - 10:19 PM

Again, Monica wasn’t at school. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I keep hoping. Hoping that the rumours weren’t true, that it really wasn’t her that it happened to.

Robbie turned things around a bit for me today with in English class. He always seems to have a knack for knowing the right thing to say, the topics he covers always seem to hit home perfectly.

“There’s a lot of talk around the school about something that happened to one of our students this past weekend,” he said. “I’d like to read you a scene from a novel that might help us talk about it.”

“The book I’m about to read not only has to do with the Sudbury area, but is written by a man known as the Dean of Canadian Science Fiction. He has won the Hugo, the top international science fiction award, the Nebula, the “Academy Award” of the sci-fi genre, is the only writer in history to win the top SF awards in the United States, Japan, France, and Spain, has one of the most extensive and content rich science fiction web sites available, has made countless media appearances over the years, had an ABC television show made which was based on one of his novels and is known far and wide as an all around great guy.

“I’m talking about Toronto writer Robert J. Sawyer.

“For those of you looking for a connection between Sawyer and one of the other authors we have discussed in class, Sawyer, the generous person that he is, is one of the authors who gave Mark Leslie a very positive review blurb for Leslie’s short story collection One Hand Screaming. And for those of you who have read that collection, you might note that in the notes, Leslie mentions losing an Aurora Award nomination to Sawyer for Best Short Story English, but that he couldn’t have lost to a nicer guy. And for those of you who like their connections in threes, an additional connection between the two is that Sawyer wrote the introduction for a horror anthology called Campus Chills that Mark Leslie edited a few years ago.

“Now for Sawyer’s connection to the Sudbury area. Sawyer wrote a trilogy of books called the Neanderthal Parallax. While preparing to write the first book in the series he came to Sudbury, stayed for a few weeks and did research at the Sudbury Neutrino Observatory. The science in this trilogy explores the concept of a parallel world in which Neanderthals survived and Homo sapiens died off, and what happens when a portal opens between those worlds and a Neanderthal appears in the Neutrino Observatory. Sawyer also received an honorary Doctorate at Laurentian University.

“Sawyer has a strong proven track record for using grand “What if” concepts in his writing, often based on cutting edge advances and discoveries in the scientific world. He is not a scientist -- his background is in media -- but he thoroughly researches his books, and that work shows through in his stories. And if you want to understand the scientific principles he explores in greater detail, I suggest you get Mr. Nelly or Mr. Gravante to bring them up in your science classes with them.

“Because in my mind, the real strength, the true beauty in Sawyer’s writing stems not so much from the scientific concepts he explores, but from the characters and character struggles that occur.

“Case in point: Mary Vaughan, one of the main characters from the Neanderthal Parallax, becomes a rape victim in Chapter 6, within one of the very first scenes that we meet her in the first book in the trilogy, Hominids. I’d like to read you a scene from that chapter and talk a bit about it.”

Robbie went on to read the scene to the class. Wow. It was disturbing and terrifying, and it really hit home to a lot of students. A few of them actually started to cry. And I don’t just mean the girls. I was one of the guys who had tears in his eyes.

When he finished the reading, Robbie talked a bit about the concept of rape. Asked the class questions like was rape about sex, or about power? He explored the reaction that Mary, an intelligent and professional woman, a professor at a Canadian University, had to being a victim of rape. We tried to understand her state of mind after such a brutal attack and explored the reasons why she didn’t want to go to the police. We talked about whether or not the scene itself was gratuitous. Then we discussed the idea of the rapist as behaving in a stereotypical Neanderthal way. He asked several males in the class how the scene made them feel -- both about themselves as well as about males in society in general.

The class was so involved and moved and eagerly participating in the discussion, that Robbie had to wrap up the class without the whole thing seeming to finish. Several of the students requested more, wanting to keep talking about it. Robbie handed out pamphlets with a toll-free number to a kids-line help group in case anyone wanted to speak in detail about how this incident made them feel.

And he gave us another one of his cool homework assignment. He wrote the link to Sawyer’s website (www.sfwriter.com) on the blackboard and asked us to do some research there. Some of the research questions he threw out were: How was Sawyer able to write a rape scene from a woman’s point of view? Where does a science fiction writer get his ideas? If a story is about characters, how important is the actual research into the science?

I’m only realizing this after the fact, of course, but Robbie has accomplished two things with today’s lesson. He not only addressed a frightening and difficult to broach issue and gave us the means to talk about it openly, but he also put a spin to it that has allowed us to enjoy the writing of yet another phenomenal author, and issued a task that will help keep us occupied, interested and learning; not just dwelling on the horrors of what happened to Monica.

I still feel terrible about what happened to Miss Hamilton. But I can’t imagine this class anymore without Mr. Robinson teaching it.



Wednesday April 18, 2012 - 10:14 PM


Monica still wasn’t at school today.

Of course.

She’s not going to be back for a while. Who knows when.

I pretty much muddled my way through the day. Sure, the rumours about Monica being raped and beaten half to death kept flying around. They seemed to have more details in them. How she was attacked by three guys at knifepoint. How she’d been stabbed. One of the rumours was that she had lost an eye.

All rumours, of course. Nobody knows the real truth.

I ended up cutting my afternoon classes today completely. I’m going to catch hell for it, but I don’t really give a shit right now. There’s too much on my mind.

And, when I got home from school today and saw the comment that someone left -- speculating that perhaps I had done this to her while in my sleep -- well, that just freaks me out.

I was thinking that maybe a curse around me did this to her. But what if I was the person who did it? What if the dream was somehow a memory of something that I’d done? Done while sleepwalking or something.

And how could I have gotten from Levack in to Sudbury to do this to her in my sleep?

It boggles the fucking mind.

Wednesday April 18, 2012 - 6:12 AM


I’ve been sitting up most of the night. Just sitting in bed and staring into the darkness. I was afraid to fall back asleep, afraid of what I’d dream. Afraid I’d dream the same thing which woke me up in the first place.

I didn’t really realize what I was doing until I started to see bits of light from the morning son creeping into my room. That was about when I decided I would sit down and try to write about it.

It all started yesterday at school. I didn’t see Monica at school on Tuesday. But I ended up overhearing two girls talking about her. Talking about the rumours about her. The rumours that she had been raped on the weekend. Raped and beaten.

I talked to a few people about it. Neil mentioned that he’d heard the same rumours. That was the frustrating thing about rumours in this school and in our home town. They spread quickly, and much faster than the truth.

Later in the day, still wondering why Monica wasn’t at school and still making inquiries about her, I still got no where. When I’d asked him what he knew, Harley made a joke about her deserving what she got because of all the dirty talk she often used and the way she flirted with everyone. I shouldn't have been surprised at Harley's response. Our friend Jagdish hadn’t even heard the rumours at all and then got into an argument with Harley that nobody, not even a hooker deserves that. When they started their heated discussion, I just walked away.

It was when I got to Robbie’s class that I knew the rumours had to be true. I mean, adults, teachers, they don’t take rumours at face value, do they? They get to the truth behind the stories. They find out what’s really going on. And they have the means to do it.

That’s how I know it must have been true. Robbie seemed to not be himself at all. He seemed less full of energy; less alive and into the class. He seemed to just walk through the class the way I’ve seen so many other teachers do over the years. Simple tired repetition of the same lesson taught year after year. And why shouldn’t he be like that? After all, despite the fact that I was jealous of it, Robbie shared a similar passion for reading and books with Monica that he shared with me. So why wouldn’t he be disheartened over learning what had happened to her?

I wanted so badly to talk to Robbie about it after class, to hang around and talk about it, talk about my feelings of guilt over what had happened to her. But I was afraid to bring it up, afraid that by talking about it, it would make that darkness, that depressed and melancholy state he seemed to be in even worse. That and he never made eye contact with me once during the entire class.

When I got home from school, I scanned through The Sudbury Star and there was a short article saying a young woman had been beaten and raped in an alley behind City Centre on the weekend and was being treated in hospital.

I started phoning the different Sudbury hospitals and on my second try, at the General, when I asked to be connected to Monica’s room, they put me through.

I hung up. What could I possibly say to her? Having confirmed the rumours, that Monica had been the victim mentioned in the paper, I simply hung up and then started to cry.

I couldn’t have possibly brought this on to her, could I? Could this be yet more evidence that there’s a curse surrounding me? I tried to think back to how I felt the other night when she rejected me. Tried to focus in on the embarrassment, the anger, and any resentment that I’d felt.

Of course, I couldn’t deny having felt those things. Which meant it must be true. I must have been the cause of what happened to Monica.

I moped around most of the night, tried listening to music, playing video games, anything to keep my mind off of it. But nothing worked. I actually went in to Uncle Bob’s liquor cabinet and nipped a bit of his rum, a bit of his rye and a bit of his gin. An old trick I learned about swiping booze is never to let the bottle drop by any visible amount. But I needed something to numb my mind and help me sleep.

Combining all three in a single glass, I drank it all down in three horrid mouthfuls. It tasted awful. When I drink for fun, I never drink it straight. I prefer mixing rum and Coke. But straight up? Bleech. Drinking all three mixed like that was pretty nasty.

But it did do the trick. I fell asleep pretty quickly.

But that’s when I dreamed. And God knows, I would have loved to have had that same dream I’d had before -- the one with Sarah and Monica. Yes, even the fact that at the end of that one they’d bitten off my cock. I’d rather dream that dream every night, than the one I dreamt last night.

In the dream, Monica and I were standing at the concession stand at the movie theatre. We were talking about the books we had read, and started talking about Laymon. Monica started admitting that the scene in “In The Dark” where the librarian is looking in the window and watching his girlfriend and another guy getting it on made her all hot.

I responded by asking Monica if she’d remembered that one time at Sarah’s when she’d spotted Sarah giving me a hand job under the blanket and the way she’d winked and licked her lips. I told her how it was that look she gave that made me blow my load. I told her how lately I’d been able to think about nothing other than her, about how her lips might taste, how they might feel on my cock.

She responded by saying, “Why wonder any longer?” And suddenly we weren’t in the movie theatre, we were outside, in an alley. Monica was polishing my knob and I was enjoying it, both hands resting on the top of her bobbing head, my fingers gently playing with her hair. But suddenly Robbie was there, watching us, and beside him Harley was standing there. They were watching us and talking to some other figure, some guy dressed in black, who was standing in the shadows. They were saying something to him, but I couldn’t hear what it was.

Suddenly, I started to fill with this rage. An inexplicable rage, and I pulled hard on Monica’s hair and threw her backwards. She smacked her head against the brick, then fell onto the ground. I started kicking her and punching her and screaming at the top of my lungs.

She didn’t move, didn’t get up, just recoiled with every kick, every punch I landed on her, and I kept screaming, yelling, pleading with her to go away and leave me alone. Then I dropped down on my knees and started to pull her pants off, telling her she deserved what she was getting because she was hanging around me.

“Stay away from me! It’s my fault! I caused this to happen to you! Stay the fuck away from me! Stay the fuck away!” I woke up screaming those words. I’m surprised, actually, that Aunt Shelley or Uncle Bob didn’t wake up, but maybe the screaming was louder in my dream.

I’ve never even raised a hand in anger against a girl. Not even when I was really young and roughhousing with other kids in the playground. If a girl hit me, I just took it, and never hit back.

But the dream I just had kind of says it all, kind of puts it in perspective. No, I wasn’t the one who raped and beat her. But given my track record, all the horrible things that have happened to people I’ve been angry with, and the fact that I was angry at her, I might as well have been the one.

And that’s what was going through my mind these past few hours as I stared into the dark, afraid to close my eyes and sleep, afraid I’d dream of hurting Monica.

Saturday April 14, 2012 - 4:30 AM


I didn't end up going to the movies with Neil on Thursday night. We went last night instead. While waiting to be let in to the movie (we were there about half an hour early) we played a game of air hockey and chatted.

It felt good - I haven't hung out much with any of my buddies all that much for several months now.

Neil wasn't all lecturing and stuff, but he told me, in no uncertain terms, that he thought it wouldn't be a good idea if I asked Monica out. He cited some of the things I saw posted in comments here. It's funny, because he made that statement, and then we moved on to other things.

It wasn't until just before the movie started, when we were sitting in the darkened theatre, that he turned to me and said. "I always thought that you and Sarah made a pretty decent couple. Do you think there's a chance you guys might patch things up?" I didn't respond because the first trailer had started. A new movie in the Die Hard series with Bruce Willis. It looked good, and instead of thinking about it or responding, I just watched the trailer. I didn't know what to say to that.

About midway through the movie, I got up to go to the snack stand. This was one of those movies that had its funny moments, but I wouldn't be missing anything while I was gone.

I bumped into Monica who was getting popcorn. I asked her about that Costello novel I'd seen her with the other day, and she started raving about it. We chatted about Costello, and Laymon and about how cool Robbie was for introducing us to them. I told her about Costello and Leslie offering "praise blurbs" for each other's work, and she told me she had found an anthology from a Sudbury publisher that includes a story from Costello and one from Leslie. It was called "Bluffs" - I thought it was so cool that she had made a similar connection between the two.

It felt good.

Then I went and blew it all by tossing out this clumsy little question about whether or not she would be interested in going out with me some time.

She paused. Her face went white, and I knew immediately that it had been a mistake. "You're kidding, right?" she said. "I'm, like, Sarah's friend. That would be so, like weird." She didn't say anything else at that point, just walked off, leaving me standing there with a bag of nibs in my hand, feeling like a complete loser. I almost didn't go back into the theatre.

For the first time since Sarah and I broke up, I was having fun just chatting with a beautiful girl. And I blew it. Not only that, I blew it by doing something that Neil and some online friends warned me against.

I'm such an idiot.

I didn't tell Neil about what had happened. I know that he wouldn't have said "I told you so" but just the same, I didn't want him to know how much of a fool I'd been.

Wednesday April 11, 2012 - 11:52 PM


I didn’t go sit with my old buddies in the cafeteria today. I don’t know why. I mean, it’s been so long since I’ve hung out with them, and I don’t know why that is either. Actually it’s funny, because when I was going out with Sarah, I would sometimes sit with them and sometimes I wouldn’t. It was no big deal either way.
But lately, since our breakup, I haven’t made much of an effort to reacquaint myself into the group. Sure, I’ve still hung out and chatted a bit with Neil, Jagdish or Harley, but I can’t remember the last time we all went out as a group, saw a movie, got loaded, whatever.
In any case, instead of just sitting with the old gang, I waited around for Neil after one of his classes.
When he saw me waiting for him, the first thing he said was, “Oh oh. Does this mean that you’re ready to come out of your cave, Mr. Hermit?” Now, I’ve seen this with Sarah and her friends, but it’s a rare thing for guys to get snippy with each other for not calling, not hanging out, whatever. But Neil is one of those rare guys who can get away with it. I suppose it’s the same way that Harley can get away with being an asshole in some of the things he says and does, and we just roll with it. Or maybe the way that Jagdish can play stupid, and, even though we all know he’s probably smarter than the rest of us combined, we play along.
That’s the great thing about friends. Yeah, I’ve been absent, not hanging around much, and, like Harley said a few weeks ago “moping and sobbing over Sarah” -- but I know that when I’m ready to get back to normal and settle in with my buddies, that it’ll all be good like it used to be.
I didn’t end up asking Neil about what to do about Monica. We ended up shooting the shit. He started talking about that shit going on in the local news, a recent murder and that lead to other world news -- one of Neil’s favourite topics. We ended up making loose plans to go see a movie tomorrow night.
So, no, I didnt' end up asking Neil about the situation with Monica, but I did enjoy catching up with him. Besides, I'll likely have a chance to work it into the conversation tomorrow.

Tuesday April 10, 2012 - 10:51 PM


So I didn't even see her at all yesterday, but I had a chance to talk to Monica today. But instead of saying anything, I just stood there, my mouth hanging open while she walked by.

She did smile at me. She did say hello. And I was fully prepared to say hello back to her, then mention that I’d seen her with a Sean Costello novel the other day and I was wondering if she’d read it yet and what she thought of it.

But I just stood there, my mouth an open hanger, a veritable fly-trap.

I can’t believe this. I’m completely tongue-tied around her.

I wonder if it’s because I can’t stop picturing her naked -- can’t stop having this picture of her from my dream as she is walking towards me, her thighs damp with the heat and excitement from fingering herself while watching Sarah giving me a hand job. Can’t stop remembering the vivid taste of that wetness on my lips and tongue.

Or is it just because I haven’t approached a girl for years? I mean, Sarah and I were together for so long that I practically forget what it’s like to ask a girl out.

And the comments that people have been leaving about Monica being a friend of Sarah's -- maybe those are eating away at the back of my mind -- as in, "Is this really a good idea?"

Oh man. I haven’t hung around any of my buddies all that much lately. Can't remember the last time I sat down in the lunch room with them. I think I need to find my buddy Neil, ask him for some advice. He was always pretty suave with the ladies. I’m sure he’ll be able to help.

Sunday April 8, 2012 - 11:14 PM


School tomorrow, and I’m as excited to chat with Robbie about the latest Laymon novel that he loaned me on Friday and that I finished (this one was called “One Rainy Night” and was an incredible non-stop roller coaster ride of mayhem, action, and unadulterated bloodshed) as I was at the chance to talk with Monica.
It took me the whole weekend of dwelling on her to realize that I suddenly had an easy “in” with her for a conversation. All I needed to do was find out from Robbie what Costello books she had already read, and see if I’d read them as well. Or if she’d read one that I hadn’t and I’d read another, at least we could still compare notes.
It’d be a great conversation starter at least.
I feel like a kid in grade nine again, steeling up the courage to ask a girl to dance with me.
It’s this queasy, uneasy, yet enjoyable feeling.

Friday April 6, 2012 - 11:28 PM


It's so funny that I dreamed of Monica, one of Sarah’s friends that I’d mentioned the other night. The one from my erotic dream.

She’s not in any of my classes, so now that Sarah and I have broken up, I barely see her anymore. But I saw her in the hall today and my heart skipped a beat.

I was on my way in to Mr. Robinson’s class and she was walking out, with a thin paperback in her hands. I remember glancing at the book in her hands, my mind suddenly as excited to see what people are reading as I used to be to see if I could catch a glimpse of a girl’s bra strap peeking out from beneath her clothes.

And I saw the name “Costello” on the spine of the book in her hand.

Ah ha, I thought. She’s one of the other students who Robbie has hooked on these great writers.

She smiled at me and said hi as we passed each other. I saw her in a completely different light this time, though. I looked at her gorgeous black silky hair and her stunning brown-green eyes and I remembered the dream of her walking naked towards me, offering her breast to my eager lips and tongue.

I turned to admire her ass as she walked past, and I kept staring at her, thinking about the dream (at least the way the dream was before it turned nightmarish) and feeling myself getting hard.

I was tempted to go and talk with her, but I couldn’t build up my nerve. I couldn’t even remember if she’d been dating anyone anyway.

I’m suddenly seeing her in this new light. But I wonder if it’s just the dream doing that. Still, I can’t seem to get her out of my mind tonight. I just keep thinking about her.

And lusting after her.

Geez, is it possible that I’m starting to get over Sarah? Finally.

Friday April 6, 2012 - 3:47 AM


Can't get to sleep. My heart is still pumping like crazy from this twisted erotic dream I just had.

After class on Wednesday, Robbie handed over a book called “In The Dark” -- it was by an author named Richard Laymon. He told me that Laymon was one of those authors who cut right to the chase and had a way of keeping action and suspense rolling non-stop in a seemly effortless style.

He told me that, while the content of the book -- the shocking horrific elements and the seemingly gratuitous sex scenes -- might at first seem simplistic and b-movie style, the author had actually invested quite a bit of effort into developing his characters and crafting the story. “He makes it seem simple and effortless” Robbie said. “But the work he put into developing the whole thing is phenomenal.”

Robbie explained that he’d read a non-fiction book that the author wrote which documented the story behind his writing. He talked about how the author himself was a voracious reader, often with several books on the go at once, and was well read in multiple genres.

He talked a bit about some of Laymon’s favourite authors and the fact that Larry McMurtry was one of them. He’d mentioned that the next book he was going to get me to read was called Savage and then after that I was going to read a novel by Larry McMurtry so I could compare the styles.

I didn’t read the Laymon book the night Robbie gave it to me -- it's funny, when he started talking about comparing Laymon to McMurtry it just sounded like the typical crap that English teachers talk about, and I got nervous that I was going to hate Laymon's book.

But, oh man, was I wrong.

Laymon blew my fucking mind.

I started reading "In The Dark" at about 10 o’clock last night. The book was simply riveting, and written in a style that had me begging to just want to turn one more page, just continue on reading for a few more minutes. I thought that I might read for about fifteen minutes, but I read for two solid hours. I wanted to read more, but I was so exhausted that I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

At one point I remember finally putting the book down, and struggling with the desire to want to read, slowly peeling off my clothes without getting off the bed, and then turning off the light and sliding under the sheets.

When I first closed my eyes, I couldn’t leave the world the author had created for me. Couldn’t push aside the heart-stopping plot, the intense and tight timeline for the story, the cliff-hanging suspense of each chapter, the hot and sweaty sex.

I’m pretty sure it was the book that caused the strangely erotic dream that I had.

The dream was, like a few that I’ve had recently, based on something that really happened. And while erotic and exciting, it was a bit frightening, too.

There Sarah and I were, in the family room. Two of Sarah’s friends were there, Monica and Julie, each sitting in an armchair. We were watching a movie, something with Adam Sandler in it. Sarah and I were snuggled up together on the couch with a blanket over us.

During the movie, Sarah’s hand moved down and started rubbing me through my jeans. I remember looking quickly at her, then at her friends, a bit anxious at first that we’d be caught, but they didn’t seem to know what was going on. I then relaxed against the back of the couch and just enjoyed it.

Sarah’s rubbing hand got more vigorous and my erection was straining against the denim, a solid mass of excitement and painful pleasure. This went on for quite some time. Then Sarah reached in with her other hand, pulled down my zipper then pulled out my cock and started pumping it in her fist.

Monica seemed to have heard the zipper, because she glanced over. Julie, sitting in the armchair farther away, must not have noticed, her eyes stayed fixed on the television screen. But Monica looked over, and a wry smile crossed over her face as she figured out what was going on underneath the blanket.

That made me even harder, and I could feel myself pulse within the firm grip of Sarah’s palm. Monica didn’t turn her eyes back on the television screen, she just looked over at us, a huge grin on her face, and when she saw that I had noticed her watching, she winked at me.

Then she pursed her lips as if to blow a mock kiss at me and ran her tongue across her top lip.

That’s when I exploded without warning. A huge eruption of come that coated the blanket, Sarah’s hand, my jeans. Of course, neither of us moved for the duration of the movie. When the movie ended, Sarah and I remained under the blanket, saying goodbye to Monica and Julie without getting up. I remember Monica’s knowing smirk -- she must have realized what had happened.

But that’s where the dream diverted from the memory of reality. In the dream, Sarah is giving me a hand job and Monica is watching, and when Monica licks her lips, Sarah notices her and says “Enjoying the show?”

In the dream, suddenly Julie isn’t there at all, and Monica’s clothes have disappeared. She is suddenly completely naked. Brushing aside her long black locks to rub a breast with one hand she slides the other hand down and starts fingering herself.

“Why don’t you join us?” Sarah purrs, as she removes the blanket. I discover that Sarah and I are also naked beneath the blanket.

Monica lets out a gasp and walks over. I can see that she’s so hot and wet that there’s actually wetness dripping down the inside of her thigh. Sarah’s hand pumps furiously. When Monica gets to us, Sarah and I each take one of her succulent breasts in our mouths. Sarah smiles playfully at me as her tongue flicks at Monica’s nipple -- all the while her hand never stops its rapid stroking.

I reach around, pull up on Monica’s buttocks, and she steps onto the couch, then, with both hands on the cheeks of her ass, I pull her in to me, eager to lap up all of the hot wetness that is flowing from her. Still jacking me off, faster and faster, Sarah moves around, kisses my hands and the sweet cheeks of Monica’s ass as if they are one, and I can tell from the sudden startled sigh of pleasure that Sarah has stuck her tongue in Monica’s ass.

That’s when I can’t take it any longer. My face still buried in Monica’s dark muff, I try to say, “I want to fuck you both so bad it burns.” But the words come out muffled, the way they sometimes do in those dreams where you try to cry for help but can barely speak.

And similarly, I can’t move either. I want to pull Monica down onto my rigid and aching shaft. But I can’t move.

Monica steps back and both of the girls are playing with my cock now, one hand each, occasionally leaning forward and darting a tongue at the swollen head. Then quickly kissing each other before attending to the swollen head of my cock. I marvel how this is so much like most guys dreams, and despite the fact that I desperately want to take both Monica and Sarah yet can’t move, I try to just lay back and enjoy it.

“Okay,” Sarah says. “It’s time for the grand finale.”

Sarah flips her raven black hair over to one side, leans over my crotch, takes me full in her mouth, and bites. Hard.

Pain like I’ve never felt before shoots through my legs, up my spine as her teeth come together through the meat of my cock. She sits back up and she looks at me with that sexy playful glimmer in her eye, all the while chewing a large mouthful of gristly crunchy flesh.

I shriek in pain, in horror, in shock as I feel myself explode in a hot and sticky eruption. Only it’s not cum, it’s blood. My crotch is shooting up a hot geyser of blood. And Monica is leaning down to try to catch it in her mouth.

Sarah, finished chewing, leans back down to join her, and both girls laugh madly as they playfully fight for mouthfuls of my hot spurting blood.

I woke up at that point, my sheets completely soaked in sweat and cum. I laid there for several minutes, afraid to pull the sheets back, afraid to look down, afraid that I’d see dark red blood instead of white schmeg coating my stomach, legs and the sheets.

Tuesday April 3, 2012 - 10:58 PM

After Robbie’s class today I was able to speak with him, and return the copy of “The Cartoonist” -- but it didn’t go the way I had hoped.

When I handed him back the book, he thanked me politely and put it in his bag. I thought that he’d ask what I thought, who my favourite secondary character was, any of the usual fun ways he had of getting me to talk about a book I had read. But that was it.

I wanted to talk more, to share the excitement about the book, and about the interesting thing I’d found about the authors Costello and Leslie offering praise for each other’s books. So I asked if he had another Costello book that I could borrow.

He told me that he had loaned that book to another student.

He did say that he’d try to bring something else in to class the next day that he thought I would like.

But I kept thinking about the fact that he’d loaned that Costello book to another student. I guess I’d thought that I was the only student he did this with -- loaned books to and chatted frankly with.

I’m trying not to get all bent out of shape about it.

And I am looking forward to finding out what book he’ll be bringing in tomorrow.

Monday April 2, 2012 - 9:27 PM


Robbie talked about the mystique behind April Fool’s Day today.

I’m sure it was interesting, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Just when he started in on the origin of the trick rituals of April Fool’s Day, I had glanced back towards Sarah. I’d been startled to see that she had been looking at me. She quickly averted her eyes and her eyes never moved back to me.

But I couldn’t help obsessing about it and wondering if it had just been a chance glance, the way a person normally looks around the room and their eyes cover everyone in it, or if she had been actually looking at me.

I started to wonder if Sarah had been thinking about last April Fools. About the trick I had played on her.

That morning, Sarah’s friend Julie helped me distract Sarah while I snuck off with her cell phone. I used clear packing tape and taped down the # key, but you couldn’t see that the button was depressed. The intention was that every time Sarah went to use her phone, she’d be unable to dial properly. But what happened ended up being more frustrating. Because holding down the # key put Sarah’s phone into “lock” mode. And since Sarah had never used the password feature and didn’t know the password default, her phone became pretty much useless. It took three days before she could crack the code and use her phone again.

Then I started thinking about what had happened that night. Sarah had been really pissed at Julie and I all afternoon. But we’d originally been planning on renting a movie and watching it at Sarah’s house, so that’s what we did.

The three of us were in the family room at Sarah’s, and the trailers had just started playing, when Sarah went upstairs to make popcorn. A few minutes later, Julie and I heard this loud crash and went running out of the family room to find Sarah sprawled at the bottom of the stairs on her back, her right arm twisted at a funny angle underneath her head, one leg resting on the second step, the other one folded underneath her. The popcorn bowl was overturned on the floor beside her and there was popcorn everywhere.

At the top of the stairs both Sarah’s parents were, like Julie and I, standing there, horrified. “My baby,” Sarah’s mom started to scream and turned to bury her face against Sarah’s father’s chest.

That brought the horror of what had happened home to me. Sarah could either be unconscious or worse. Broken arm, broken leg, broken neck. I fell to my knees beside Sarah and started wailing her name like some twisted banshee.

That’s when Sarah sat up, pointed at Julie and I and said: “Gotcha!”

Apparently, her parents were in on it too. They were pretty cool, that way, often participating in the fun and antics. And of course, I’d completely forgotten the fact that Sarah was double jointed. Once I had seen her reading a paperback held by an arm twisted around behind her head. The double-jointed thing that day freaked me out a bit, but about three hours later, when Sarah and I were rolling around under the sheets together, she showed me some other interesting uses of being double jointed.

So, I’d been thinking about Sarah and about April Fool’s Day last year instead of paying attention in class. It makes me wonder if Robbie could tell I wasn’t clued in to his lesson, and it pissed him off.

Because when class was over and I went to talk to him, there was a group of students hanging around to ask questions and talk with him after class. That always happened, but Robbie usually made sure to hang around and talk with me.

So I hung back, like before. But, instead of staying in the classroom as the students slowly dissipated, Robbie started heading down the hall to the staff room, still answering their questions and chatting with them, but in a hurried sort of fashion.

Man, I was stupid. I hope it’s something else and not that I pissed Robbie off.