Incident At Union Plaza

In the outdoor market a young man carrying a plastic shopping bag approached with a cloth flag wrapped around his head. The insignia of the flag had been cut out, leaving a hole in the middle of the yellow segment, through which one could see his fleshy forehead.
It was wrinkled.
The man walked carefully among the fruit and vegetable stands. He said nothing. A chicken vendor twisted the neck of the bird and held the spasming body tightly, while he threw away the head into a basket underneath the counter.
The young man stopped suddenly and sat on the dirty asphalt. From the plastic bag he removed a tin can and doused himself with the liquid.
No one noticed.
He lit a match and went up in flames immediately.
A black government car stopped and four secret police agents stormed out and came toward the immolated man. They were unable to get too close because of the high flames. One drew out a pistol and shot into the burning body, knocking him to his back. Police came and extinguished the charred corpse. The four secret police used wet towels and hoisted the body, hustling it to an unmarked van.
The van drove away.

Frozen Earth

He put on his tuque and the elastic of the hat squeezed on his head, making the ends of his long hair explode into the obtuse figure of an old shaving brush with dry, split bristles.
Someone has to clear the land.
He emptied the night pan into the snow, outside the door, and the urine left trailing, yellow burn marks two inches deep into the soft, white cotton candy ground cover.
Mmyea. Someone has to.
In 1983 they ran a telephone line into the house but she never used it. His mother was stubborn all the way through. All the way.
Summers he watched black and white kittens climb up the terracotta façade of the house. The red baked clay provided uneven grooves for the animals to hoist themselves up the walls like giant spiders.
In the city we keep them on leashes. We walk them as if they were dogs outside the apartment buildings, and the Siamese ones huff and puff and snort like discontent pensioners sitting on park benches in the cold winter sun. Ever have Siamese cats? They roar like their big cousins.
Don’t laugh comrade. This used to be part of the Ottoman Empire.
Romans first. And all they’ve left for us is scorched land. Nothing grows here anymore. Nothing has grown here since they strung up Jesus and drove nails into his wrists.
To-day is Friday.
On the way out he collected a rusty pitchfork leaning on the fence, separating what used to be his father’s vineyard from the front yard. He used it out back to remove the snow, which had settled wet, and clumped together in large, flat squares that dislodged easily under the iron spikes of the tool.
Mmyea. None of this is ours. We’re just ill-mannered visitors.