Well friends, I hope summer has been treating you well. I had a great time at the Winnipeg Folk Fest recently — my first time out to the fest in 9 years! — which was great for the old soul. Now, I’m off to enjoy some time by some water, so figured I’d send you a little story that starts off in a similar place. I’ve sent it off to a few places where it didn’t quite fit, and then got tired of subbing it.
Frankly, it may need some work, but I’ve grown tired, for now, of mucking about with it, with other pieces and projects on the go or crowding up the backburner. I still kinda like it, which is why I’m sharing it here, and maybe one day I’ll pick it up and see if I can’t finesse it a little more.
Until then, here it is. A gift, of sorts. Please enjoy responsibly.
Down by the River
Stepped in a puddle of puke, just about midnight. Nearly fell on my ass. Dog, she’s there whining, barf dripping from her jowls.
Come on now girl, I go, wiping her down before mopping up the mess. It’s nearly one in the morning before I get done and of course I couldn’t sleep after that. Not a chance. Knew I’d lay there for at least an hour, staring at shadows on the ceiling and cataloging a long list of shame, regrets, and failures, both public and private. Dog looked wide awake too, pawing at the door. I figured, what the hell?
I pull on some sweats, my fall coat, and a toque, and grab a pre-roll. There’s a park a half-block away, down by the river. I grab a tennis ball and the leash, just in case, but let her run free, hoping if she’s gotta spew again, she’ll do it out here. But she looks fine, right as rain. As though she hadn’t just covered the living room floor in a chunky wet puddle.
Leaves crunch underfoot. Once we hit the shadows of the greenspace, I spark up, start hucking that ball into the middle distance. The night’s chilly, nearly freezing. Snow’s in the forecast, any day now. Smoke lingers in the air before drifting off. I toss the ball again and again, further and further, until it bounces into the bush along the riverbank. Dog, she goes crashing in after.
Just as quick, I hear her hit the brakes like she’s found it. But she’s just standing there in the shadows, whining.
Come here, girl. Bring it home now. Come on.
She comes hauling ass back to me, circles my legs. No ball.
What’s up, girl? I rub her neck. Where’s the ball?
She just keeps whining, looking down. Ashamed, like she’s failed her mission.
Come on. I clip the leash on to her collar and head for the bush. It’s just a tennis ball. But hell, they don’t grow on trees. Dog, though, she don’t wanna go. I’m practically dragging her across the field to where the long grass and the willows meet. I’m nearly there, into the bush, when she plants her feet and won’t budge no more. She lowers her head, wimpers. Fine then, I huff. You wait here and I’m gonna get this ball. Then we’ll go home, OK?
Dropping her leash, I take one, two, three steps into the tall grass, when a horrible warbling, screeching unlike anything I’ve ever heard comes ripping through the darkness. Unholy, an awful sound, scaring the bejesus out of me so I drop the roach. The sound stops, whatever it was, leaving the night empty apart from the far off clanging of a train. I stumble back to where doggo’s pressed flat to the earth.
What the hell, girl? But she can’t tell me shit. She’s a good dog. But she’s a dog. If it weren’t for her reaction, I’d think I was tripping, losing it, gone fucking bananas. Sounded like an animal in distress, a wildcat, a racoon or fox or some shit. Don’t think we have wildcats or foxes in the city, and maybe raccoons make more of a hissing sound? I don’t know. I’m no nature boy. Besides, it sounded worse than any of that; just about the worst sound I ever heard something make, whatever it was.
Down in the bushes, down the bank towards the black river, there’s something moving. Something glowing. I take a step towards it. But then I feel my head swim, feel faint, look up at the stars, icy points across the impossible darkness telescoping ever farther away while burning brighter, somehow. I fall to my knees.
Dog wakes me up, licking at my face and whining. I scramble up off the cold ground. Don’t know how long I was out. Didn’t feel like more than a moment. But I’m cold, chilled, shivering like I’d been there a while. I take hold of her leash and straight away she’s pulling me out of the bush, back across the field and the street beyond. We’re home in five minutes and the clock above the stove reads 3:17 a.m.
No way in hell. But there it is, in blue digital.
Let me tell ya, I had trouble getting back to sleep, alright. But sleep I did, somehow. Made it to work on time too. By the end of day, had more or less put the incident out of mind. Then when I got home, I had to take the dog for a walk again, and it all came flooding back.
Might as well go take a look at the riverbank, I figured, turning towards the park. But soon as we got near the bush, dog starts whining again. Come on, don’t be shy, I go, edging towards the bank. It’s daylight for crying out loud. But she plants her feet at the edge, won’t move. Fine. I drop the leash and go myself.
There’s nothing to see, though. Bare branches, dry grass. Some grass looks a little tramped down in one area, before the bank drops sharply to the river below. Could be that’s where whatever was shrieking and glowing was hunkered down. But what the hell do I know? Maybe some guy stopped there to take a piss midway through his morning walk.
So forget it. We’re off home, dinner, shower, the whole nine yards. Into bed early and ready to catch up on sleep. Dog hasn’t puked since whatever it was upset her stomach the night before, so we’re off to the land of nod. Once I’m out though, things start getting funky.
I dreamed I was in the bush again, walking into a wall of white light. As I passed through it I began to wade into the river. The river was made of falling stars and the river was cold. Very cold. But I kept going until I was floating, floating away, the current carrying me. I looked up at the world below, where I saw myself crouched on the banks of the river, attending to some small animal or creature. The cold seeped into my body, my fingers and toes lost all feeling and were it not for a bolt of pain lodged right behind my eyes I’d say I’d lost all feeling whatsoever. But my brain burned. The pain was incredible. The world filled with the bright white light I’d seen the night before, the white light I’d passed through on my way to the river of stars, and with a flash I sat upright in bed. Awake. Soaked in cold sweat like I’d just climbed out of the river, a cold bath, or a downpour.
Sheets soaked, I stripped the bed and threw them in the washing machine. Had a hot shower. Couldn’t warm up. Made coffee and sat watching the sunrise over the back lane. Overnight, the season’s first snow had fallen. I took the dog for a quick walk before heading to work. The sun glistened off the white crystals. But it wasn’t as bright as the light in my dream.
The light from the night before.
Work is a blur. I’m just wiped. When I get home, I take the dog out again, but we avoid the river entirely. Just stroll past houses, lit up from the inside against the early dark. Back home I flop on the couch, pass right out.
That night, I didn’t dream nothing. Not a single thing. Pure darkness. When I woke in the morning, it was like I’d been switched back on after being powered down. I felt rested, ready to go. Felt good. But all day, at work, as the snow fell, I’m still thinking of that weird light and what the fuck it all meant. If anything.
The river was made of falling stars and the river was cold. Very cold. But I kept going until I was floating, floating away, the current carrying me.
Being Friday, I head out to see some pals at the local after taking the dog out for a stroll. The pub’s only a quick walk through the snow up to the main drag. The pints are flowing, times are good. I’m catching up with these folks I haven’t seen in a couple weeks, months, whatever. I don’t get out much, so this is nice. But I’m biting my tongue, trying not to get into the flash of light, the dream, the feeling like I was floating through another dimension.
After nipping out for a quick toke, though, I can’t hold back no more. I tell a couple buddies, sitting there, fresh pint untouched.
Heavy dude, is what the one guy goes. That’s fucked up.
You ever have, like, seizures? the other guy asks. No way, I tell him. He shakes his head. Sounds like a seizure, dude. My cousin gets them. Or used to. Think he’s on meds, now?
That night I slept fitfully, the alcohol and THC flowing in the bloodstream, dreaming of stars and emptiness and worlds colder than any prairie winter’s night on record. When I woke up it was still snowing. I let the dog out back to do her business, but mostly we hunkered down. As the day’s light drained, the clouds broke, the sun came shining out over the brilliant white world like molten gold. I grabbed the leash, and me and the dog set out for the river.
The last of the sunlight dripped off the clouds above as we tramped through the fresh snow, across the park and down the river bank to where I’d seen, or thought I’d seen, the white flash. This time around, the dog, she wasn’t skittish whatsoever. Just bounced through the pillowy snow, not a care in the world. I wasn’t so sure. But as we climbed down the bank towards the shelf of ice that already clung to the shore, it was like a weight was lifted. There wasn’t anything there but bare branches, snow, ice, and the black water beyond, flowing through the twilight gloom like lead.
We stood there, doggo and me, staring out at the water until the sunlight was gone, the stars above cutting through the city’s glare, burning white pinpricks from a million years ago or more. I couldn’t tell then and I can’t tell you now whether I actually saw whatever was there only days before; an alien, a test, an unsolved puzzle. Or whether I’d imagined it all, come tumbling down to earth owing to exhaustion, a dizzy spell, or some undiagnosed disease of the brain. But there I was again, blood pumping in my ears, staring up at the stars, black river churning by, dog breathing heavy at my side.
I felt alright, then. I feel alright tonight. The dog has been walked and well fed and nobody’s thrown up on the floor. Stars burn, our hearts beat on, until one day they don’t. I don’t know shit about shit and I don’t think I ever will.
Of course, now comes the time where I remind you that you can pre-order a copy of my forthcoming collection Where the Pavement Turns to Sand, forget you did so, then receive a nice little surprise in the mail later this autumn, once the darkness has returned to the evening sky and the leaves are beginning to turn. I think it’s a beauty collection, but don’t take my word for it…
“Sheldon Birnie’s short stories are pure Canadian mythology. A modern constellation of heroic day drinking dads, Sasquatch hunters, and ice curling champions. Recommended for readers in the finest denim tuxedos or even regular tuxedos."
— Jon Lindsey, author of Body High
"The stories in Where the Pavement Turns to Sand are reminiscent of the writers who made me want to take this shit seriously: Willy Vlautin, Donald Ray Pollock, Padgett Powell. Look, all I'm saying is, Sheldon Birnie. Sheldon goddamn Birnie, man."
— D.T. Robbins, author of Birds Aren’t Real
OK. Enough of that, for now. It’s my birthday tomorrow, and I’d like nothing more than for you to reserve yourself a copy of this book and, come October, enjoy the stories therein. Or, you could hold off and join me at McNally Robinson in Winnipeg on November 4 to pick up a copy (or two, or three, a baker’s dozen, whatever) in the flesh at the official launch?
Follow the old link below if you haven’t done so already, or, perhaps, if you’d like to buy a gift for a loved one, neighbour, work associate, enemy, whoever, really. Much obliged, friends. Catch ya on the flip.
https://malarkeybooks.com/store/pavement