A tribute to Sundays in Cold Brook

A tribute to Sundays

Back when I was a kid, growing up in Cold Brook, Sunday was always a very special day. We always began Sundays with a healthy breakfast. Dad always prepared breakfast for us, consisting of eggs and sometimes fresh bacon. The eggs were fresh from my grandparents’ farm, as was the bacon, when they had some. Sometimes we ate porridge. This was mom and dad’s favourite, but I was never a fan of the stuff.

Sundays were the only day of the week where you could sit on the doorstep and not hear anything except the birds singing, and the sounds of the farm. Grap always had cows, pigs and chickens and horses. These animals had their own sound, (and smell!) Every other day, the whine from the sawmills filled the air; a sound I miss dearly each morning these days.

 Sundays were a day of worship, as we never missed mass, unless the bridge was out, or it was stormy. On those days we said rosary instead. Church and God were such a big part of our lives back then.

If I was a good kid in church, said my prayers, and behaved, Dad and mom would stop at the ‘Sweet Shop’ on the way home; where I could have my choice of snacks. I always got whatever special ice cream they had in their freezer. My favourite was a ‘pop up’, which was an ice cream in a cardboard tube that you pushed up with a stick from the bottom. I liked ‘Buried Treasures’ too. Dad usually chose a vanilla dixie cup, the ones that came with the little wooden spoon. Mom had a vanilla dixie cup too, but she also bought a bag of regular Hostess potato chips, which she added to the ice cream. Oh, I always picked up a few packs of Popeye Candy Cigarettes. Me and my friends would ‘smoke’ the entire lot, and act like ‘grown ups’.

If I was good all week, I was allowed to visit Arlims, where I could spend my money. This store (which still exists today) always had the coolest toys. I usually chose a cap gun, or some other new toy I could share with my friends. Once I had seen a toy bomb. It was a big black plastic ball with a fuse on the end. A battery controlled a timer inside, and the toy made a loud bang when the timer went off. I really wanted one of those, but mom figured it would scare my little brother. She was probably right. Can you imagine selling kids toy bombs today?

Sundays were also a day of family get-togethers. All of Gram and Grap’s children, and their families, would gather at their home every Sunday, for dinner. Gram always had that big stew pot on the old cast iron stove. In the pot she cooked all fresh vegetables, plus salt beef or riblets. In the oven she always cooked either a turkey, or chicken, sometimes several to ensure she had enough cooked for everyone. A good memory for me is just the smell of dinner cooking.

Once dinner was cooked, everyone got around the big wood table, and sat on the wooden chairs, the ones with the black leather cushions. It didn’t take long for the table to get crowded, mostly with adults. Us kids had to either sit on our parents’ laps or take a seat in the living room with our cousins. That’s where I sat mostly.

I still remember Gram proudly serving dinner, everyone chatting and laughing, telling stories about the ‘good old days’ and about highlights in their lives. I wish I had paid closer attention to the stories, so I could write them today, but I was too busy being a kid, and having fun with my cousins. If we were good, Gram would sit and look through family albums with us, showing us pictures of our parents when they were little, and telling funny stories about them.

After we enjoyed dinner at Gram and Grap’s, we would head down the road a little, to Nana’s. Nana was alone most of the time after Grappy passed away. Uncle Brian stayed with her, but on Sundays he was either at his friends’ homes or still asleep. We would always visit Nana, enjoy some cake and maybe some ice cream, while she and several of mom’s sisters and brothers gathered around the tiny kitchen table, and chatted about their week. Sometimes Nana came to mass with us, and on the way home, she would tell stories about when she was a little girl, growing up in Nova Scotia. There were so many stories I wish I could remember, but being a kid, I had other things to do, like being a kid.

Sundays were family days. After lunch and visiting our grandparents, if the weather was nice, Dad would take me fishing, or he and mom would pack up the family car and we would go on a ride. Sometimes we went out to Piccadilly Park for the afternoon, and we would dig clams for a big snack when we got home. Dad would boil the clams up and serve them outside while we sat around the wooden picnic table he built. Sometimes on Sundays we would just stay indoors and listen to Dad and mom singing while dad played the guitar. They sang so nicely together.

Sundays were also a day of rest, especially for dad. Throughout the week, he worked at whatever job he could find. Most of those jobs tired him out, and once he came home, he would fall asleep for the night. He worked very hard on jobs with a pick and shovel, or a chainsaw. I remember one job dad worked at the barracks for a new company in town. He worked as a janitor, and when he came home from this job, he still had lots of time to spend with us because he wasn’t as tired as when he worked the labor jobs. Dad always made time for family; he still does.

Sunday evenings were a time to do homework. Mom would sit with me every evening and go over math or reading with me. Mom was a teacher before I was born, so she knew lots of stuff about schooling kids. Mom said she taught several of dad’s siblings and other kids from Cold Brook when she first moved here. She had some funny stories about them which always made me laugh. Mom taught me so much that once I began school, I already knew all my colors, how to count to 100, and I could read lots of words too.

Just before bedtime, my parents and I would kneel by the bed and recite the rosary. Mom clutched her rosary beads while she thanked God for all the wonderful things and prayed, she could have more kids like me.

After the rosary, it was bedtime. This was usually around 8:30. I used to lie in bed wondering what went on after that time, and what I might have been missing by going to bed so early. I used to ask if I could stay up a little longer, and if I was a good kid all day, sometimes I was allowed to sit up until 9, which I learned was basically boring. Mom and dad would go to bed just after I did.

Sundays are different these days. With Gram, Grap, Nana, and most of my uncles and aunts gone, our family is much smaller than it used to be. You can sit on the doorstep for hours and not once do you hear the whine of sawmills, or cows mooing, roosters crowing. You cannot even hear kids playing outside. We live in different times now, where kids spend their time inside, playing video games. Church seems to have lost its lustre, now mostly seniors fill the pews. The world seems so much busier these days and I am happy I still have the memories of Sundays and of growing up in a family community like Cold Brook.


best date for deaf guy

Back a few years when I was young and single and hard of hearing

I met this missus

at a bar.

She wasn’t bad so I asked for a dance and we hit it off so I asked her out on a


She said yes so the next day when I picked her up

and made small chat, I asked her what she did

when she said she was a Veterinarian I said


Now I am thinking I hit it big because Vets make lots and we can go to all those expensive places

a poor boy could not afford.

So I took her to a great place I knew was expensive just to

impress her.

When I pulled up in the Steak House parking lot she said what the hell

and slapped me in the face

at first I thought it was okay but then after two or three not so much

so I asked what was wrong, then discovered

what happened

damn my hearing, the old brain substituted

what she said for something that sounded like it

she didn’t say Veterinarian

but Vegetarian.

The date was over, my face hurt. I brought her home, not a word in the car except for some advice

she said get a damn hearing aid


quotes from my dad

My dad will be turning 85 in May. He hates to think about it, as he has always hated birthdays. I figure in his 85 years in this world, he would have plenty of advice for the younger folks out there. Here are a few:

“Who wants to celebrate getting old? ”

My dad always hated admitting his age. I remember when he turned 50, he didn’t want to talk about it. Now at 85, he asks we just treat his birthday like every other day, with cake.

“Why admit to something you did even if you did it”

My dad never admitted to anything in his life. Whenever mom would question him on something he may have done, he would deny it, so she stopped asking him. Words to live by for sure.

“Walk lightly”

Dad and I used to cut firewood in winter when I was younger. He would break a trail on the deep snow by walking and stamping down on the snow until it was hard packed. When I tried to walk on the trail, I would always sink up to my waist in the stuff. He would look at me and say I was walking too heavy.

He also used this saying when mom was scolding us, or if he knew we did something wrong. “Walk Lightly Son, don’t admit to anything”

My biggest nightmare in school…fitness awards.

Photo courtesy of cbc.ca

Just looking at those badges brought me back to horrors of grade school gym classes. I was the skinny, nerdy kid who sucked at sports, so much that I constantly made up excuses to miss track and field day, to no avail, as I never missed one day of school from Kindergarten to Grade 11.

All the ‘Alpha Kids’ were there, raving how they would take the top awards. All I wanted was a bronze medal. For years I was forced to compete in those events, only to receive just the plastic participaction pin at the end of every event.

The only ‘good’ memory I have of Track and Field Day was in Grade 7, which took place the first day of school. I had taken a big growth spurt that summer, and when returning to school, I was the tallest kid in my grade. This would be my big chance to take home a medal.

I still remember that day. The gym teacher lined us up across the playground behind the school, I scanned my competition, a bunch of kids I had lost to every year since the event began; a crowd of kids shorter than me. I really believed I had a chance to take home my first medal. This day was like a dream to me. Finally, a medal. I didn’t care which one I won, most kids tried for the Gold, Silver, or the Award of Excellence, not me though, I would have taken any of them.

I envisioned my mom proudly sewing the badge on my best coat, brimming with pride, and me strolling into school, the envy of all the kids, showing off my beautiful bronze patch.

When the gym teacher hollered GO, we tore across the grassy field, headed for the finish line. I was actually ahead of everyone, a good twenty feet ahead of the second place kid, when I thought I heard something in the distance, a voice, yelling “Watch out Teddy, Watch out for the ….”

All I heard was Teddy Teddy…I thought it was my friends cheering me on.

Of course I ignored all this, as I was too focused on winning a medal. I held my head high, looking forward to the finish line. I was there, nobody near me, just the wind in my face, and the ground beneath my sneakers, I could taste victory and it was good. I was going to win my first prize ever in track and field; when all of a sudden I brought up solid into a…

German Shepherd. That darn dog from across the street was always wandering around the school yard. I ran right into him, and landed face down on the ground. The other kids ran around the dog, who was now licking my face; and while I licked my wounds, I realized I would never win the event, never have that precious medal sewn to my favourite jacket. I knew eventually the other kids would grow to my height, and beat me in the races. It took me a while to get up, but when I did, I seen the three kids who were behind me proudly line up for their awards. The gym teacher rushed to my aid, and handed me my Participaction Pin.

I was at a yard sale once, a few years back, when I came upon a treasure. No, not the gigantic bag of very desirable marbles, but something even better. A large box, labeled Participaction Track and Field Awards, and guess what? The box was filled with hundreds of medals, everything from the Award of Excellence, Gold, Silver, to the Bronze medal. There were also bags and bags of Participaction pins. I was in my glee. Now if I only had a time machine, I could go back in time, get Mom to fill my jacket with those medals, to the point the entire jacket would be made up of just medals, and I would be the most popular eight grader in the entire school. Oh to dream.

sledding a career?

Just watching some of the olympic events this weekend, and I have to say, after watching Luge, Skeleton, and the bob sledding events, I realized how popular sledding really was if I knew sliding would be an olympic event, I would have continued sliding on my Krazy Karpet!

What fun we had as kids, sliding on ‘Grappy’s Hill’. The hill was a twenty minute walk to get to the top, but the ride was well worth it. The narrow trail, created by my grandfather as he hauled firewood with his old Ski-Doo Elan, wound up a steep hill, through trees and brush. In the middle of the winding trail there was a giant rock with sharp edges that us kids somehow avoided even though we flew down the hill. some kids made it a challenge to see just how close they could come to the ‘Big Rock’. Luckily, none managed to hit it.

In the spring when the weather got milder, we used to build ski jumps at the bottom of the hill. We just used snow, and brought water from the river to pour on the jump, and make it icy. We used K-Tel Mini Skis, which were short plastic skis with laces for bindings. They strapped to your boots.

It is hard to believe none of us got killed, as we soared down the icy hill, onto the icy ski jump, and head first into the fields beneath the hill. I had gotten quite good at jumping, but as we got older, we all grew out of sliding and moved into other things, like girls.

My first sliding adventure was the time I visited my older cousins, who lived down the road from me. My oldest cousin Raymond spent hours removing the hood from his father’s ’52 Chevy truck. The thing must have weighed over a hundred pounds, and was slick and shiny from the numerous times his dad polished the thing. He would have killed us if he thought we planned to make a sled from his pride and joy.

We attached a piece of chain to the front of the hood, and the three of us hauled the thing up the steep hill across the road from their home. When we got to the top, the thing felt like it was exited to take off. Given the weight of the thing, the slippery surface, the steepness of the hill, and the enormous push my cousins gave the sled, one could only imagine how fast we flew down the hill. We thought we had prepared for everything when we realized there was no way to stop this thing, as it hit the edge of the hill, and flew across the road, and onto the driveway. We continued sliding at an enormous speed until we brought up solid, into the side of the old truck.

I ran home the minute we stopped, leaving my cousins to deal with their dad and his now badly damaged truck. I think he grounded them for a month.

By the time I seen them again, it was summer, and they had moved on from sledding to cars, but that is another story.

Red Blooded

When I was a kid, growing up in a tiny community in Newfoundland, I thought the world was a great place. I was raised to believe that if you were honest, believed in God, went to church, and listened to your parents, your teachers, the police, and anyone else who were supposed to be telling you the truth, you would be a good person.

I was a curious kid, always asking questions like “Who are we?”, “Where did our family come from?”, to “Why is our skin so dark?” and the biggest of all, “Grappy, are you an Indian?” Which was quickly silenced by my Grappy, who got very insulted by my question. I really didn’t want to hurt his feelings, I just wanted a simple yes or a no. He could give me neither.

I used to wonder why these questions were so bad. Why was it so bad to ask if we were indians? I know in the westerns we watched on Uncle Roddy’s tv, the Indians used to scalp innocent cowboys, kill their kids and do bad things to their wives, so I guessed that was why my grandfather didn’t want me asking him, or accusing him of being a savage like them people in the westerns.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder how he was so good at doing stuff. He farmed cattle, pigs, chickens. He had horses, planted gardens, cut and harvested hay. In the fall he would slaughter the pigs, and a cow or two, so he could provide fresh meat for his now grown adult kids. He would waste nothing. He used the skin, to make hides, which he sold, the bones to make handles for knives, he even used pieces of cow hide to make hinges for the shed doors. He made all his own farm equipment. He hunted rabbit and moose, and partridges and other animals to provide food. I used to wonder how he learned all this stuff. he would always say he just knew how to do it.

As my curiousity about indians grew, I asked him more questions, to the point I think he drove me away. “You must be an indian, Grap” I would say. I remember his response was to warn me to never ask those questions, and most of all, never tell anyone he was an indian.

What great shame it must have been for this man, so skilled at so many things, secrets passed down from his father and mother, them from theirs. Secrets of how to live off the land, how to survive the impossible. The stories of his forefathers, their struggles, all in his mind, too shameful to share with his kids and their kids. He was ashamed to even believe they could be true. All because of one man. A man who claimed he saved the province from poverty and how just one little lie meant the province could join a nation called Canada. No sacrifice too large to ask, just deny who you are, who your parents are, where you came from, and in some respect, where you are going.

When Joey lied to the Canadian Government, and told them there were no indians in Newfoundland, this lie caused a ripple effect across the province. With that little ‘white’ lie, everything about my family’s past was swept under the carpet, so to speak. Being indian meant a great shame, as indians were portrayed as lazy drunks, instead of the hard working people they really were. I wonder if, before 1949, if someone looked at my grandfather and asked if he was an indian, would he have been proud to say he was, brag about his skills and his love of the land, instead of hiding his head in shame?

Could he have given me better answers about who he was, and who I was? Could he have shared those skills with me, and even more important, could he have shared the secrets with me? The stories passed down through the ages, of a time when his people lived off the land, and survived on their own without government handouts and government lies?

I wish my grandfather was alive today. I wish he could witness the pride felt by his descendants, knowing we can hold our heads high, knowing we are


um…where’s our chicken?

Back in the 90’s I partied pretty hard. Being a single guy with his own home, I had plenty of ‘friends’ who loved to party at my place, and as you might imagine, this made for quite a few funny stories to tell.

One evening, think it was a Saturday, we all got together at the house. They guys made sure to bring lots of beer, and I guess they figured I had lots of food, so nobody brought any. I didn’t have food, save for maybe a bottle of jam or two, maybe some peanut butter, and some beer in the fridge. I was single, and mooched off of my parents for food, so I never seen the point of buying groceries that would go bad.

My home is in the country, there are roads everywhere leading to wooded areas, farms, etc. Like I said, I live in the country. We had no numbers on our homes at the time, so giving a description of where we lived was always confusing. I had the number of power poles from the beginning of the road to my house memorized. I was at 38 power poles lane as we called it.

After we drank most of our beer, we all got hungry. One of the guys decided to call a cab to bring us some chicken from Mary Browns Fried Chicken, a popular fast food joint in the area. When the driver asked where to deliver it to, my buddy said “You drive into the community, then there is a road on the right, its the only road on the right in the entire community. Just come on down the driveway and we will be there. He left the driver my phone number in case he got lost. This was around 11:00 p.m.

We must have waited three, maybe four hours, when we got impatient and called the Taxi Cab stand, to ask where our chicken was. Dispatch put us through to the driver. He didn’t sound good. He asked “Do you live down a road off the main road, down over a very steep hill with trees all around?” I said “No, just down a lane off the main road once you pass the woods road on the right. ” Then I said “Oops, I am on the second road into the community. You went on the road leading to the country. Turns out the guy drove over the shoulder of the road, move than 400 feet over the edge of the road into a bog.

“Can you call me a tow truck please?” he begged. “My car is all beat up, I am lucky I lived.” He said, about the same time one of my friends hollered out…”so what about our chicken? Have you got it? We can come get it. How far down are you?”

We never got our chicken.

The Luge run

Being a kid back in the 70’s, we found things to keep us occupied. I grew up in a small community, surrounded by family and friends. I was never at a loss for a buddy, or in this case, a side kick.

Ricky was my best friend. He was a different kid, who at just ten years old, could do almost anything. He could weld, he could build anything out of wood, I even seen him fix cars with his uncle. He could do everything except school stuff. Reading was a challenge, so he never did it. A lot of the kids picked on Ricky because he had a speech impairment, but it never bothered me. I found him cool.

Anyway back to the kid olympics of the seventies. We actually built a luge for the summer. We just didn’t know what a luge was, or that it was meant for sliding down steep icy tracks in winter.

When I said ‘we’ built a luge, I meant I came up with the idea, Ricky put it together. We were always building go carts (I mean Ricky was always building them) and on this occasion, we didn’t have a lot of things to make a normal go cart, but Ricky’s dad had a garage with a ton of junk out back. We took a piece of plywood, a few boogie wheels (part of an old Ski-doo suspension that consisted of small rubber wheels), a few pieces of pipe, and a two by four.

Ricky fashioned the pieces together, making a device that resembled a garage creeper. We would have used a garage creeper, Ricky’s dad had one, but he would have killed us for taking it. Using the two by four and the pipe, Ricky fashioned a steering mechanism controlled by whomever was driving the thing at the time. All you had to do was push either end of the two by four to steer. It was fail proof…or was it.

anyway, we couldn’t wait to try it. The thing sat less than two inches off the pavement. (Did I mention we just got our road paved?) Kids everywhere on makeshift go carts, sailing down the hill leading to the community. We were going to do one better with our new cart. Here is a drawing of the go cart. (I am a better writer than artist, so I used Paint to do the drawing)

We hauled the thing to the top of the long hill. I got on back and laid down, Ricky got in his seat, laid on back as well, with his head tilted so he could see where we were going. “Hang on for the made in voyage” he stuttered, as we pushed off and headed down the steep hill. We must have been doing quite the speed when we both realized we forgot one very important part of our cart, BRAKES!!!

A bread truck was headed up the hill the same time we were flying down the hill. Two ten year old kids, lying on a piece of plywood on wheels, no brakes, and basically hauling ass, went right under the truck! I can still see the driver’s eyeballs as we drove under his truck. He slammed on the brakes but we were ok, and we kept hauling down the hill despite his curses for us to stop. Hell, we never had brakes. I think I seen the devil on the way down that hill, my adreneline flowing as fast as the wheels on the cart, as we coasted to a stop nearly a mile from where we started.

“Whatta rush! Let’s do it again” Hollered Ricky, as I vomited on the road side. “No thanks,” I said, still shaking from the ride. While Ricky couldn’t wait to tell his brothers and sisters of our adventure, I swore him to secrecy, as our parents would have surely killed us for almost getting killed.

I hear the driver of the truck retired after that incident.

Nature’s Judge

Duct tape, or as he referred to it, ‘duck tape’ was his weapon of choice. He came to town a few times a year, to stock up on the stuff, along with a few other items. An animal lover at heart, it hurt him when he seen how cruel people could be towards the animals they took as their own and called them ‘pets’. Sometimes he cried for those creatures, other times he reacted, and fixed things.

When the story of an Ontario man who tortured his dogs came popular on the news, the man felt it was his duty to punish this person. God knows, the courts couldn’t do their job. The judge let him off with a fifty-dollar fine.

Finding this man was easy, as he did several newspaper interviews, some in his own home, boasting of his power of persuasion. “The story was wrong, the dog starved because he refused to eat.” he boasted. Most knew the difference.

Apprehending the man chose to be the biggest challenge, because his ego would not let him go alone for long. He always had some foolish young thing on his arm. He had money, that was all that mattered. The man was patient and waited until the house had gone quiet. It was late, but he was skilled. He could mimic any animal, sounding like the burdened beast who starved to death while tied outside was no challenge.

After a few whines and howls, the torturer came outside. He yelled for whatever disturbed him to be quiet, so he could return to bed. He never got the chance to find that comfort. A sharp crack to the back of his neck was the last thing he felt.

Then next thing he remembered was the chill of the forest, and most of all, the roughness of the tree bark against his naked back.

Duct tape was wrapped around his head, tethering him to the tree. as the savior of the wild creatures worked to bind the man to the tree, he recited several chants, when he finished, the cruel man was wrapped like a mummy, to a tree deep in a forest. Just his eyes and nostrils emerged from the tight sticky wrapping, and he gasped to catch his breath, almost choking. He quickly discovered how to breathe through his nose.

Without the gift of speech, he calmed. He knew he would not escape this time. The man who loved dogs spoke to him, reminding him of why he was here, tied to a tree in the middle of nowhere. He heard howls in the distance, as fear moved up his spine.

“You left your dog starve to death, while tethered to a tree with a short cord. That dog loved you, he worshiped you. That is how you repaid his love.” The evil man squirmed in his tightly wrapped prison, knowing this may be the end.

His eyeballs bolted to the left, then right, as he attempted to break free. “I remember seeing your poor dog do the same, as he writhed and attempted to break free. I remember the electric fence that surrounded him, keeping good people from helping him. I remember having to watch a creature shrivel and die from starvation while you entertained the young ones with your money and your drugs and I remember how the only just thing done for this animal was removing him from the rope, and burying him next to his torture spot. You will remember too, I assure you. There will be no judge, no jury, only the chill from the forest, and maybe the drool from the tongues of the wolves who will avenge their brethren. You won’t suffer long, not as long as the little dog, but his death will be avenged a thousand times before you draw your last breath. I assure you of this, as sure as I stand before you, this will be so.”

With that, the man walked away and disappeared into the thick brush, leaving nature deal with the cruelty of society and of this man who stood, taped to a tree in the middle of nowhere, unable to call for help, with nothing to eat or drink, until he draws his last breath.

A few days later the old man returned. He was not surprised when he found the tethered man dead, head hanging, eyes focused on the ground, where wolves chewed at his ankles and shins as he watched. He knew the man had suffered, possibly of thirst and of food, mostly of fear from not having the opportunity to escape; much like the dog he called his ‘pet’.

Nature had taken care of itself, it fixed what needed fixing. He decided to do the humane thing, bury this creature in the ground next to his torture area, the same care given to the small dog. The tape came off easily, with the weight of the man leaning forward, it only took one swipe with the knife before he dropped into the six by six hole beneath him.  The ground was soft and easy to spread, as the old man covered the body, leaving it to the underground beasts to feast on. A sprinkling of white dust was sprinkled on the area where the body was buried, and a ritual of prayer was performed upon the site.

When he was finished, the soil reclaimed him, his body sinking beneath the scattered leaves, into the moist soil, only to be resurrected when he was needed, to avenge the souls of tortured animals.

I am back…sort of

After months of not being able to log in or have access to my posts, I finally had time to tinker with my wordpress and here I am, back, ready to start scaring you with my outlandish stories.

The first story I will tell you is of the sci-fi nature.

Imagine you wake up in a hospital. You are alone, no doctors, no nurses anywhere. That’s right, this is the Newfoundland and Labrador Health Care System. Joking. on with the story….

You leave the room and begin to wander around the hospital. You notice it is chilly then also notice you are wearing one of those flimsy hospital gowns with the ass out. There is no heat in the place, and most of the lights aren’t functioning. (I begin to think Budget cuts!!)

You do see bodies, all dead, laid in piles in abandoned rooms. There are signs everywhere, warning of something called ‘social distancing’, whatever the hell that is. You call out, and the only thing you hear back is the echo of your own voice.

The silence is deafening. You start to remember things, little things, like laying on a bed, everyone around you, all the people you love, all praying you come out of the coma. Nobody here now, too bad, you are definitely out of the coma, but you wonder where you really are.

You find a door and go outside. Nothing. No cars moving, but they are there, parked on either side of the road, Garbage is strewn everywhere, buildings look dark, no lights anywhere. More signs about this social distancing. What the hell?

You decide to try to find someone, maybe find out what the hell is going on. You imagine zombies walking up and down the street. That would not be so hard to believe at this point, You walk up to a house, knock on the door. Kids in the house peer out the window at you. They are wearing masks. Someone is coming to the door. A man. He points up the street, and yells at you to mask up and get lost. What the hell? ‘Mask Up?’ What is that you wonder. He tosses you a cheap looking mask. You take it, reluctantly

You begin to think the world has suffered some kind of nuclear disaster. That is the only thing that makes sense to you. That must be it. You put the mask on, and continue your search for something that makes sense.

You see a billboard on the ground, fallen. On it there is a picture of a man with a large head, and bad hair. The slogan says “We won the election” It looks like someone has hauled it down and desecrated the thing with spray paint. You pass by a church. The place is abandoned, the door left ajar, and swinging back and forth, creaking.

Finally, you see a line up of people, all wearing masks. Walking towards you. They have signs they are waving. They are yelling something. “We took the needle, now we are doomed!” the crowd repeated the last part…”We are Doomed, We are doomed!” They continued their chant as they walked past me, like nobody noticed me standing there, in my hospital gown with the ass out. They are old, or look that way. They look like old people with kids bodies. What the hell. I decide to follow, distantly.

The crowd approaches a few more people, again kids with old faces. They too are chanting something about the needle. The crowd joins with the others, chanting loudly, some cussing, some not. I keep my distance, but by now I have to know what the hell is going on.

The line stops at a clinic. Red Cross vehicles everywhere. There is a line up. People who look somewhat normal, albeit pale faces, are entering a building. Suddenly the once peaceful but chanting lineup turn into a violent mob. They began swinging their signs, knocking people down. “We got the needle, we are doomed” they chanted, as they pushed their way into the building. The mob were quickly escorted out, as armed guards pushed each person out the door, threatening them with a hand gun. The man himself didn’t look so good, again, he resembled a young man, but with a drawn and craggy, wrinkled face. He looks at me, as if I have some sort of disease. He then points his gun at me, the confused man in the hospital gown with the ass out. I try to run, but that damn gown. Frigging cold too. He doesnt take long to catch me, but longer than it should have taken him. He puts on gloves and hauls me inside.