Bloody Caesar; or The Ides of March

Several years ago, I wrote an experimental short story: the assassination of Julius Caesar told from the perspective of his blood. I’m still quite proud of it, and I thought I’d share it with you here.  A nice short story that de-familiarizes the familiar, it was originally published online at the SPACE website, an arts-sciences program based at Dawson College in Montreal, Quebec. They have some pretty amazing arts-science fusion articles, poetry, and lab reports. It’s worth checking out.

“Bloody Caesar” was the name SPACE gave to this story, but my original title was “The Ides of March.” Call it what you will; I’m not great with titles. Call it by both, in fact, if you like the retro double-title thing.

.

.

Bloody Caesar; or The Ides of March

.

Rome’s flowing blood pulses through veins.

Into the heart, out of it, into the heart, out into the fingers.

Thud thud. Thud thud.

Haemoglobin captures oxygen from the lungs, oxygen of the spring air. Blood cells shoot back and forth, get sucked into heart valves and blown out again into an arm, into a leg, into the nose, into the foot. Cells carry carbon dioxide back from the extremities and into the lungs to be exhaled. The heart is relaxed and pushes the blood cells throughout the body, energizing the leg muscles that make the organism walk.

The legs move in a different way, pinching the veins in the calf and heel. Slowly the organism descends stairs and the blood pumps faster. Up into the throat now, and into the head. The blood grows hot. The tongue wags. The oxygen of the Senate’s air enters the blood afresh to cool it, yet the temperature rises. The blood cannot smell the Senate air, but the organism knows where it is: in the heart of an Empire at its height.

Suddenly, the glands emit a torrent of adrenaline as the eyes dart to the side. The heart accelerates, until the rhythm mimics that of galloping horse. Arms loosen and the legs run. Oxygen is blown into the muscles like a hurricane to incinerate glucose and produce energy. But the blood cells feed the muscles like water bearers attempting to fill a pond in the desert. A shadow hangs over the organism. The heart beats at its peak.

Thud thud thud thud.

Rippling sonic waves tear through the blood stream. Almost instantly, a full penetration as a pointed pugio slashes sinew. Hot blood pours from the neck and splashes on cold marble. Blood flows and the coagulation process begins, though there can be no hope to patch the wound.

A Roman pugio dagger.
A Roman pugio dagger.

The organism reels.

A thud in the back and marble stairs pinch the blood flow as the organism reclines. The arm moves forward to block the face as cells feed the gluttonous muscles. Another penetration. A stab. Blood snakes down from the arm and wrists. A ripple of waves ebbs the blood.

Further penetrations mutilate the chest, the shoulders, the abdomen. Blood flows from veins and arteries until it becomes a scarce resource. A few seconds reprieve the wounds, but hold no consolation for the organism.

Another sonic wave moves through the blood. Once again, the cells hear nothing, but the ears hear everything. Et tu, Brute?

A pugio slips through the ribcage and kills the heart as the organism bleeds its last.

Ides of march

Picture Credits:

http://annoyzview.wordpress.com/2011/11/16/real-story-of-julius-caesar%E2%80%99s-assassination/

http://space.dawsoncollege.qc.ca/content/text/the_ides_of_march

“What Walmart Smells Like”

walmart

Being forced through the automatic doors of a Walmart one evening last winter with my family, I decided to deconstruct the experience of the torture that is globalized shopping by paying close attention to the most potent, yet misunderstood of the five senses.

I hope you enjoy this post, as a break from my usual three- or four page-long ruminations on books and history. Sorry, if you find that the sterile colour scheme in the above photo clashes with my parchment paper background, which suggests the wonderful vanilla smell of old books … but I do this for the sake of poetry. After all, a few verses can help you notice things you’ve ignored before. All good art should renew one’s perspective of the mundane.

“What Walmart Smells Like” appeared in a McGill University campus journal The Veg last April. I am very proud of it, my first published poem.

I wrote most of the images, including others that did not make the cut, on a piece of packing cardboard I found lying in an aisle under a shelf at a Walmart store. I loved playing with the conflict inherent in trying to actually smell anything distinct in the vacuous space of the warehouse that Walmart really is. Vacuous in many senses, though here I focus on smell. Scents triggers memories and memories are our identity. What that could imply, I leave for you to figure out.


 

“What Walmart Smells Like”

 

Distant, watered-down.

Trouble.

 

A lonely coldness,

an empty chill.

 

Freezer coolant.

Your aunt’s strawberry scented candles. Your mom’s cookie dough.

Freezer coolant. Sweet bread, pastries, cinnamon buns

in the bakery, with carrot raisin

muffins,

 

croissants. McDonalds’ frying lipids cross

with carcinogenic smoke,

converging and stale

 

fructose;

Like when solid candies melt together,

or you spill a dead Sprite,

and one week later

your boots are still sticky

 

books, laminated,

smelling like bathrooms, baskets,

and cotton mats,

homely enough to carry some memory

beneath their fibre

 

optics. Electronics

out of bubble papered cardboard boxes.

Unwrapping acetate-cased silicon chips,

perfume of static

 

and cologne. Or dampness

under jackets, when they cross you

in the aisle.

Then a sharp soapy attack

in the cleansing section

 

sterilizes the senses

of the one who senses the sterilized.

 

 

Photo Credits:

Walmart: http://www.impowerable.com/protect-the-planet/how-mcdonalds-and-wal-mart-affect-your-food/