t was strange the way he’d been found, the officer said. Pulled apart like f
focaccia. The coroner said it was like an animal attack he’d seen at the zoo,
but the door to the apartment was locked from the inside and there was
nothing out the window but a lot of air. There was a bowl and a spoon on
the kitchen table. It was like a riddle.
They had the pieces safely stowed in a body bag before the parents arrived, but there was nothing they could do about the carpet. Like a torrent of arrabbiata, the officer said, suddenly hungry.
His mother wept soundlessly and dry. His father checked the water pressure in the kitchen. How do they get it so good this high up, he said. What, said his mother. He had been the least favourite of their children, but he was still blood. He was only blood now.
What a mess, his mother said, picking a hat off the floor. Big and blue, the kind of thing someone would wear with an eyepatch to a costume party. She put it in the laundry hamper and then started separating his colours. What a mess, she said again.
His father checked the kitchen cupboards. Need a little oil there, he said. What, said his mother. Need a little oil, said his father louder. I can’t hear you, she said.
There were boxes of cereal. Boxes and boxes. None of the ones they’d weaned him on. Shredded, puffed, creamed and rolled: a childhood without taste. Instead here was a circus of brightly coloured cardboard. Looped and flaked and frosted and crisped and sugared. Not an oat in sight.
Diabetes, his mother said. That’s what it must’ve been. But his father was already off checking the water pressure in the bathroom. Twenty storeys up, he was thinking to himself.
The neighbours later reported hearing things the night before. The cawing of some exotic bird, the growling of a large cat, the snap, crackle and crunch of bone. A rabbit was found loose in the hall. He hadn’t owned any pets. His parents wouldn’t let him. You might have allergies, his mother had said.
It’s Matthew. I hope you’re swell. I thought I’d write because it’s been a few weeks. I’m not much for blogs. I get enough reality every day, and I have a feeling reality gets enough of me. But here’s the thing:
For a year, I wrote a story every Monday (false – there were those three Mondays when I couldn’t because: 1. I was lost in the woods, 2. I was Christmassing, and 3. I just didn’t feel like it). Here we are at number 52, and it seems like a good time to take a wee break.
8bitmyths started as an exercise for myself. A deadline to keep me efficient, writing something small every week. Sometimes the stories took seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds to write, other times I fell asleep at my keyboard.
There are a lot of things I do that don’t make sense. I don’t shave enough, I don’t have a real job, I spend too much time in the past. I’m a nostalgist. There’s something about the past that brings me back into alignment. Growing up took a lot out of me, and I’m still Humpty Dumptying it all back together.
8bitmyths has been a chance to look at all things I loved—books, movies, television shows, toys—and analyze how they shaped me. How I got to the now, now that the now has passed. The other thing it gives me is a chance to take off the rosy Ray-Bans and look at the past right in its ugly acid-washed face. A lot of those things I loved…they were actually pretty awful. I mean, have you watched Thundercats lately?
Mostly, though, these stories are a chance to play in the big backyard of life.
All this to mumble: I’m still writing. I’ll still be posting 8bitmyths, just not every Monday. And if you feel like it, if you ever want to, you can electronic mail me some of the things you loved growing up, and I can write an 8bitmyth about them. Most likely, I will maim or murder your favourite character(s). But it will be done with love.
Hugs and high fives,
Remember when you were a minipop, and you saw that film, you know, the one you loved that never had a sequel? Well, let's say it did. And it was just like you imagined it, only a little bit worse.