61 lines
2.7 KiB
Plaintext
61 lines
2.7 KiB
Plaintext
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TINNED WARMTH
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by Gordon Chapman
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The static undulates on the screen, as if a liquid. He has been
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watching it for some time now, clutching the remote control, somehow
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more entertained than when a show was on.
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"Canned laughter," he thinks, "and applause. That'd make all the
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difference in the world. You could watch this for hours, it's just
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as good as . . ." he doesn't finish.
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The static bath gives a plasma-like appearance to the room. He turns
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the volume up. Way up.
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The hissing comes in small bursts, long spiny waves, and is punctuated
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with crackles. There are traces of voices beneath the electronic tide,
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brief attempts of a picture to form, but then the magnetic undertow
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eliminates them, and the mercuric wash of static prevails again.
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5 am. Most people sleep at this time. He thinks of lunch, this is the
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only time that you can have lunch entirely alone. Sardines. It is food
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that is repellent by nature, it must be eaten alone at 5 am. He eats them
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without utensils, making loud smacking noises.
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The phone doesn't ring during lunch. Not this lunch. He's made sure of
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this in a way that leaves no margin for error - taking the phone outside
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and throwing it over the back fence.
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It was the only thing to do, after all, the machine long ago faltered
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at imparting useful information, and it degenerated to the point of being
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a mere bearer of bad tidings and a spearhead for carpet cleaners. The
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sound of the phone striking the ground, a plastic splintering and single
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imploring of the bell, made him grin.
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He licks the inside of the tin, not missing any of the foul oil the
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fish are packed in.
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Denmark. Somewhere in Denmark, a middle aged woman cut the head from
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this fish and packed it into this can. She lives in a gingerbread house
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in the countryside. It's probably raining in Denmark, and the woman's
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daughters will come by this rainy day, and warm themselves on a hearth
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where Danish wood crackles in a fire. The girls will be wearing aprons
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and when her husband arrives, giving cheery greetings to all, pleasant
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cooking smells will fill the house.
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They won't eat sardines.
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He rubs his hands in front of the television, feeling the warmth of --
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a fire.
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# # #
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Copyright 1993 Gordon Chapman
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Gordon Chapman is a Canadian writer who makes his living as a journalist
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and communications executive. He has a weakness for motorcycles, good
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scotch, and fiction. His stories, from very short to novella length, have
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appeared in a variety of Canadian publications as well as in the U.S.A.
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============================ # # # ===============================
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