Friday, January 2, 2015

Wait-A-Bit has a new newspaper. It is called,
“THE RAVIN’ TIMES” and as yet no one can predict whether the paper will be released daily, weekly, or whether it is to be released pursuant to
diurnal rhythms or some strange biological clock
the workings of which are yet unknown to man.

My guess would be – follow diurnal rhythms.

Lately your reporter has been writing his way through a gout attack – gout of the knee,
no less… and it’s hard to tell what
kind of unedited excrement has stained the
immaculate pages of this blog… what kind of
horrifying ugliness has passed muster
and found its wavering way into
our lives.

Truth is, our author has very little idea what he’s writing now, and no idea what he’ll be writing
next. Plot and planning he avoids like a mole ( I’m told) avoids the noonday sun on a sidewalk or a closely cut lawn.
It’s said comics are miserable bastards
underneath it all, and I believe this. All I have to do is look at myself in the mirror and, “Ha! Ha!” are not
the words that leap to mind. No what leaps to mind are words such as, “Oh, no!” or “Oh, shit! Look at the eyes on this beast!”

HANK: “He said this would be an underground newspaper, but it looks as if this reporter
has been under the earth for too long!, not the paper.
“His skin has that mollusk look….and his eyes maintain the expression of some unspeakable horror he has witnessed, seen at an undisclosed date… some monstrous reality
he cannot report on…some dread he cannot
Or… maybe it’s just a bad hangover,”
Hanks says.

Hank’s lips are moving. He’s speaking
to himself. It worries me when he mumbles
like that – feels like some kind of stress
madness…And he’s been mumbling quite a bit
throught the last two nights of winter, fumbling
with the fetish papers he nicked from the preacher’s
A lot of panting and heavy breathing
behind the curtain… I know what these sounds mean, and they’re perfectly normal, far as I’m concerned.
It’s the frequency of his gasping wrist exercises, this is not normal… not doing it all the time. It’s the obsessive look in his eye he has
as he returns to his corner. this and the constant mumbling – these factors are irritating and a tad
Now the preacher wants his porno back?
Good luck with that!

Me, I’ve got problems, too.As a
writer, I need discipline. Maybe I’ll
hire an English Governess to whip me late
at night… errrr, no. I kin do that meself.
If I’m agonna hire a woman I better find
some tittilation in the exercise.

Yes, ” RAVIN’ TIMES” would be a
better name than the “EVIL SCREED”.
We’ll have a picture of a black bird at the top of the
page…And no picture of this reporter
at all…


Chances are any time this paper comes
out it’ll be Hank or Frank writing it.
Tho Matilda has promised to put in some recipe’s,and Dexter and Dementiava have agreed to put in the recipe for the Green Chartreuse,THE DRINK everyone got so stoned on last year that the whole town began hallucinating
at the same time.

First they’d better get the permission of the Tunnel People.The Tunnel People invented the evil brew.
We couldn’t ask their permission last year, because we didn’t even know they existed. Though several gallons had been found in Matilda’s
A group of them had been living in a
bomb shelter…two floors down… all this time. Not a peep from them. I guess when the bombs dropped on Incineration Day, they thought it was the end
of the world.And they haven’t come out since.
In a very real sense, this is the ‘World’s End.”
You can’t get farther away from it all
than right here…! Unless you want to live
in Rat River.

As your mayor and , I guess, editor
of this paper – I should say, don’t trust these
recipes to taste as good as the first night
we tasted them…Because we’re sober now,
and nothing tastes as good if you’re sober,
because you look more closely at what you’re eating.
Fact is, many of the ingredients of
these recipes aren’t strictly legal. So those
parts will have to be kept out of the written
recipes, and out of this newspaper.
Although no one’s going to arrest anybody
up here for doing pretty much anything. And if we did arrest somebody and found him guilty of some
infarction, where the hell would we put him?
I mean, the jail was incinerated
at the same time City Hall went up
and turned into a piece of dazzling, briefly
molten incandescence… before it dissipated
into the upper atmosphere.

( With all the crap we’re putting up
in that upper atmosphere, you have to wonder
when some of it might come down… )
This could cause
some huge embarrassment – if someone’s
trying to sell a lot by the river and a hunk of
space junk should land on your purchaser’s private lot to be.

Artie’s been reading over my shoulder.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!,” he says, “Did you say
‘sell a lot by the river’?”
“Yeah, that’s what I wrote,” I say.
“No one’s ever sold a lot anywhere
in Wait-A-Bit,” Artie said, ” I mean, no lots have been drawn up or approved… and even if we drew
up a plan of subdivision – who’d buy an acre
from us? There are about a billion
acres just adjacent to the one we’d be
trying to sell.So good luck with that!”
” I get it, Artie,” I say. “It’s called
a hypothetical situation… I mean, that
should be obvious. Any salesman
trying to sell the damn, hypothetical lot
would be devoured by weasels even before he
could make the hypothetical deal… If he tried
to sell anything down by the river…he’d better
not be near ‘weasel town’.
“Damn right,” agreed Artie, “Them real estate sellers don’t like the big surprises…
Like being jumped from behind real quick!”
“Then all you can say is, ‘Oh no! This can’t
be happening to me!’ As your pants are ripped
off you by the strong jaws of your soon-to-be
rapist, and your tender bits are exposed
bass ackwards to the Great Beyond and
the wheeling of the Milky Way.”

Hmmmm. Artie made a speech.
Then again sudden rape from behin by a sub-human creature… This theme has
plagued Artie’s mind ever since the surprising
event happened to him a year ago.
Ever since the unpleasantly penetrating
experience Artie had…He still don’t go outdoors no more. Our bartender’s always at home in the bar.

This morning I stuck my head up
out of the winter hatch – put a scarf around
my ears and a fur hat on my head, and a
pair of shades to protect my eyes from
glare and blowing bits of ice.
We get a good n’ nasty wind up the
hill here. From over the forests and mountains
to the west, howling over the tree-tops
curling off the river right up into out faces
in this little town by the side of the big River
All the landscape is frozen down, except
for the wind, and the flight of the occasional
raven. We don’t put out much garbage from
Wait-A-Bit, but I suppose it’s enough to keep
three ravens alive… Whatever else they eat
to stay alive, I cannot imagine. In this vast white
landscape, suddenly this flying flash of black!
It’s surprising.
Those ravens, they don’t have much in the way of camouflage.
In the few summer months, they have it
easy… and they like to fly and hoot and honk over
a herd of caribou… And the strange sounds the
birds make, they’ll spook the herd and make
the whole herd run across the grasses. One
mischievous bird – and there goes the whole herd.

The air is sharp and pure. It
bites into the back of my throat, as I breathe
it on the wind – great, lonely restless wind…
wind that knows the whole continent, covers it, swirls over, fresh and clean, then blasts down the
valleys, across the plains into the red eye
of the setting sun.
Always the feel of distance, always
the sense of interminable distances, the
vastness, the sense of massively long unending
trails, trails that no one has walked entirely.
Miles rolling endlessly on, the white blank snow-blind vastnesses…the travelling
wind blowing on over incalculable wastes,
rolling on and going forever.

I keep trying to describe it in my
notebook, but I always fail. I came close once
a poem.

There’s a strange economy up
here… Now that Hank’s gone east with the
bulldozer to find an Elk and drag it back…
Good luck with that!
A bit of coffee. A good chunk of salted
moose steak,,, a frozen stew of I don’t
know what… a pile of turnips, taters…
No cheese. A small pinch of tobacco.
And the cold howling wind outside.
…Time to kill something.
Hank has the right
idea…But he’ll likely scare everything
alive away from him for about five miles
in all directions.
I better walk after him and tell him…Before he gets stuck… Awww shit! It’s cold as fuck,
and my socks are wet… I don’t dare
take my boots off.

Nothing like walking thru frozen
muskeg with wet feet… after a dumb friend
rides a bulldozer into oblivion. Ain’t
no fucking elk out east just now, they’ve all turned
south. And this madman is wasting diesel.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him
there is nothing out here.
About the only meat we can nab just
now is porcupine, dog or weasel.
And you better be standing right beside
whatever you kill. Shoot a weasel,
the weasels’ll devour him in about 17
seconds…shoot a dog, the dogs’ll eat
him faster than they can catch a turd,
flung from an asshole in a north wind.

Finally I catch Hank, cause he got
stuck on a hillock growing out of a frozen
pool… I want to shoot him. My pant legs
are both stiff, my feet are froze beyond
all feeling.
And I have to get this idiot
home and take something out of the vast
freezer outside, and cook it up.
Thaw then cook, so we’ll have something to eat for



We have two new residents of Wait-A-Bit!
They skidded in last night, pulling a sled
that seemed to have lumber on it. Looked to be
a preacher and a stripper.
They’re gonna build a house – two stories!
It’ll be the tallest building in town! The preacher-
guy wants to be a writer…and the stripper wants
to help Artie with the bar.
(Oh, she can help Artie, all right!) I buy them a drink at Artie’s.
He says,”Well, I was a writer before. But I wrote only porn stories. Started a glossy
magazine, made some money. That’s how I
bought that lumber on the sled… selling dirty
“Good for you,” I say, “It’s good
to hear a success story every once in a while.
Something other than death, savagery, muskeg
drownings and a Skidoo going thru the ice.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Bernie, the preacher says.
Then he leans in closer to me and says:
“I left some pretty wild erotica under my bed,
last time I lived here…”
“Aha!” I say. “Yeah, I know who’s got it. Hank, my roomate’s been pawing through the pages all through this winter. Not sure what shape
the pages will be in… Hank’s been developing
a strong right wrist reading them. He reads them
with a magnifying glass.”
The two left the bar.

Yes, I thought I recognized the preacher . . He’d been here before. He lived in Wait-A-Bit some years back.
He kept pretty much to himself. With what Hank found
under the preacher’s mattress, I understand why
the preacher had been a solitary man.

Posted by William Milne at 4:51 AM No comments:
Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to FacebookShare to Pinterest
Links to this post
Saturday, November 22, 2014

Woke up this morning; I slipped my head
thru the tarp, looked at the sky, saw a bright full
moon in the early morning sky, even though it
wasn’t dark any more. It was part of that unending
twilight you get north of the sixtieth parallel
The dogs had quit their howling
some hours before. I don’t even hear the
dogs howl anymore. It’s a usual sound,
a background chorus that I’m used to in
the night.
It’s when the dogs stop howling
that I wake up suddenly. Too much
quiet, that’s a bad thing in the endless dawn.
Sudden silence, that’s a bad thing in the Arctic,
especially at night. It usually means something’s killing
something… like a wolf and a big bird…
after the initial squawk, there’s not much
sound…. ‘cept the wolf’s jaws crunching through

Tonight, this A.M…there’s no sound at all… except
some laughing… Artie’s bar is open
for business…4:42 A.M. Being attacked
from behind by an amorous weasel
has done wonders for Artie’s reliability.
Now Artie never goes outside,
Unless he hears two or three people
together talking outside his bar…
Artie doesn’t go outside at all.

I walked across the Main Lane
between my (Frank and Hank’s) bunker
and Artie’s Semi-Subterranean Bar and Grill.
I stepped into the eternal darkness
of Artie’s bar. From the perspective of the
floor, all you see is the dark.
If you can manage to get your
chin up above bar level, the room brightens
considerably, soon as you lay your chin
on the bar.
“Things look more
hopeful and bright, as soon as you get up
off your knees,” Aunt Bernie used to say.
She and he sister would give each
other significant looks and laugh.
When I was eight, I had
no idea what they meant… Now I have
some thoughts on the matter… in fact I’m damn
sure they were trading dirty jokes

Anyway, there are candles
on top of the bar so you can see when you
stand up like a man and sit on one of them tall

“She was saying the worst stuff
about me…” Artie said. “I could tell
she meant what she was saying. But
her comments had no application
to me whatsoever!”
“Were you being defensive?”
Bert asked.
“She thought I was. But
what she was saying was so odd, it
might have been coming from outer space.
I’d just look at her and blink and say,

” No! You’re way out in left field!..YOU’RE OUT OF YOUR MIND!” said Artie. Didn’t seem to have much
of an impression on her.

“In order to be defensive you have to have at least
some glimmer of understanding as to what’s
being said,” Artie said. “She was coming across like
a crazy loon, or those Canada Geese that keep trying
to bite your toe in the park……..Remember?”
“I remember,” Bert said.
“It’s hard to forget! When one of those fuckers
wake you up that way! You hear the sound of
beating wings in your dream….Then a sharp
pain in the big toe of your foot! It’s
a damn rude awakening!”says Artie.
The two of them were spending the summer
in the sunny south – Edmonton. Ha! Ha!Sleeping in the public park over by that huge mall.
“All of a sudden you had a gun in your hand
and you were firing at that goose! The goose was shaking
his head back and forth, your toe in its mouth…By the looks of things, he was trying to bite it clean off!”
Bert said.
“I was trying to shoot the fucker right between
the eyes. It wasn’t easy. That goose was quick!”
Artie said.
” Yeah, and with that cop on horseback
right behind you, whacking at you with his billy
club!” Bert said.
“It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever
seen!”… The three of you at the same time!”
All working madly at different things!”Bertie said.

“You were rolling in the grass,
you were laughing so hard,” Artie says.
“Yes, I was!” says Bert,
“I sure was. I couldn’t stop.”
“We spent that night in jail.”
said Artie.
“Yeah we did. More comfortable than
a park bench,” said Bert.
“Yes, it was,” said Artie.
“Sure was,” said Bert.

There was silence at the bar. I didn’t say a word. I was too busy watching these two fools. Silently
considering things

Posted by William Milne at 6:29 AM No comments:
Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to FacebookShare to Pinterest
Links to this post
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
(Some of this article has been already published under a different name.)


I’m sitting here here bare-assed, reading a book
which a poet pal of mine wrote just before he died. “The Last Night of the Earth Poems.” Charles is dead and the sky is grey as wet slate… And the weather will not change
or improve. The winter solstice is months away,
and that’s no relief. What relief is there on
the darkest day of the year? Even if it’s supposedly
a holy day?
I tried to get the prick up here from L.A.
to Toronto to read some stories and poems., and just
to see him and go on a 2 night bender (… like the old days only no arrests this time).
So what did he want for doing the show? I was intending to book the St Lawrence Town Hall, downtown Toronto… a huge classy room for his direct, well-crafted words.
He wanted $30,000.00., two hookers
and an ounce of blow. The blow was easy to find in those days. So were the hookers…. but 30 grand? Up front? I just couldn’t see it. Not that Bukowski wasn’t worth it… We probably could have made good cash in San Francisco,
In those days I moved around. I travelled.
Now? Not so much. With winter coming it’s worse…All year long now I’m getting the bunker mentality,

My German former wife said to me, “In Europe we do not smile unless there is a reason to smile. Americans and Canadians smile all the time.”

Frank: “We’re trying to be pleasant.”
Astrid: “Why?”
Frank: “So we don’t beat the shit out of each other… wh which is what we really want to do.”
Astrid: “I heard Canada is a peace-keeping nation.”
Frank: “Yes, but there are a whole lot of Scots here also.
And Irish. English. German and Jamaican and
Portuguese…. Spanish….Not to mention the host that is the native population. My friends who called me last night say they like to be called Indians. None of us are always peaceful. How dull it would it be if we were!
At least many of the native peoples have no problem drinking with me or going into the bush with me for weeks on end, without getting the ‘heebie-jeebies’ like that preacher did after his first thirty insect bites.
Joe Bebonning said to the preacher: “You brought your Bible? I hope you brought your holy water, too!”
Just before we headed north in three canoes towards a long portage & a ten mile paddle across Bear Lake and up a two mile river. The river is full of fish and flows past a 300 acre bay with nothing but twisted tree roots appearing above water level. That bay is disturbing during the day,and frightening after midnight in the dark in the middle of a thunderstorm walking waist deep in the water…. But that’s another tale for another time.
In the evening you hear ceaseless calls of the loons and the mad whine and buzz of flies This was in July. And we all know July is fly season.
During the first night the preacher freaked right out! He was making the call of the loon himself, many hours before sunrise. We had to paddle him out the next day. He had “gone bugs”.
It’s a condition rather like the D.Ts. Only in the preacher’s case, bugs really were crawling on him.

(Note: For those of you who have not yet experienced the D.T.s, spend a month with us
north of 60…. Spend a winter month with the gang in WAIT-A-BIT! and we will remedy this gap in your education. In Wait-a-Bit you’ll have the chance to experience the D.T.s AND flies crawling all over you at the same time!)

The wind is blasting the front of this place, like it’s supposed to do this time of the year. The wind moans, howls, whines, screams and whispers.
Sometimes when the wind whispers, I think
it’s somebody else talking to me.

Fade to WAIT-A-BIT! (The wind is howling here, too)
Interior: Hank and Frank’s Bunker

Hank: Even without the wind I sometimes think … That someone else is talking to me…Maybe what I hear is telepathy from a distant land…

Frank: Yeah, you’re hearing voices from a distant land, all right! I can tell!”

Hank: Bullshit! How can you tell?

Frank: You’ve been mumbling all night long recently…saying one thing with one voice & answering back with a different voice.
Some people might find your weird conversations with yourself disturbing… Deep in the heart of the Arctic night… two voices coming from one man sleeping, well,
it’s given me some chills.
Also, you’ve been doing improper things with
your right hand far too often. It’s hard to rest with all this activity going on just 20 feet way from me in the dark.

INTERIOR Author’s Lair:
“All rumours and ideas and expectations are worth nothing. Only the ugly truth persists in the present…. I’m naked and I’m fat. And I have no beer.”

I’m sitting in one hell of a draft, too,

People call me on the telephone and ask me questions. I don’t answer them. I don’t speak to them. I don’t want to have a conversation with anyone at all.
Too many words have been said. Too many
phony smiles smiled, too many smiling gleaming teeth.
I’m in a bunker here.
I have work to do. And I don’t need advice or questions from a single soul.
This job is not easy. I have fifteen unpublished manuscripts here, wafting in the tobacco breeze… which I trip over and so confuse the order of the pages.
Some of these manuscripts are good. Some are exceptional. Some are brilliant. Some are works of sheer
genius. (Author’s opinion, not shared by Editor 666)
Two of these manuscripts have been published
and not the best ones, either.

I’m in the bunker now. And it’s bunker mentality.
I’m the boss. Of course I am! I’m the only one here.

I don’t want fame. Get famous and people
follow you around the streets – and I’m way too paranoid
for that. I almost knocked out a guy who was staring at me
across a restaurant. So I walked over and stood by his
I said: “You got a problem?”
He said: “No, no, no. Not at all. I love
some of your songs. I just wanted you to sign my
Fame’s a pain in the ass and I had a
taste of it only for a year or so. It’s not for me. And fortune?
I suppose that’s OK…. if you can learn to
keep your mouth shut…. Otherwise you’ll
be the clown who’s leading the parade.
Posted by William Milne at 2:43 AM No comments:
Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to FacebookShare to Pinterest
Links to this post
Thursday, October 16, 2014


A priest and a stripper showed up and
took over the foxhole of a couple who
went east on a little dogsled jaunt. But these two
left town before long also, once they heard the abbreviated
history of the town. I mean, the explosions that started
a new way of life for us all – once they understood
the size of the explosions…
The stripper said: “I don’t expect much from
Municipal Council. Especially up here where no one really
has a lot of time for much government… I just want to live
in a quiet spot. Not a place that might explode at any
moment. Screw this!”
So they howled off east with sixteen dogs
pulling them through the incipient snow.

I asked Bertie, from the northern
quadrant of this here foxhole village – this means he
lives two hundred yards north of me – I asked him,
“Why’d you sell all them dogs. I noticed some of
your favourites taking off across the barrens,
when the last two tourists left… (the only
tourists we’d seen in 3 years)
“Yeah, well, I got drunk about a month ago
and killed one of the dogs. I cooked and ate her
outside, the mother of about eleven of the dogs.
I was starved! So there I was eating and
drinking shine on my favourite stump… when I
noticed I was getting a fish-eyed stare from one of
the big male huskies.
“You notice how their eyes seem to go
yellow when they’re filled with hate or hungry
and they’re just about to attack you.”
“Sure, Bertie. I’ve noticed that
quite a bit around you… I’ve noticed how
your dogs start to stalk you, once they’ve known
you for a while…. What do you do? Do you beat ’em?”
“Yeah, but not hard… No broken bones. Hell,
everybody beats their dogs up here! You know that!”
Bertie said.
“Oh yeah, sure I know”, Frank says. “But
I hear you feed ’em hot peppers in the seal meat…”
“Yeah sure,” Bertie said, “But only before
a two-day run… Perks ’em up quite a bit.”
“Ever since you started doing that, Bertie,
I gotta be honest, I’ve noticed the dogs look at you
differently… and eating their mother right in front
of them, that’s the sort of thing that’ll give
man or beast a jaundiced eye,” Frank said,
“That is, if you think the dogs have a
“Oh, they have a memory all right!” Bertie
said, “And maybe I shouldn’t have made mits
and boots out of their mother’s fur. The dogs wouldn’t
look at me after that… even when I’d go to feed
“Interesting,” Frank says.
“Yeah, and when I caught ’em staring at me,
when the dogs thought I wasn’t paying attention…
I’d look up suddenly and see I was getting the
old hateful yellow eye from four or five of them at once.
They were almost growling and creeping closer.”
“So that’s why you sold your dogs,” Frank said.
Bertie said: “Yep. That’s why I sold them.”


Posted by William Milne at 3:34 AM No comments:
Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to FacebookShare to Pinterest
Links to this post
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Posted by William Milne at 4:32 AM No comments:
Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to FacebookShare to Pinterest
Links to this post

My last story/article based in the WAIT-A-BIT!
community, I’m told, was kinda gross. “With very
little redeeming value…”
Yeah, well, that might be true… but if
there are a few laughs in the piece,or a few bits
that make you smile… that’s the redeeming value,
as far as I’m concerned.

In the recent past, this community
of wild men and women, had been so stunned by a bomb blast that no one can remember the name of
the old town we used to live in…when the town still had brick buildings in it…

There are no longer any brick buildings So far as any of us know, the village now has 16 people in it. Some people live in foxholes just below the surface.There are some women who live a full tier below the surface bunkers, I am told, so it seems there are another 8 to 15 more villagers… too distrustful to ever venture up towards the surface.
With the summer flies and the almost unrelenting ice, not many of us enjoy
much surface time… Though there is the ever-rolling river down the hill, and three canoes
… two you can paddle…. only one that is reliable
over any distance…
I took a ninety mile canoe trip. I did it once. Artie and I made it to a village south of
Inuvik, where we ate great autumn food and moose steaks. Then we got drunk and I seem to remember having sex with a strong gal on top of me. I lost all my socks ( six pairs) and Artie
lost his wallet…mostly for the pictures in it.
But I paddled away south of there
wearing beaded leather pants
a lovely woman gave
to me.
This was when I had just arrived
in the Arctic, and I wasn’t used to
women being quiet. She didn’t say more than
ten words in three days, and I wasn’t mature
enough in the ways of the North to realize
that this was a sign of love, respect and
exceptionally good breeding.
Me, I talked too much
most of the time, I suppose. But never
once did I hear a word of recrimination.

We live in cities and we think we know all there is to know. That visit deeper into the north
was my first learning experience. It was the
first time I realized I knew nothing at all.

We made it down to WAIT-A-BIT!
8 days later… And going south, we were paddling
We paddled south into a glorious
crimson, orange and pink sunset
such as I never believed possible.
There are moments or Grace
and communion with the landscape up
here… It’s difficult to write about such
moments, because these moments are born
out of times when the harsh living world
is kind to us. It is inevitable that such
moments are lived in solitude
and silence, utter silence when
the Spirit of the Great One speaks.

(C)2014 by W.G.Milne
Posted by William Milne at 4:30 AM No comments:
Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to FacebookShare to Pinterest
Links to this post




A priest and a stripper showed up and
took over the foxhole of a couple who
took off east on a little dogsled jaunt.
These were the “doers” and the “thinkers”
of the town. Their dogsled trip would be 3600 miles
across the Arctic to Hudson’s Bay…No one could agree on the exact mileage of the trip.
No one could agree on the mileage
because the trip had never been done before,
not in the last three thousand years, anyway.
The only person in recent memory
who might have been crazy to try it was the Mad Trapper of Rat River, when the cops were after him.
(the RCMP redcoats, it’s said they always get their man… and maybe you can still say it…
because nobody can agree whether the Mad Trapper WAS a man. A man or a beast, that is.)

I see on a piece of municipal paper
that the population of the town was once 146.
Now it’s 16. I can see these numbers on a piece of Town Hall paper, along with a picture of the town hall (R.I.P.)

Anything over a 3000 mile trip is considered a long jaunt in the Arctic Winter. Of course,the same distance would be a murderous pilgrimage in the fly-mad summer. Such a trip would be something
only a madman would try.
So only a few of my neighbours would
think of such an endeavour.
(One of them is sleeping right across the
bunker from me)
Hank’s been thinking of dashing
east… thought about it all through last winter,
when he was digging that tunnel towards the east.
But the sun is shining and I can almost see
its glow through the triple screens. Why bring
up painful memories such as Hank’s
Yes, I’m sitting here on an old wooden
chair having a smoke, gazing at the noonday
sun through the “twilight screening”. The
triple screens will turn even the brightest
sun into a romantic twilight. Think
of a candlelight dinner with someone who
appeals to you.
I used to dream of moments like this
when I was locked up in those overcrowded
jails to the south.
I went from being a jailbird in the
south – to mayor of a northern town. That’s
why they call the north, “the land of opportunity.”
Because anything can happen, and often does.
Most remaining population of at least
160 people took off after the BOOM!
Two 2000 pound bombs (no one can agree on how many pounds, not that it matters)
shot off in cruise missiles…
Because the pilot
got drunk in Normal Wells and flew off in a rage
right upriver. He was determined to kill our bartender, Artie.
Artie had been having sex
behind the bar with flyboy’s sweetheart.
Drink was involved, I must say this.
But the story that the flyboy heard was Artie was
habitually and regularly screwing the pilot’s
sitting at the bar.
I don’t mean to defend the flyboy, but stories like this…
tales of weird cuckoldry and hooting mockery… such stories can twist the mind of a poor twenty-three year pilot, living in utter isolation as he was.
In those days if you went to a dance
in Norman Wells, there were not any woman at the dance (well, maybe three). And 173 men working on the oil barges, trappers, fugitives and madmen of all variety.

‘With some of these guys, just look in his eyes,
you’ll see the GREAT BEYOND!’

There were also some Canadian air force people at
this one dance, when flyboy got his bright idea to

All the rubble of the town on the
eastern edge of the northern Mackenzie River
was blown north of where the town had been…
so we who were left in the village —
at least we had a place to dig! Twenty
feet deep rubble with re-bar included
and chunks of cement that would fit
in the hand of yer local Sasquatch
huge mad trapper men.
(These types who have never
yet been heard to speak an articulate word)

Where am I going with this?

I have no idea… I meant to talk
about another topic entirely.

Posted by William Milne at 4:04 AM No comments:
Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to FacebookShare to Pinterest
Links to this post
Older Posts Home
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)
Blog Archive

▼ 2015 (1)
▼ January (1)

► 2014 (11)

► 2013 (20)

About Me
My Photo

William Milne
As years go by, there are more and more things I find not to do. Silence is becoming essential, and loud music
Born in North Bay, Ontario, I grew up in Jamaica, West Indies, in the Parish of St. Anne Now back up north, spend time in hut on cliff top, paddling a light canoe, when available

After a few years of enforced restraint, ha! Ha! I’m going to do some singing on stage again, name – John Rock and the Angels put out a CD called, “It;s So Serious!” Have to re-master. Now doing CD “Wild Kingdom – A Johnny Rock Retrospective” (double disc)

I’m starting to work on the internet; I’m slowly figuring things out. Will release some stories… and eventually songs.

Check out my blog at zappadat.blogspot. com,
” Roving Reporter Rants” Nag Hammadi Gospels, Books – “Lovers, Fiends and Remembrances”, “Tales of the Roving Reporter” Humor when possible.

“I hope my angel will not come a fiend, as fiends so often rise in love affairs.” William Shakepeare

web page at
which I need to develop along with Walker Ballantine’s Facebook Timeline.

“The definition of madness is loss of a sense of humour.” Hunter S. Thompson (God bless him!”)

View my complete profile

3 thoughts on “THE RAVIN’ TIMES OF WAIT-A-BIT!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s