works of wanderlust

Category: poetry & prose

  • melt

    thin films of water
    painting asphalt
    with spring sounds
    klooksh! kloompsh! klunsh!
    me treading carefully
    across
    around
    astride
    black reflections on the ground
    and remnants of winter
    crunching underfoot
    glinsch! grensch! glansch!
    grit
    stones
    pebbles
    traction against icy slickness
    sweesse! schweesh! swaasse!
    that linger in shade
    cast by naked limbs
    leafless
    thawing
    melting
    into puddles
    becoming wet toes

    - bardo

    I have reserved some space on this blog each week to be creative, and to post some fiction, poetry, art or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.

  • Embarrassing & Stupid

    (serialized fiction)

    The video faded to credits and I pulled the lid of the computer closed with that familiar magnetic click. My arm hurt. I let the aluminum rectangle slide to my left side where it caught between a fold in the blanket and my hip. I leaned back into the pillow and I’m sure an involuntary groan escaped through my lips.

    “That looked interesting.” A nurse stepped into the room leading a wheeled cart of vials and medical implements in front of her. Her nametag read Gail. I could only see her now-familiar eyes which scream pity and the pink medical mask covering her mouth and nose buckled ever so slightly in sync with her lips as she spoke. “Was it you?”

    “In the video?”

    “Yeah?”

    “Nah. It’s just some guy —” I shrugged weakly. The medication had dialed the sharp pain back to merely a dull ache. That ache was the various muscles in my back and neck waving a white flag. “— a channel I’ve been watching lately.”

    “I need to take some more blood, okay?” Gail moved my laptop to the bedside table, careful to untangle the power cord from the safety rail. She prodded the space on the hospital bed beside me smoothing the blankets into a makeshift workspace for her collection of vials and labels she would need in a moment. Then, she took my arm with her hand and lightly touched around the intravenous tube with practiced fingers. She asked. “So — you’re an athlete right?”

    “I guess. I run.” I replied but I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and think of my accident then correct myself. “I mean — I used to run.”

    “I run, too.” The fabric of her mask implied she smiled, and with a nod she added. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you back out there.”

    Neither of us said anything as she peeled printed sticker labels from a tear-off sheet and applied them to a small collection of glass tubes, the soft clicking noises filling the silence in the air.

    “I do envy some of the people in those videos though.” She said finally as I watched her start to fill the vials one at a time with dark, red liquid draining from the tube in my arm. “You know — they’re out there doing it — right? Really living.”

    “I tried that — “ I shrugged even while realizing I was only stoking the fires of her pity for me. Not a good look. “See where really living got me?”

    Her eyes finally met mine. “You going to let a little tree branch swatting you in the arm stop you, then?” And when I looked away sheepishly and didn’t reply she continued. “I haven’t told anyone this — so if you tell Sasha out there I won’t be so gentle with your blood draw tomorrow —“ she winked. “— but last week I was out for my run and a wasp flew into the front of my shirt. She managed to wriggle under my bra and stung me good and hard — right here.” She tapped her chest over her heart at the top of her right breast.

    I smiled, weakly.

    “Not funny.” Her eyes flashed a fake scolding glare. “It hurt like hell — and I had an itchy welt there for three days.”

    “And you got right back out there?” I teased. “Is that my lesson for today?”

    Gale dropped the vials of blood gently into a pink plastic basket on her cart. “No lesson.” She shrugged. “I’m just saying that nature has it out for all of us — and there are plenty more boring ways to earn a scar than having a tree fall on your head.”

    “Boring, no. Try embarrassing.” I corrected. “Or maybe just stupid.”

    (cracking woods - part 02)

    Gaige Gildon is a fictional trail runner who lives and trains in Edmonton. After a trail accident, he quit his tech job in 2019 to focus on his recovery and his passion for outdoor adventure. In 2021 he partnered with The Cast Iron Guy blog to write and post about his upcoming pan-Canadian multi-sport trip.

  • iced windows

    cold draft, I shiver
    and firm up my will
    sunrise view obscured
    through ice on the sill

    sub-thirty degrees
    beyond two glass panes
    breach fortress of warmth
    amid frosted plains

    one finger to glass
    turns frost into tears
    releasing brief drops
    from chill winters fears

    raw radiant chill
    bracing, brisk and bold
    I draw shut the blinds
    and hide from the cold

    - bardo

    It has been thirty degrees below zero for three nights in a row, meaning that as even as we shut up the house each night and snuggle into the warmth of our beds, the chill creeps through the cracks and turns the windows into sheets of frost.

    I have reserved some space on this blog each week to be creative, and to post some fiction, poetry, art or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.

  • squall

    Inverted silhouettes of trees in the fog.

    as the door clicked shut
    my headlamp broadcast a stark beam
    slicing a path through the winter dark

    as I took my first steps
    my watch reached skyward for a signal
    tracking my pace across the icy walks

    as I started to run
    my face caught the sudden rush of wind
    sensing the winter air stirring ahead in the park

    as I felt the sleet
    my skin braced to the bluster crescendo
    wincing at sudden needles of assaulting ice

    as I turned back
    my heart sunk at the lost moment
    pondering my fortunes timing for not departing earlier

    - bardo

    I set out at about 730pm last night for a short evening run. From the time I shut the door to the time I warmed up my watch and started running, a rare winter storm, a blustery squall, had descended upon us and the still evening streets turned to sleet-pelted wind tunnels ... all without warning. It was all I could do to retreat back to the house as I was hammered with sleet.

    I have reserved some space on this blog each week to write some fiction, poetry, or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.

  • Cracking Woods

    (serialized fiction)

    My watch had just chirped marking thirty minutes into my run, so it must have been about half past six in the morning.

    A gust of wind shoved its way through the wooded ravine. The trees responded in a wave. A roar of a hundred million rustling leaves built in crescendo puncutated by the groans and cracks of old tree limbs straining under the percussive bassline. A tiny bird erupted from the undergrowth and startled me. The waxing dawn light filtered through the stand of trees and lit the trail with an ambiant glow that cast shuddering shadows on the rough and twisting path. I was wearing my red shoes and there was a grape-sized splotch of mud on the left toe.

    These are my memories.

    The mind is funny and selective about the things it recalls.

    In fact, I felt the punch of the branch hitting my shoulder and back even before my mind registered the noise of the nearby cracking wood.

    Does sound actually travel faster than shattered chunks of wood, or did my mind prioritize the events of that moment?

    I tasted the acid bite of mud mixed with my own blood simultaneously to understanding that I was face down on the narrow path.

    The moments after that were even more ethereal. These memories of those fleeting seconds before I lost consciousness were a mix of curiosity and frustration. The gust of wind had passed. The trees were creaking as they swayed with residual momentum. My arm seemed to be nailed to the ground by a splintered piece of tree. And I couldn’t seem to reach up to pause the tracker on my GPS watch. The last thing I remember was thinking that the pace on this morning’s run was going to be shit.

    (cracking woods - part 01)

    Gaige Gildon is a fictional trail runner who lives and trains in Edmonton. After a trail accident, he quit his tech job in 2019 to focus on his recovery and his passion for outdoor adventure. In 2021 he partnered with The Cast Iron Guy blog to write and post about his upcoming pan-Canadian multi-sport trip.