thomastellstales

Des hommes pâles gardent le port aujourd’hui. Ils sont toujours en rang et habillés du même costume bleu naval et coquille d’oeuf blanc. Les étrangers se tiennent si droits que je ne serais pas surpris s’ils avaient tous un long bâton dans leur corps de la tête aux pieds. Leurs fusils atteignent leurs yeux et plus loin devant leurs chapeaux bleus navaux encore et emballés de rouge grâce à leurs baïonnettes. Un régiment parmi l’armée porte des instruments: selon un livre que j’ai acheté d’un des marchands blancs, il y a des trompettes, des cors français, des trombones et des gros tambours tapés doucement par des joueurs impatients. Les autres locaux ne comprennent pas leurs coutumes :  - Sont-ils des machines ? ils me demandent.  - Ça dépend de votre définition, je leur réponds de même, encore et encore et encore. Les arguments ne me plaisent pas. Si je réponds « oui » et les étrangers gagnent connaissance de ma réponse, ils vont probablement me massacrer, soi...

On an empty dance floor in a grand foyer, on a floating resort drifting across the Caribbean, they’re dancing to every song, hand in hand, hip to hip, cheek to cheek, two dancing queens, barely seventy. They’re in Hawaiian shirts that match by pattern: one in green, one in red, mixing into a charming Christmas blend and paired with dress pants and black shined shoes so chic they almost convince you they’re in full tuxedos. One’s bald like an egg, the other has a surprising amount of greyish white hair, the two seemingly sharing one young head of hair between them yet ripping up the dance floor like they’re still in their twenties. The two old-timers drift and slide across the marble flooring, their reflections below them lit up by the overhead chandeliers coating the hall with a yellow haze. Their smiles are as wide as Louis Armstrong’s, grinning across their wrinkled faces with their united eyes.  A quiet boy sitting in an upholstered chair looks over at them from the third storey...

On a sunny late afternoon takeout run, my dad took a shortcut to The Burger’s Priest. We drove through some neighbourhood streets and he took a wrong turn, landing us in front of a strange-looking accounting firm nestled in the corner of a small parking lot. “Papa, didn’t that used to be a restaurant?” I asked, pointing from the passenger seat, “It was. I think it closed ‘cause of COVID,” He said, focusing on his three-point turn. “I always wanted to go there,” I mumbled, looking at the firm through the back window as it shrank away in the distance. “The food was pretty good for a while. They cheaped out ten years ago and… it just wasn’t the same.” “You’ve been there?” “Yeah, me and Maman went there when we moved into the house. We went out with the Rosenbaums.” “You guys went out with the Rosenbaums? When?” “Yeah, we started eating out with them before Julie was born. Around… two thousand and two? They came over and introduced themselves while we still had the moving...

He better still like White Russians, Eva thought, standing at the front door, eyes aimed at him . Maman kissed Aunt Janice on each cheek, Papa shook hands with Grandpapa, and Oncle Marc patted his back in an impersonal side hug. Eva repeated her parents’ moves, then tried to walk around him . “Eva!” Maman scream-whispered through gritted teeth, then tilted her head in his direction. Eyes glued to the floor, she quickly shook hands with a sloppy grip and slipped by him into the short, narrow hallway that connected the entrance and kitchen to the living room. Eva was then greeted by the rest of the family; Tante Christine kissed her on both cheeks, Grandpapa’s quasi-girlfriend Eve gave her a hug, and Paul (no one bothered to call him uncle) fist bumped her. She scuttered off to the couch on the other side of the room, where all the cousins were. Christopher, Sarah, and Isla waved while Maya surprisingly said hi. Eva went and sat next to her on the arm of the old Chesterfield. He...