FathomOnline

 

 Fathom 1998

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

J. Lapointe
Colleen Shea (2)
Michelle Banks
Maud Alexandra Arthur
Jacqueline Martin
V. Combden
Mary Kate Arnold
Neil Dauphinee

Prose

Mary Kate Arnold
Michael Catano
Kirt Callahan

[PDF]

Kirt Callahan

 

 

Urban Ahab

Where is the bus? Ou es le bus? Quando est el autobuso? Is that right? Quando est? It sounds right, It never is though. Shto... what the hell is that? Shto auvtoboos? I forget. Russian, French, Spanish, well never took Spanish, but the Russian and the French and the Latin, those are all gone. Just words and phrases are all I have left.
     Bus. What would that be in Latin? Most likely feminine. All vehicles are feminine. Why is that? Boats, cars, planes, they’re all “she.” Why would that be? Probably because we associate transportation with women. There’s a funny image. Romans riding round on their women’s backs. Well, besides the screaming feminist sentiments, there may be some truth to that image. For the first part of our lives a woman carries us round and pushes us in our stroller. Well, I don’t think the Romans had strollers, and I doubt whether the Roman women actually carried their babies anywhere, but someone did. A wet-nurse, a nanny, whatever. So, we associate transportation with some female figure. From the womb to our first steps. Hence, “She was broad and fat and loose in stays, but to catch her took the Antelope two whole days. Goddamn them all.” Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to perceive.
     Here she comes, “Hallelujah, here she comes.” Fucking old bus. The hostility I feel towards that thing. It’s like being swallowed by a whale on a daily basis. Jonah wouldn’t have been so plucky if he had had to go through with that every morning and afternoon. Jonah had the luxury of privacy in his whale. I have to share my voyage with at least fifty people. All of them strangers. Miserable people, too. They all stare at you with these stupid miserable faces when you get on. They’re looking for a friend. That in itself is idiotic. The same people ride the bus at the same time every day. A friend isn’t going to magically appear. They want someone to talk to, I can relate to that. A friend to talk to. “Oh Pip, what larks!” But nobody knows me so they all go back to staring vacantly out these steamy windows as they hurtle towards their stop.

 

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul