Excerpts from BRIEF LIVES: Fictions by Keith Hazzard
[forthcoming from Exile Editions, December 2024]
Brief Lives: Fictions will be available for pre-order from Exile Editions in December 2024. Ian Colford has reviewed it here:
Selected Excerpts From Brief Lives
MIDNATTSSOL
   When Per Olsen, communications consultant, started the drive to Tromsø, for the hundredth time the drive to Tromsø, the irremissible light was level in his eyes and he was ready to marry Tiril Sandvik, ready to tell her so, as often as she needed. Tiril, tall, graceful, taught children to sit still. To raise their one hand. To cry and forget about it. She was a good person otherwise. Although unfaithful. Per was eleven years older. Tiril thought him a patient man, of deep understanding.
    Crouched in the ancient darkness of his grandfather’s barn Per once watched a kitten investigate a rat trap — it was something like that he felt on a straight stretch of road, halfway to Tromsø. It was midnight, it was morning, the same sun. The horizon was low. The light seemed to force it down. And melt the bones of his face. Per stopped. He had always feared the wrong things. Now he didn’t have to. He got out and helped the young man as gently as he could into the ditch and retrieved the bicycle and dropped it over and stood in the road and let the sky interrogate him.
    There was no real damage to the car. But he would buy Tiril a new bed. He would find some weakness in her and praise it. They would live more happily than many. Per got in, raised a hand to shield himself, and drove on.
WHEN I FELL FOR YOU
   Kim Mack’s last date wore a ball cap, indoors, for the glare. The one before was unpardonably grateful. She will be forty-eight in February. She’s lost some weight.
    The husband, a life ago, had a heart attack on the highway. It’s her duty to say it, Hugh sees that plainly. Kim describes the dark time, her emergence. She hears her false notes. She is a strong woman, Hugh says. They order more wine.
    Hugh Overton’s wife left him for his cousin, second cousin, but still. He was angry all the time, and then, just like that, he wasn’t. He’s fifty, he says, a strange number to wake up to.
    Hugh wears his clothes well. They seem to float. And Kim likes his house. It’s set back from the road, a few trees. She has never been with a bald man.
    They go biking, play some tennis, have sex in the car, like teenagers. Kim bakes a vegetarian lasagna, Hugh is proud of his omelets. They visit Hugh’s father, who is very deaf, who takes Kim’s hands in his, whose ancient skin is a soft black leather. He says his son has done well, with his lovely wife.Â
    Hugh’s not a good swimmer, Kim is, they splash about in Burnt Head Lake. It’s a place they like, discovered together, in these spacious days. Time rushes toward them, not away. Hugh stands on a sand bar. The water laps his chest. Everything is easy, everything fits. Kim dives between his legs, surfaces behind him, hangs her arms around his neck. The hot sky forgives, the hot sky forgets.
    They could fall asleep like this. They could drift. They could vanish. They could wake up and find themselves lost, naked and abashed — in a year, years, in a scramble of months, some unbearable morning, whenever the blithe serpent of days might turn and betray them. They know this, of course they do. Kim kisses Hugh’s back. Hugh shifts his feet and lifts her a little higher.
ACTOR
My character is tired of blame, but there it is, beating his eardrums. I will squint into a constant sun.
My character has not learned from his mistakes because he loves his mistakes and no one learns anything from love. When I look at my hands I know they belong to someone else.
My character is selfish and more intelligent than me. Every third line, or fifth line, must be whispered.
My character stands in doorways as if he owns their emptiness. My smile swallows the camera.
In the party scene my character is naked while clothed. We are all zoo animals.
In the sauna scene my character is clothed while naked. I will pretend I am being interviewed.
My character is dying and no one believes him. I drop my wallet, I drop my keys, I drop my watch, only then do I collapse.
My character feels darkness touch his face. Just like Dad.
THE ABIDING SEA
    Linda’s father believes she could have left Ross, without a glance, but never the tall view from the verandah, the unlimited light always striking some part of their house.
    Linda’s sister believes a clear day will come, from a direction unseen, and erase all the false ones piling up.
    Linda’s mother believes every lawless thing she thinks of, then drops to her knees in the vegetable garden and begs God to stop tormenting her.
    Ross has no beliefs at all. He drives to the firm, reviews contracts, reviews breaches, and drives home. The garage door stays broken. None of his clothes fit. He hates looking at the sea.
    It has been six weeks.
    Linda’s friend, Arlene, pays Ross a visit. He doesn’t let her in. She calls Linda’s sister. They meet and are helpless together.
    Linda’s mother can’t find a clean corner, can’t stand the radio, fears the scorn in sunlight slamming off the sea.
    Linda’s father goes for walks on the beach — he didn’t before. Or quarrel with his wife. Or split wood to exhaust himself. Or own a night-view rifle scope.
    Security lights bang on and off.
    Linda’s father parks his car on the Shore Road and slides down the bank. Wind from the sea throws sand in his face. There will be, he concedes, another storm. But he will be the eye of it.
THE ENEMY KNOWS THE SYSTEM
    Lloyd Powers, actuary, asphyxiophilist, diabetic, relaxed the red scarves and began his retreat from the day by counting the flies — thirty-eight alive— in the monkey palm, then pouring more bleach down the drains. It was probably November.
    Lloyd has lived with himself for a long time and is prepared to continue. His supplies are adequate. He is not wasting away. He keeps dry clothes in every room. These are furnished rooms and Lloyd can defend them. He is sharp of mind. At any moment the full force of his attention can be turned to a single ramifying crack in the plaster. Or he can lie on the floor right now and separate this instant from that instant and take his sweet time not putting them back.
    Lloyd has timed the startle reflex of rodents. Lloyd has seen the seven stars fall from the sky. The end of the world has come, come and gone. The sky is still there. Lloyd is still here.    Â
    Salvation is not for everyone.
About the Author
Keith Hazzard writes stories, poems, and plays. As Jesus Hardwell, he published Easy Living, a collection of short stories, with Exile Editions in 2011. The title story from that book appeared in EXILE Quarterly and was included in that year’s Journey Prize Anthology; another of its stories won a Silver National Magazine Award. Keith’s plays have been produced in Saint John, Guelph, and Kitchener. He lives in Guelph, Ontario.