Creative Musings

An anthology by the Stittsville Creative Writing Group

Creative Musings 

Copyright © 2017 Members of the Stittsville Creative Writing Group

ISBN 0-88769-018-1 (e-book)

           0-88769-019-X (paper)

   (through Nash Information Services)

Publisher: Stittsville Creative Writing Group

Ottawa Public Library, Stittsville Branch

1637 Stittsville Main St, Ottawa, ON K2S 1A9 

Anthology Committee:

Monika Jain

Melba McGee

John Nash

Technical editor: John Nash

Cover photo: Meridian Partington 

Contents

Dedication  (Susie Loranger) iv 

Preamble (John W Partington) v 

The Authors vi 

Trees/Guard (Julie Band) 1 

Raspberries (Anne-Marie Dallaire-Sarazen)              3 

Ahnee (John W. Egan)              5 

Not me and Not mine (Joan Savoie) 8 

Third time’s the charm (Monika Jain) 10 

Stone (Anne-Marie Dallaire-Sarazen) 13 

My Mailbox Heart (vivien masseau taylor) 15 

The Soul Thief (Allan McCarville) 16 

Cold freezes not … (vivien masseau taylor) 28 

Mouse’s Kitchen (John W Partington) 29 

Vacation from Work (John W Partington) 33 

Bend (Julie Band) 35 

New Beginnings (Janice D. McDonald) 36 

Like chocolate…. (Anne-Marie Dallaire-Sarazen) 38 

Christmas at the Cottage (Elizabeth Taylor) 40 

What’s going on? (Reva Atkinson) 42 

Hallellujah (Patricia Elkins) 44 

Awaken the Dead (Janice D. McDonald) 45 

Amelia (Michele Partridge) 46 

City Park 1:  Pond Thoughts (vivien masseau taylor) 49 

The Story for When the Word of the Week was Big (Hero van Harten) 50 

The Great Barrier (John W Partington) 52 

My Perfect Life (Monika Jain) 53 

Absolution (John W Partington) 56 

The Christmas Elf (Michele Partridge) 59 

July (Dominique Boily) 63 

A Poem For You (Jaxon Horsnell) 64 

Teleflush (John C. Nash) 65 

First sight, Eidetic (vivien masseau taylor) 68 

Dance Etiquette (John C. Nash) 69 

The Encounter (Allan McCarville) 71 

Tables Overturned in the Counting-House (vivien masseau taylor) 79 

4/3 - a Baby Boomer Memoir  (excerpts) (Melba McGee) 80 

Bad Therapy (Susie Loranger) 87 

December: 2016 (Hero van Harten) 89 

Dedication 

to Anne-Marie Dallaire-Sarazen 

Anne-Marie

I liked you from the very first time I met you.

You had a radiant smile that lit up your eyes.

I’m sad I didn’t get to know you better.

I didn’t realize you’d be taken from us so soon.

I know that you fought bravely, this disease that shows no mercy.

Your positivity and energy was something to behold.

You never sought pity, but rather a normalcy in your life.

You were an educator through and through.

You never lost an opportunity to show me something old or something new.

You were always seeking answers, to better yourself and your health.

I wish you could have found a potion that defeated death

Instead I am left wanting more time with you, time I cannot have

Instead I comfort myself knowing you are home with loved ones passed

I must remind myself that now you are free

You are in the wind that blows, the sun that shines, the birds in harmony

I know I will see you again dear friend

I will see that radiant smile that lights up your eyes

An opportunity to get to know you better

©Susie Loranger 

Acknowledgement

The members of the Stittsville Creative Writing Group gratefully acknowledge the support and energy of Ottawa Public Library Stittsville Branch,  the SCWG Coordinators and the Anthology sub-committee.

Preamble

The Stittsville Creative Writing Group is a program administered by the Ottawa Public Library. That’s the legal stuff. Really, we’re a group of people who love to write, listen to the works of others, and come together to share in the experience of creativity and word-smithing.

The group started with one man, John W Egan (author of Angel & Mercy – The Ceasefire War), in the fall of 2012 as he took ownership of a defunct timeslot and failed program. Through leaps and bounds the group grew to the allotted twenty members and a sizable waitlist. When John decided to take ownership four years ago he had no idea what the group would become. In the summer of 2016 John W Egan stepped down as facilitator, but not before he left a strong support system for the next lead.

The Stittsville Creative Writer’s Group is now composed of both hobby and professional writers, those who write stories for simple joy to those who are undertaking major projects for publication. We welcome every genre in a supportive and collaborative environment. Our cardinal rule is: no criticism. If solicited, members will offer support comments and constructive review, but outright criticism is not allowed. The reason is simple. When anybody puts a thought on a page they are baring their soul to the world; criticism not only kills the piece, but any future piece which may have come from that soul. The other rules? That’s the current facilitator’s problem.

Originally this Anthology Project started as a memorial to one of our writers who passed onto the next adventure. Anne-Marie will be missed. She taught me more than she can possibly realize, but at the same time I know she wouldn’t want more credence given to her than she thought she was due. She was humble. Her stories are part of this collection.

Our group now has: poets, and scholars, and rogue scholars, authors and audacious amateurs, those that mostly listen rather than write, and those who write prolifically but only share with the group. We are not a networking organization, though we eagerly support each other with a variety of skills. We undertake special projects, such as Gallery Nights and this anthology. More than anything, we love to write. These are our stories. We hope you enjoy them.

John W Partington,

Current SCWG Facilitator

The Authors

Author photos have been removed from the epub version of this Anthology. Page number references are to the paper version and may have limited meaning for the epub.

Reva Atkinson A world traveler, Reva finally landed in Ottawa and is currently living with her husband and raising her very active son. 42 

Julie Band 1, 35  

Dominique Boily joined the Stittsville Creative Writing Group since its very beginning, specifically to help develop her screenplay ideas. She enjoys the discipline of the weekly creative gatherings, as well as the close camaraderie she has found among her fellow writers. She continues to pursue her passion for film and green architecture and enjoys the company of her four-legged companion, a spunky husky-wolfhound named Gypsie. 63  

Anne-Marie Dallaire-Sarazen (1944 – 2016) 

Anne-Marie has touched us all. She will be remembered for her poignant narratives, her generosity to others, and for her laughter.

Anne-Marie was friend to all, Fun-Amie to me, always bringing her delicious stories and cooked tidbits for us to savour, all of which were served up with generous portions of love for her fellow beings, and of  joie de vivre. by Melba McGee 

   3, 13, 38  

John W. Egan    5 

Patricia Elkins has been writing in various forms in her professional and personal life for more than 20 years. She was a copywriter in radio for five years before moving on to write training materials, newsletters, and correspondence for a national organization and for a local not-for-profit. 

Patricia’s love of the written word has extended to her personal life where she has completed writing courses offered by colleges and universities in Canada and the United States. Patricia's recent interest is in very short flash fiction: self-contained stories ranging from 100-500 words.    44 

Jaxon Horsnell 64 

Monika Jain is Stittsville Toastmaster club member and has been writing weekly synopsis and local newpaper article for the club for a year now. During the course of writing and preparing for her speeches and synopsis she discovered that she enjoys the experience. She is an amateur writer. She is slowly finding her style. She likes happy endings and draws inspiration from people and incidents around her. She feels very fortunate to find writer’s group at the library. People at the group welcomed her with open hearts and has been very supportive. She really enjoys the Thursday evening meets SCWG whenever she is able to make it.                       10, 53 

Susie Loranger is an amateur writer who got into the activity be being dragged to meetings by her husband. There was no kicking or screaming, beyond the first couple of meetings, because the Stittsville Creative Writing Group is a supportive and nurturing organization which takes place in a library. Libraries don’t like screaming; they’re okay with kicking. Once Susie realized that she was the equal of any of the assembled writers she became comfortable and confident with the group. She does not write often, but writes well.   iv, 87 

vivien masseau taylor  Vivien is a practising poet and former music art and rare books librarian (retired from Queen's university) who also enjoys choral singing.  She moved to Ottawa in 2014 to be near three of her seven grandchildren. She has 3 Chapbook publications:  Widow’s walk;   Mauve you rise and other poems;  Wellington Beach and other poems.    Contributor to several anthologies including, "And left a place to stand" honouring Al Purdy.   Former coordinator of Picton Open Floor readings, a member of the Cobourg Poetry Workshop  and a workgroup in Prince Edward County writing in a variety of poetic forms.   She especially appreciates the oral aspects of poetry which bring to life the mood and musicality of language, its rhythm and rhyme.  

  15,  28, 49, 68, 79 

Allan McCarville is a Stittsville based freelance food safety consultant who also conducts training on food standards and international food trade in developing countries. He has recently started to write teen/young adult fantasy books and stories as a change from the scientific, technical material he usually writes. It’s much more fun and he continues to work hard at making people think he’s normal.        16,  71 

Janice D. McDonald resides in her treehouse in Kanata, ON where she pursues her creative passions under the strict supervision of her cat, Snugs. Janice enjoys weaving tales of fiction and fantasy, sometimes testing her story ideas on friends through regular D&D gaming sessions.       36,  45 

Melba McGee   melbamcgee.ca 

Since first holding pencil tip to paper, I’ve been awestruck by the majyk that spills out. I am:

-a child of the Universe;

-a free-spirit;

-an acquired taste;

-a member of an amazing Family who tolerate my idiosyncrasies, grounding me whenever I spin off the earth;

-a retired grade 7&8 teacher;

-a 3rdThird dweller amidst nature; 

-a messenger in service to others. 80 

John Nash is a retired university professor who has a mistaken impression that no longer being paid implies that one has to undertake more intellectual activities. Oh, did he mention dancing? 

Some of John’s other writings can be found on archive.org, in particular the historical novel  Thursday Afternoon, (https://archive.org/details/ThursdayAfternoon160507). 

    65,  69 

John Partington is a Canadian writer living in Ottawa, Ontario. He was a soldier for fifteen years in the Canadian Forces Army Reserve. After completing one tour of duty in Haiti (pre-quake) he suffered a bout of mental illness which resulted in a medical discharge from the Canadian Forces. Since then he has had a few jobs and started a career in the Public Service. Writing, however, will always be his first love (his wife is his true love). While his writing portfolio is prolific he has only recently started to publish.    v, 29, 33,  52, 56 

Michele Partridge

One of my earliest memories is of hearing my mother’s voice while she read Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner aloud in our living room.  Fascination with this beautiful, creepy tale has led to a lifetime of devouring all manner of written word, from poetry to horror, and all the genre’s that fall between.  But none of it compares to creating your own stories, of allowing your imagination to run free and letting your pen do the talking.  For writers, writing is a necessity of life, like breathing.  And programs like the SCWG, and the support of the OPL, help to breathe life into our writing and make it all possible.    46, 59 

Joan Savoie is a Canadian writer who now lives in Stittsville but has her roots in the Maritimes.  Growing up in Northern New Brunswick she heard many stories from grandparents and parents, and decided to write the stories down thus keeping them alive for her own children - so that is what she did.  Joan enjoys writing stories that bring the events and characters to life.            8 

Elizabeth Taylor Joining the Stittsville Creative Writing Group has provided Elizabeth with the opportunity to enjoy various works read by fellow group members. She enjoys writing stories that involve human interaction and experiences. Her experience as a member of the Stittsville Writers Club has been very positive.   40 

Hero van Harten is a stay-at-home mom of four kids and a dog who recently moved here from Hamilton and is still recovering from the long, long, Ottawa winter. She leaves early for writers group every Thursday, running away to the Library as soon as her husband gets home, and writes in the calm silence.                          50, 89 

Trees/Guard

© Julie Band

I have never seen a full-grown elm tree.  I did not live in the 1940s when stands of them dominated the landscape. But I do know that if you were to camp under a grove of elm they would whisper to you at night as the wind blew over their leaves. I have never seen an elm tree die, but if I close my eyes, I can feel the pain and sadness that comes from watching one of these mighty giants wilt and yellow as it succumbs to Dutch elm disease.

I have been lucky enough to see an Eastern Dogwood in full bloom in the spring, its crown full of glorious flowers that glow white in the moonlight. A species at risk, I know that at least this one, the tree that I have passed under a hundred times, is loved and cared for.

I have never opened an Arbor Day tree guide, but I can tell you about the Carolinian forest just down the road from my childhood home and I can show you a rare Kentucky coffee or tulip tree. I can lead you to the great stand of black oaks that guard the walking path to the lake or to the black walnuts whose nuts, when eaten, have medicinal properties. I have never discussed trees with my children, but my daughter at the tender age of seven argued confidently with her class that an acorn does not grow into an acorn tree, thank you very much, but an oak.

There is a maple that sits in the middle of Mike Weir Park along the shores of Lake Huron. Now eleven years old it stands tall enough to catch the warm lake breezes that blow in the evening and rustle its leaves.   I imagine it is a brilliant red in the fall, handsome like the man it was planted for. A fitting metaphor, the maple offers a safe environment for those that call it home, allowing the animals that live in its branches to grow, explore and thrive while asking little in return. Its trunk, sturdy and strong, is a great support to lean against and always available when you need a break or just want to relax. A steady presence, many choose to sit near it for the peace and calm it disseminates. Ever patient and without shouting, badgering or grandstanding it passes on its wisdom to those it loves often without their knowledge that it is even being done.

I can’t tell you exactly when my father taught my daughter about acorns, I don’t remember the exact date he woke us from our sleep to see that dogwood in the moonlight, and I can’t tell you the exact number of hours we spent walking among those black oaks. I am not sure exactly when I learned to put effort into finding the beauty in the world around me and good in the people in my life.  I can’t tell you the moment I realised that to show love you have to spend time with someone and quantity matters, not just quality.   Somewhere along the line I learned to respect nature and the importance of passion and flow. At some point it sunk in that exercise is important, quiet can sometimes be good and cures don’t always come from a pill bottle.  Life is to be lived, it is to be enjoyed and it is to be shared.

I didn’t witness the demise of the mighty elm, but I did see my father wither and die with the scourge of cancer.  But just like that Eastern Dogwood he planted to brighten our walk, he has planted memories, values and lessons in my life that bloom and glow in my mind and for which I will always care for.   

Raspberries

© Anne-Marie Dallaire-Sarazen

Imagine a beautiful summer day!

Imagine a house full of kids who don’t belong to you.

Imagine a way of keeping them occupied for the afternoon.

In was in the mid fifties. My Mother, who never left home for any amount of time, is gone back to Lac St. Jean to visit her ailing father. My father is working on the farm with the older boys and my aunt Françoise is staying at our house to help while her sister is away.

For some reason, this person is not our favourite aunt. I am not sure why, but her authority does not seem to be the same as our mother’s. Can we pinpoint any explicit behaviour on her part? Not really. It could be the tone of voice; it could be that she was her Father’s favourite…not sure, but since that time when we were growing up we could sense that there existed a sort of inequality between her and our mother. Children are born with an inane sense of fairness. Scientific studies have since confirmed our hunch.

She has only a few kids of her own and they are younger than us. Her kids seem to be more inclined than we were into following an authority figure. We have more difficulty to just obey blindly.

On this day, it was suggested that during the afternoon, there would be an outing and the girls would go and pick raspberries…maybe some pies for dinner?...not sure and did they need any kind of reward?

There was a special raspberry patch maybe a kilometre from our house. We called the place where they grew: “digues”. It was on a new piece of land that had been cleared a few years earlier by our father who was pushing the forest as far as he could so he could grow more hay or grain to feed the animals. The rotting and decaying trees and shrubs were an ideal compost heap on which the juiciest and tastiest and biggest raspberries would grow. Well, this is the way I remember.

Imagine an 11 year old girl heading out on a raspberry picking expedition with 4 or 5 more younger sisters with her. We are all properly dressed for this and carry a multitude of containers. Being the oldest, I think it is my right to have the largest container. My plan was that the others would empty their smaller containers into mine and since many hands make light work it was going to be a successful outing.

Well, it did not quite go as planned. For some reason when we got to the general area where we were supposed to pick the berries we had many distractions. First, we went into the forest to explore and soon we were talking about how to find our way back out by following the direction of the sun. We did not go too far in so it was not difficult to find our way back out. Next came the topic of bears. What was the plan if we encounter a bear? We had never seen a real one, but we knew they existed and it was a possibility that there were some around.

By then a good amount of time had passed –maybe one hour or more, and we had not picked any berries. By the time we got to where there were supposed to be some berries---yes, we had been there before---yes, there used to be berries….well there were very few. Maybe it was late in the season; maybe the weather did not cooperate; maybe the bears had visited before we got there… When we finally got to the task at hand, we were entangled in many arguments as to whom would put their berries into the larger container held by the oldest sister. Then more argument as whether or not it had to be done that way. Who had decided anyway? Well it seemed that the plan was vetoed out. Could not find unanimity. OK, let’s fill each our basket. By that time the little ones are tired and cranky and at any rate they are not good pickers. Get the picture?

A new plan had therefore to be hatched to cover up for our lack of results. Although we could argue forever among ourselves, when it came time to face the rest of the world, we could unite in a common front. When we came home empty handed, we had been careful to use a few berries to smear the bottom of the container and explain to our aunt that we had picked a lot, but we thought we had heard a bear in the bush and in our hurry to leave we had dropped all the berries….

Don’t know if she believed us.

July 25, 2013

Ahnee

© John W. Egan

Ahnee was small, dark and angry.  Her fine, long black hair flew about as she flipped back the hood of her parka and revealed her nut-brown complexion.  Her dark eyes glanced around the bar and flashed with rage against the world in general, Canada in particular, and the creeps in this Eganville bar specifically.  Easing her backpack and guitar case onto the floor, she reached into her parka, pulled out a photo ID, put it on the counter and said, “I don’t drink.”  Holding up her guitar case, she explained, “I just want to play a few songs.  I’m not looking to get paid either.  I’d just leave the case open on this stool for tips.  Couldn’t you use some entertainment in here tonight?”

“You’re under 18. You can’t stay here,” said the old white lady with orange hair and a cigarette hanging off a bright red lip.  She tossed Ahnee’s ID back at her, ignoring her guitar and explanations. “I’m askin’ you to go now, before I hafta call the cops.”

Ahnee flared, “That’s not the law! I’ve sung in other bars back in Parry Sound, and more on the way here.”

“So, go back and sing there,” replied the lady, exhaling smoke. “I can’t keep an eye on you all night, makin’ sure you don’t take a sip from someone’s glass.  It’s my license gone if a cop catches you, and then sorry doesn’t cut it. I don’t want you here.”

Ahnee tried for sympathy. “My ride’ll be here soon and it’s freezing out on the street right now."  

The old woman stared at her, saying nothing.

Ahnee tried to buy time. “Can I at least use your bathroom before I go?”  

The old woman spoke firmly around the cigarette between her lips, “I’m not going to have some underage native get drunk, drug up, or turn tricks in my place.  You gotta go now.”

Ahnee put her ID back inside her parka, zipped it closed, and harnessed the backpack and guitar case on her small frame again.  She resisted slamming the door on the way out as she hoped to stay close to its light for security and so her ride from the Pikwakanagan Band Centre would see her.  She wished she was back in Wasauksing, that she had not got the bright idea to join the Idle No More protest in Ottawa, had not got five friends from home and six teens from Pikwakanagan to join her, and had not decided to walk the last 150 kilometres from Golden Lake to Ottawa with those Algonquin teens.

Her parents and the Band Council had said it was a good thing that she wanted to do.  Even Layla, her favourite elder, told Ahnee that her idea to do this showed that she respected the environment and cared for her people, that this was her direction now.  “But,”’ she grumbled to herself, “none of them came along.  None of them are out here, freezing on a poorly lit, lumpy street, alone and forgotten.”

Ahnee went back to thinking about Layla. “She also encouraged me to play the guitar and sing, to be another Buffy Sainte Marie, a rock n’ roll Shy-Anne Horvoka. That’s my big dream: I could be Sh-Ahnee Rice.’  That dream and the frosty cloud of her breathe kept her company until headlights appeared.  She saw a van and on its side the Pikwakanagan Band emblem.  She recognized the young man with long dark hair who sat behind the steering wheel.  

He rolled down his window and asked, “Are you Anne?”

She stomped around the front of the van, wrenched open the door, tossed in her backpack in the rear seat, set her guitar bag in the front, and got in behind it. “Don’t call me Anne.  My name’s Ahnee.  It’s an Ojibwe name.”  

She fumed to herself, “How come no one remembers me?  I’ll never be famous if everyone forgets me so easy!”

“Anamikage, Ahnee,” the boy smiled. “I’m Tom.” He put the van in gear and they drove off.  As the dim lights of the village disappeared behind them, he asked her, “How’d you get lost so soon?”

After a long silence, Ahnee replied, “We got here as the sun was going down.  We thought it was too cold to keep walking to the home in Douglas that’s putting us up for the night, so I called your Centre from the gas station to get us a ride there.”  Ahnee’s voice quivered as she continued, “I was in the washroom when the vans came, but no one told me, or looked for me, or thought about me.”  She looked ahead and kept her tears inside.  “When I came back out, I saw the tail lights of two vans going away.  The gas station guy was about to lock up for the night, and he told me to go wait at this bar, like I told Betty when I called the Centre again.  But the bar lady didn’t want me in there.”

"Uh, sorry you had some bad experiences.”  Tom glanced over at her. “Your friends also called the Centre when they got to Douglas and saw you weren’t in either van.  Everyone was worried.  Betty had us go back on the road to find you and then she called me to come get you here after you called.”   

After letting out a sharp breath and letting in a long silence, Ahnee realized that it soothed her down to know that she had been missed and that everyone cared about her.  “Maybe,” she thought, “that’s the lesson I was to learn today.”  She glanced back at Tom and told him, “I’m happy you got here so soon.  Miigwech.”

The van pulled up to a large farm house off the main road at the far end of Douglas; two vans parked there and all the lights in the house were on.  

“Ahnee!” a dozen voices shouted as she entered the house.  

A white lady with silver hair and a kind smile took her backpack. “Welcome, Ahnee.  I’m Sarah.  There’s plenty of hot food left out for you.  Put your parka with the rest by the door and make yourself at home.”  

Ahnee smiled. “Miigwech, Sarah.”

Natalie from home and Suzie from Pikwakanagan came over to meet her.

“We’re sorry we didn’t look for you when the vans came,” Natalie said. “We just figured you got into one of the vans like everyone else.”  

Suzie spoke next. “We’re glad you’re OK. We need you to play your songs for our group here tonight, to inspire us all.”

“Really?” asked Ahnee.

“Your songs got us to go.” Suzie assured her. “You sang about the threat to the land and the water, and about the need for us young people to defend our nations."

With a big shy, smile on her face, Ahnee got her guitar case and headed for the couch, thinking about which of her songs to play first.  As she tuned her guitar, she realized that she had an idea for another new song. “Everyone is needed and each one makes a difference.”

Not me and Not mine.

© Joan Savoie

Not Me and Not Mine -- has anyone met these two?  I have not met them yet, but when I do they have a great deal to explain.  It seems these two characters work together and use my house as a hideout.  Lately they have been involved in many situations that include my children. Just yesterday when I asked, "Who left the wet bathing suit and towel on the bathroom floor?"  I was told, "Not Me."  Looking surprised I said to my son, "Isn't it your blue towel and isn't it your bathing suit?"

"Oh, no Mom, they're Not Mine,"  he said positively.

I started to think about these two people and I figured that if they were using our little pool to cool off and using my children's clothes to swim in they should at least make themselves known to me.  It would be the polite thing to do.

Not Me is the more aggressive of the two but Not Mine does get involved every once and awhile.

One day I was cleaning out the basement and discovered ants having a picnic.  I called out to my boys, "Whose French fries are the ants enjoying down here in the basement?"

"Not Mine!" a choir sang out as four athletic boys came flying down the stairs to see nature in action.  

Not Me and Not Mine remain a mystery, no one hears them and no one sees them, but they seem to be everywhere in the house.

"Who left the dirty dishes in the family room?"  I ask.  As quickly as I ask, I hear four voices echo, "Not Me?"

"Who spilled the Kool Aid on the kitchen floor?"

"Not Me!"

"Who left the light on in the basement?"

"Not Me!" came the reply.

"Who tracked mud through the kitchen?"

Again the reply, "Not Me!"

"Who left the cap off the toothpaste?"

"Not Me!"

I wish I could find Not Me and Not Mine?  First, I would like to know what they look like.  It's a great deal easier to find someone if you have a description.

Are they tall? Probably not! They work mostly within the confines of my house and if they were tall I surely would have noticed them by now.  Are they strong? I think not. Many times I find small items left on the floor, not picked up or put away.  Therefore, I conclude their muscles are underdeveloped -- probably due to lack of use.

Are they small?  Yes!  They can hide anywhere in the house.  I sometimes think they must be hiding in the air ducts and when I'm not watching they quickly surface from their hidden sanctuary and make a mess.  Once the job is done they return to parts unknown without anyone seeing them.  I picture them with round smiling faces and eyes that twinkle with delight when a deed has been accomplished.  They must sit and snicker and say to each other, "We did it again, boy the kids will be in trouble this time."

Do they have the sense of smell?  I decided they have no sense of smell. If they did, they would not leave dirty socks in the corners of rooms and the basement to rot.  Each time I find a sock or some other piece of clothing, although it looks very much like something I know my child has worn, when asked about it, the response is all too familiar, "Not Mine."

Not only do Not Me and Not Mine wear clothes that look very much like my children's clothing, they seem to share the same taste in toys.  I know they own toys in my house because I often ask, "Whose toys on the floor in the living room and who put them there?"  The response I get is "Not Mine and Not Me."

One toy that is popular with my children is the Nintendo Entertainment System and now I think our two uninvited guests have also become addicted to this form of entertainment.   One day I noticed the Nintendo was on so I asked my boys, "Who was the last person playing with the Nintendo?"

"Not Me," could be heard coming from the four corners of the house.

Has anyone ever seen these two who cause so much trouble?  Involved in every confrontation that has erupted at my house, Not Me has caused tears, scratches, bumps and bruises to every one of my children.  Not Me and Not Mine not only wear the same clothes as my boys, they sound exactly like each one of them.  When I hear a commotion I listen very carefully.  It's my boys. I know their voices but when I appear and ask, "Who made him cry this time?"  I get the same old response,  "Not Me."

I thought Not Me and Not Mine took liberties only in the house, until one afternoon when I was cleaning out the van.  There on the seat was a piece of melted chocolate.  I asked the question, "Who had the chocolate in the van?"  Of course it was our old friend. "Not Me," the children said. I also found gum wrapper tucked in between the cushions of the seat and asked, "Whose gum wrappers did I find in the van?"  Once again the response was, "Not Mine."

Maybe in the next few weeks I'll catch the culprits in action but until then Not Me and Not Mine will continue to frustrate me but on the other hand I know I will smile when I hear the children rationalize how Not Me and Not Mine became involved in the latest incident that occurred at our house.  

Third time’s the charm

© Monika Jain

My sister broke the news to me, “Hey Neha, someone is coming to meet you this evening so make sure to be home in time. Just so that you know his name is Raghav and he is an engineer.”

This was the third person I was meeting with in the last three months. My mother wanted me to get married this year. My stomach churned just by the thought of showcasing myself another time. I hated it when I had to dress up and parade in front of a prospective groom and his family. Can you even imagine being in a room full of people and have every single eye fixated on you? How humiliating and unworthy! I never liked the idea of having to meet my future partner in such a way. At that very moment, I wished to simply disappear into thin air. Why do people do that; can’t they just let the boy and girl meet in an informal setting? Why do they have to make it a family event? My train of thought suddenly broken as my mother discussed my outfit for the evening with my sister.

“Neha, can you please try it before you go”, my mother’s voice came from the distance? “If I need to alter it, I can do it before evening.”

I always admired my mother for her strength and her love for education but her ideologies were just riddles to me.  I and my mother had conflicting points of view about many things. My mother was always very clear that girls shouldn’t speak unless they are spoken to; they should take good care of all the men in the family; they should be polite and soft spoken; and, they absolutely can not talk back. The list goes on and on. I could not comprehend that why those rules were applied to us but not my brother? Why couldn’t he carry his own weight? My sister, on the other hand, blindly agreed to everything my mother said.  But my mother’s opinions were not my problem right now. My biggest problem was how I was going to reject this new person if I did not like him. I remembered the chaos I created in the house the last two times that I rejected the last two suitors met. Thank God, one of the boys felt the same way about me and the story ended in my favor. An unsettling fear grew inside me with the mere thought that I may not be as lucky this time.

I always had a vision about my life partner. I didn’t dream of a tall, dark and handsome guy. All I wanted was someone who could respect me, love me for being me, and most of all treat me equally. Is that so much to ask for? My mother did not understand my logic.

She did not give me credit that I declined the first person because he wanted my father to finance his education and to help him settle overseas. My mom thought that was something my parents should be prepared to do for my happiness. But how could I respect such a person? What if my father wasn’t wealthy enough to do that? What about me, my qualities, what was I bringing into the relationship? My merits were negligible in front of my father’s wealth. But my mom didn’t understand that. After all, dowry is a big part of our culture and a girl’s worth is just as much of her parent's wealth.

The second guy was not even worth considering because he didn’t have any respect for my education. Since his mother passed away when he was young, he was looking for a caretaker for his family. What a loser!  My mom’s jaw dropped when she heard me saying no again. She had a big fit. She even thought that I rejected him for his appearance. It hurt to know that she knew me so little. How could she think I was that shallow? She didn’t understand how could I step into a relationship where there was no respect from either side. After the second rejection, she became suspicious that I was having a secret affair. She managed to convince my sister too, even though she didn’t need much convincing. My sister was thrilled. What could have been more enjoyable than spying on me, especially now that she had blessings from the Supreme Court? What a ridiculous idea they both had!

I came home with heavy feet and burdened heart that afternoon. I couldn’t bring myself to go through the parade another time, but I had no choice. The concept of arranged marriage always fascinated me and I was quite convinced that God shows you the sign when the right person comes along, but I was not sure if wanted to meet my future husband through this facade. My sister’s voice interrupted my thoughts this time.

“Come on Neha. They must be coming soon, you better get ready. It wouldn’t be nice to keep them waiting.”

Oh God, there she goes again; what is her problem. Such a Brat!

Evening came rather quickly I thought. My mother and my sister made sure that I looked erfect. I couldn’t believe I had to wrap myself in a 5-meter long saree so that a stranger could look at me and decide whether I painted a picture of a perfect wife or not?

Once again an inner dialogue took over my thoughts, “Why can’t our society ask boys to parade around instead? What kind of world are we living in? If I ever have a daughter I will never let her go through this humiliation.”

All those thoughts just came and vanished in a blink when my sister handed me the tray with tea and asked me to come meet the groom and his family. My feet felt laden with big boulders and a small distance felt like an eternity. A shudder went through my body as I felt so many eyes scanning every move and every inch of me. My “fight or flight” mode turned on.  I felt cemented to the spot and I couldn’t move, How embarrassing! “Oh God help me, enough now, I don’t want to go through this again.”

I was about to turn around as my mother’s voice startled me, “Neha, what happened beta (child)? Come here and meet Raghav and his parents.”

I  gathered all the courage I had and as I tried to step forward my foot got stuck in my saree. I almost lost my balance but before I could even realize what just happened, Raghav extended his hand out to help me.

In that very moment, my heart knew that Raghav was the right person for me. Six months later we got married. When I look back and think about what did I see in my husband in that moment? The answer is simple, a kind, respectful, caring person. I saw a kind man who came to my rescue by saving me from being humiliated in front of mine and his families. His small gesture showed me the reflection of the real person inside. I knew for sure that he would be there for me in all aspects of life. Ever since, he has been my pillar not only in my happiness, but also in my sickness, and in my sorrows, and in every moment of my life, just the way it supposes to be. It was my sign from the God. I wish I could tell my mother that I did not just want to settle down, but to settle down with the right person and after two decades of  marriage, all I can say my instincts were right. I guess, the third time was the charm.

Stone

© Anne-Marie Dallaire-Sarazen

I am especially fond of the stone landmarks called inuksuks built by the people of the North. This tradition was established by the people living above the Arctic Circle where the tundra offers few natural landmarks. It may have been used for many purposes, be it navigation or to mark any point of reference as maybe hunting grounds or food cache. I once heard that it could be translated into words as:’ Man was here…’’.

It did not take long to lead me to a very existential question. “How do I use the symbolism of the inuksuk to paint a picture of myself?” “Do I have a dream of leaving a part of myself when I go on to another realm?”

I am aware that what I qualify as eternal-most of structures built by Man on planet Earth can be destroyed in a matter of seconds during a cataclysm. So much for the physical aspect of any legacy I may have contemplated… (To tell you the truth, I have never really entertained any such ideas until Life reminded me that I am a mere mortal being)

OK, no doomsday scenario here. But, still a serious question lingers. What is going to be left of me after I am gone? My money?---my intention is that I shall leave with a balance of zero in my bank account. A little bit difficult to plan, I admit. My possessions? If I look at the stuff I accumulated over the years, it is interesting to note that 2nd hand stores like the Salvation Army or Value Village are full of old clothes, knick knacks, furniture that can be bought for a fraction of what the original owner paid for them. So, my stuff is worth close to nothing. 

My career. Question mark. I studied many years in order to acquire the diplomas that allowed me to practice my profession. My love of teaching, above all: my true excitement at helping a young child learn to put letters together to form words and meaning in order to discover the joy of reading or to help a soldier discover the power of words in another language. This aspect of my professional life has nourished the creativity that kept the fire of education alive over the years. I worked a long time in order to contribute to a pension. Now, I can put the title ‘retired’ after my name. I suppose that in certain areas, it gives me rights and privileges OR, maybe it tells the credit card companies that I can pay my bills at the end of the month.

My true passion in the practice of the culinary arts is also an essential part of my being. My fondness of all things to do with food and sharing this with loved ones has really created another form of energy and creativity.

Maybe my writing could be one of the building blocks. Now, let’s consider its value. It may be read by only a few people. Does it really matter? Probably comparable to other things pleasurable: the fun is in the journey, the doing, the anticipation. Therefore, for those of you who may be reading my words, the pleasure and the satisfaction of putting words on paper have been mine.

When I arrive at this crossroad, I am still looking for my cairn, my landmark. Are the stones of my inuksuk spelled out as ‘family of origin’, ‘education, growing up, relationships’, ‘career, passion’, ‘friends, family, students’, ‘talents, gifts’? Are the stones of the potential inuksuk spread all over and in need of being assembled as one structure? Probably not my job, I figure. I think the stones take shape over the years and they assemble themselves metaphorically. The common denominator or the glue that will hold my inukshuk together can only be the humanity of my being as the rest of the physical stuff is not going to stay anyway. Like the stones that stay erect and form a sculpture, this invisible thread will hold it together.

August 22, 2013

My Mailbox Heart

© vivien masseau taylor 

Mailbox

whale socks

who knocks green at my door?

You bring me songs and fat hugs

almost daily

stuffed with 3D joy, oh boy!

Your stories tall and short

your witty playful smarts

top up my mailbox heart

whale-tales and more.

  And every time, I think of you

in rhyme and technicolour.

How slow the green socks walk

tip, tip, tip, toe.

For your soft knocks again

I strain to hear.

"Come in, my dear, come in!"

Mailbox

snail clocks

Goldilocks of my delight,

you bring me art and letters

almost daily

painted live with love

in mauve and pink together.

I await, anticipate

their arrival, eager in

my mailbox heart.

  And every time I think of you

in rhyme and technicolour.

How slow the snail-clocks crawl

tick, tick, tick, tock

Goldilocks, you are

my light, my all.

Mailbox

rain drops

red fox running wild

you bring me dancing blue-bright eyes

almost daily

parcelled up with sweet smiles.

Thirsty to the brim

I drink them in.

They cram my mailbox heart

to bursting.

  And every time I think of you

in rhyme and technicolour.

How slow the rain drops drop

till you are come.

drip, drip, drip, drop.

Run my Reddy fox

to open arms.

And so, my dears

you see no locks

you cannot free.

To this mailbox

you are the key.

The Soul Thief

© Allan McCarville

It awoke. It hungered. The souls it held captive no longer sustained it. It was time to feed. It had been a long time since it last ate and it needed nourishment. It needed the life force of a human.

***

Wandering through a cemetery was, categorically, not how he had intended to spend Saturday afternoon. It had been raining on and off since early morning, a light wind pushing thin curtains of mist across the bay, and the grass underfoot was sodden, soaking through his trainers. As always, the salt laden scent of the sea was in the air, but sixteen-year-old Alex Benning didn’t notice, having lived next to the sea all his life. It was one of those things one becomes accustomed to. 

He was totally pissed! He had intended to hang out with Joey and Sarah at the village community centre, but that little weasel Danny had ruined that plan. Danny was supposed to be on a cub scout hike, but the inclement weather had resulted in the hike being cancelled. Their parents had to go out for a few hours, so guess what? He got “voluntold” to babysit his ten-year-old brother. 

Usually, the babysitting chore would degenerate into chaos within minutes after their parent’s departure. Danny felt he was old enough not to need a babysitter and would not listen to Alex. That inevitably would lead to a shouting match between the boys, which Alex would win because he could yell louder, was over a foot taller and seventy pounds heavier than his brother.

On this particular Saturday morning, both boys had ended up in the family room. Alex was using the computer for a research project while Danny was using the game controller to play video games on the large, flat screen TV.

“Turn down the volume, Danny!” snapped Alex. “Can’t you see I’m working?”

“Why don’t you use the computer in the library?” retorted the younger boy in a surly tone.

That, of course, was a perfectly reasonable suggestion but Alex was expecting obedience, not logic, from the ten-year-old.

“I said turn it down!” shouted Alex.

True to form, Danny increased the volume.

At that, Alex sprang from the chair and grabbed for the controller which his little brother clutched even more tightly, holding on with both hands and pulling it into his chest. Alex literally lifted his brother off his feet, yanking the device with all his might. The controller sprung free, not only from Danny’s hands but from Alex’s as well, and went flying. It hit a table lamp before ricocheting into the computer modem, knocking it onto the floor.

Both boys held their breath, watching the lamp as it tottered like a drunken sailor, before toppling to the floor and shattering.

“Now you’ve done it!” hissed Alex, looking in dismay at the fragmented lamp. Then he noticed the modem also appeared to be broken.  He glared at the younger boy, “You are so dead!”

The only thing that prevented Alex from thumping his brother was the voice of Elliot Benning, their father, demanding, “What the hell is going on here?”

Their parents had returned.

Danny quickly scampered behind his father for protection and pointed at his older brother. “It’s all his fault,” he declared emphatically.

Alex glowered at Danny. “It’s his fault, Dad. I was trying to work on my assignment and the maggot wouldn’t turn down the volume.”

“I’ve told you before, don’t call your brother names,” scolded his exasperated father.

At that point Miriam Benning, their mother, entered the room. “Oh, no. My favourite lamp,” she moaned.

Only yesterday she had complained that the lamp was ugly and should be replaced, but Alex didn’t think it would be wise to remind her of that right now.

“Sit!” commanded Elliott Benning.

Both boys sat at opposite ends of the long couch, as far from each other as they could get.

“Okay, tell us what happened,” sighed their father. He already knew the story, as it was predictably the same. Danny had done something to antagonize his older brother, who typically over reacted and things escalated. Alex was not the most patient person, especially when it came to dealing with his younger brother.

Their father was only half listening as the two boys tried to incriminate each other. Finally, he held up his hands, shouting, “Enough!”

“Both of you are grounded for a week.” He ignored the protests and continued, “The cost of a new lamp is coming out of your allowances.” He shot Danny an angry look. “You, young man, will clean out that old shed at the back of the property and will not be going anywhere until it’s done.” Elliott had been planning to clean out the shed for ages but had been putting it off, there was always something else to be done. Now he would get Danny to at least start the project.

Danny glanced out the window at the woods were the old shed stood, invisible through the trees and drizzle. Their property was large and had been in the family for generations. The house was a huge Victorian style residence – which the locals referred to as “The Mansion” – and was over a century and a half old, but it was well maintained with modern conveniences. However, one could not say the same about the old shed. Danny never went near the structure; he was frightened of it, believing that something lurked within. Now he had to clean it out! He was terrified, but there was no way he was going to admit to being scared, especially in front of Alex.

Their father turned his attention to Alex. “You are the oldest, Alex, and should know better.”

That line again, thought Alex. Since when is being the oldest a reason someone should be blamed for anything? However, Alex kept that thought to himself. 

His father pointed at the broken modem. “That cannot be replaced until Monday. When is your project due?” Of course, he already knew the answer.

“I need to hand in a first draft on Monday,” replied Alex glumly, realizing that the broken modem meant no internet, and no internet hindered the research he had to do. Then he had an idea. “Ah, Dad. If you drove me to the library, I could use their computer and complete the assignment.”

Naturally, Elliot had thought of that, but there was a lesson he wanted Alex to learn. “What were you researching?” he asked, even though he was already familiar with Alex’s assignment.

“Um, basically the family tree back to the early 1800’s. I need names, dates, who was who,” explained Alex, certain he had already informed his father about the details of the assignment. Having a father who was a history professor certainly raised his history teacher’s expectations regarding the quality of homework Alex submitted. 

“And where else would one find that information?” asked his father. “Where do you think such information came from originally?”

Alex had noted that Danny had been given an extra punishment over and above the grounding and paying for the lamp; he had to clean the shed. Knowing his father always treated both his sons equally, he knew more crap was coming his way. He shrugged uncertainly and said, “I don’t know, Dad. Old records, old newspapers, tombstones…”

He stopped when he noticed his father grinning at the mention of tombstones. “Ah, come on, Dad. You’re joking, right?”

“I’ll drive you over to the cemetery and you can spend some time recording the information on the family headstones. It’ll do you good to do research the old-fashioned way.”

Alex groaned. There was a cemetery on the outskirts of their village. Most of their ancestors were buried there, the oldest family tombstone dated back to the 1820s.

So, here he was on a wet Saturday afternoon, recording information from headstones instead of chumming around with Joey and Sarah, convinced he was being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment. That little worm Danny had much to answer for.

At least his father allowed him to bring his tablet so he could take pictures of the headstones. Later, he could use a cable to download the images to the computer and then would be able to draft an outline, making use of the recorded information.

He used his tablet to capture an image of each headstone and was finished in less than an hour. The process was simple, aim and shoot; he didn’t pause to study any of the headstones he was photographing. He did note, however, that several of his kinfolk had died quite young, some were only eleven or twelve. Like most young people, Alex gave little thought to death. Still, he felt a sense of sadness realizing some of his relatives had died young and consequently were deprived of the opportunity to pursue their dreams, to reach their potential.

As he waited for his father to return, he wandered around the other headstones. He had never actually spent time at the cemetery – hanging around graves was not on his list of entertainment activities – but as he read the names on the tombstones, he realized there was a lot of history lying literally at his feet. In some respects, it was more real than reading the same information on the internet.

Reluctantly, he had to admit that his father had made a good point.

He recognized many of the names of other families, families that had lived in the village for years, some of whom he knew well. The dearly departed Bennings were buried in one corner of the cemetery, which Alex assumed was because the family had always been wealthy and leaders in the community. It was as if their stature had to be maintained, even after death.

He stood at the side of the road by the entrance to the cemetery and saw his father’s car approaching. He was wet and uncomfortable and almost wished he had taken his father’s advice about bringing an umbrella. However, he was sixteen and would not be caught dead using an umbrella. He shivered as he glanced back at the tombstones. Perhaps not the best expression given the location, he thought gloomily. 

“Did you get what you needed?” asked his father as Alex climbed into the car.

Alex nodded, thankful that his father had the heater going. “Yes, Dad. I’ll be able to finish my draft on time.”

His father turned the car around and they headed back home. Alex glanced in the side view mirror as they pulled away. There was something about the information he had seen, something that was odd, something that he could not put his finger on. He had seen something that was unusual but he didn’t know what it was.

For the time being, though, he just wanted to get home and dried off. That little anomaly gnawing at his subconscious was not that important. 

***

Danny stood dejectedly in the drizzle, looking down the track that led to the shed. With a sigh, he reluctantly trudged towards the dreaded shed, his rubber boots squelching in the muddy rain soaked trail. The path was narrow and overgrown and it curved into the woods towards the shed. He followed the path into the woods, his house disappearing as the shed came into view, looming phantom-like in the weak gray afternoon sun. Logic told him the house was still there, with his mother inside, yet Danny still felt very much alone and isolated.

He stopped and stared at the shed. It was old, predating the mansion by at least fifty years. Even the construction was different, older. The shed was made of logs, and a badly fitting door hung open, as if inviting him to enter.  

Danny frowned. He was positive the door was closed earlier.

A small utility trailer was parked to one the side of the trail, near the shed. His father had instructed him to put the junk from the shed into the trailer. “But just the smaller stuff, Danny,” he said. “Don’t try to lift the bigger stuff and hurt yourself. Alex and I will look after that later.”

He sighed sadly as he thought of his older brother, and wished he had not gotten Alex into trouble. Danny would never admit it to anybody, but he idolized his brother. Alex was strong, and smart and when it came to soccer and hockey, he was the best.

That’s why it hurt so much when his hero ignored him, didn’t want him around.

Danny stood examining the shed, his hair soaked by the constant drizzle. He wore a raincoat but it wasn’t long before his jeans were soaked from the knees to the top of his boots.

Alex wouldn’t be afraid he told himself, and that thought gave him sufficient courage to step inside the shed. 

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The shed was windowless and had never been hooked up to electricity. Thus, the open door provided the only light and he could barely see as the weak daylight scarcely penetrated the darkness. He could make out what seemed to be a couple of large chests against one wall, and there was a shelf running the length of the wall opposite the door.

He picked up a small box that was under the shelf and carried it out to the trailer. He returned to the shed and repeated the operation, removing a second container. He went back into the shed and as he stooped to pick up the third carton, a shadow flickered in the dim light. Danny quickly turned towards the door, thinking that maybe his father had returned, or his mother had come out to the shed.

No one was there. He stepped to the entrance and looked outside. Nothing.

Was it his imagination? His earlier courage evaporated and he decided he would take out the last box and leave the rest for later. If his father wanted to ground him an extra month he was okay with that. Anything was better than spending another minute in the shed. 

He had just picked up that last box when the door slammed shut behind him, plunging him into total darkness. Terror gripped him and he could hear his heart hammering in his chest. In one corner the darkness faded, from where a green glow spread outwards into the shed. There was a buzzing noise, like a swarm of bees following a queen to a new hive. His fear intensified. He tried to run but couldn’t move his feet. Looking down he saw that the plank floor was gone and was replaced by a bog, his feet mired in a glue-like muck. A figure appeared, a man – no, man-like but not human. It looked like a small tree, branches for arms and legs, knot holes for eyes.

Branch like arms grabbed him around the waist, lifting him right out of his rubber boots. He kicked and screamed but to no avail, his stocking feet connecting with nothing but air.

He was being dragged into another room! His brain was telling him this was impossible, there was no other room in the shed. His senses told him otherwise; the impossible was happening.

He screamed in terror and despair. Terror when he saw the table towards which the creature was dragging him, despair because he knew no one would hear his cries.

As blackness engulfed him he heard a voice cooing; boy, food, hungry, time to feed. 

***

When Alex and his Dad arrived home, his mother was waiting for them.

“Just had a call from a client,” she advised them “I have to go to Charlottetown.” She looked at Elliot and asked, “Don’t you have a faculty meeting this evening?”

Elliot slapped his forehead. “Damn, I forgot. We can go together and perhaps have dinner after our meetings.”

Miriam quickly agreed. A quiet dinner without two squabbling boys sounded like a great idea. She turned to Alex and said, “There’s a lasagna in the refrigerator. You can put it in the oven for dinner and please try not to fight with your brother.”

“I won’t start anything,” promised Alex. “By the way, where is the little fu...fellow?” Alex caught himself.

“He’s at the shed cleaning it out.” Miriam glanced at her watch and frowned. “He’s been gone almost half an hour. Please check on him Alex, and remember, don’t start anything.”

Alex managed to look hurt. “Mom! He’s the one that starts things, not me.”

Miriam and Elliot exchanged worried looks, wondering what sort of chaos would greet them when they returned. His mother took the seat Alex had just vacated and, with a plea not to burn the house down, his father backed the car out of the driveway and his parents headed for Charlottetown.

Alex did a quick time appreciation. An hour each way plus meetings plus dinner… his parents would not be back for at least six hours.

He could not see the shed but thought, just how much trouble could the maggot get into? He would check on his brother later; right now, he wanted to change into dry clothes and transfer the information from his tablet to the computer. 

Fifteen minutes later, he was staring at the computer screen, scrolling through the images he had downloaded from his tablet. He was trying to decide how to start writing his paper when something caught his eye. He went back to the last image and read it:

Andrew Benning

January 5, 1954 – May 14, 1966

Today was May 14th; the unfortunate boy had died fifty years ago today. 

HELP US! 

Those words flashed across the screen and Alex jerked away, blinking rapidly. What the hell was that? My imagination? 

He watched the screen for a few seconds but nothing changed, the image of Andrew’s Benning’s tombstone was the only thing displayed. He shook his head, thinking it must have been a computer glitch or, God forbid, a virus. He quickly scanned through the images on his tablet and again through the downloaded images. Nothing aside from the poignant images of his ancestors’ headstones.

Dismissing what he had seen as a fluke, he started to peruse the images again. It was during his fourth read-through that he found what his subconscious had detected at the cemetery. Three headstones were noteworthy - one was Andrew’s, one was the marker for a young Charlotte Benning and the other for another boy, Joseph Benning. It was the dates that stood out:

Charlotte Benning,

April 2, 1905 – May 14, 1916

Joseph Benning,

August 22, 1856 - May 14, 1866

All three youngsters had died on the same date, fifty years apart! Coincidence? He needed more information, but with no internet he had no access to what he needed. He grabbed his cell phone and made a call, connecting with the next best thing to a databank of family information.

“Alex! Is everything okay?” came Elliot’s concerned voice. Alex knew that if anyone could provide missing information it would be his history professor father.  

“Everything’s fine, Dad,” said Alex reassuringly. “I just wanted to ask you a quick question related to my project. Do any of these names mean anything to you?” He quickly provided the names of the three Benning children, not mentioning the fact they were children and that all three died on the same date.

“Well,” said Elliot after a minute, “if I remember correctly there were three or four Charlottes. One of them was not actually a Benning but had married one of our second cousins. She was a Wilson or Williams before marrying into the family. There were also several Josephs, in fact your great Uncle was a Joseph. I’d need to check my files, my memory’s not like it used to be,” he added with a chuckle.

“What about Andrew?” prompted Alex.

“Um, there was only one Andrew. He died quite young, a few years before I was born. His father and my father, your grandfather, were brothers. His family lived on the mainland but came here to visit on a regular basis. I don’t know the whole story, but apparently, Andrew disappeared one night and was found dead the next morning. I think there are some old newspaper clippings in a box in the den as it created a bit of a stir at that time. His father and my father never spoke about it; I think it was just too painful.”

“Thanks, Dad,” said Alex ending the connection before his father started asking questions that Alex just didn’t know how to answer. He went to the den, which was located on the second floor of the large house.  Built in the mid-1800s, at a time when large families were the norm, their house had eight bedrooms, one of which Elliott had converted to a den. It also meant that Alex and Danny had their own rooms, which contributed to peaceful co-habitation to some extent.

Fortunately for Alex, his father did serious historical research, and therefore all his reference material was well organized. It only took him a couple of minutes to find the box containing the news articles his father had mentioned. He quickly reviewed the clippings, not sure what he was looking for. There was not a lot of information and nothing indicating how Andrew had died. An autopsy had been conducted but no cause of death was determined although there was no indication of foul play. The last article was a short piece about the funeral, a well written article that captured the sense of loss the family was experiencing. It was the last three sentences in the article that caught Alex’s attention:

Young Andrew Benning will be lovingly remembered, but his family will continue to be haunted by the mystery of their beloved son’s passing. The boy’s body had been found in a shed on the family land, yet the shed had been searched several times that evening. How searchers had failed to find the boy remains unknown.

The shed! Danny!

Alex charged down the stairs and out the back door, dashing for the shed. He saw the utility trailer and the boxes Danny had already placed in it. The door to the shed was closed and it wouldn’t open, even throwing all his weight against it. Alex felt a wrongness, it was an old door and didn’t sit squarely in the frame, it should have opened easily. 

Frantically, he looked for something to break down the door. At the front of the trailer there was a tool box where Alex’s father kept some odd tools. Alex rummaged through the box hoping to find a large mallet or maybe a crowbar. He found a hatchet; it would have to do.

Screaming Danny’s name, he attacked the door, chopping furiously at the wood and shouldering against it with all his might. The splintered wood finally gave way to his assault and Alex all but fell into the shed. In the dim light he saw a pair of small rubber boots in the centre of the floor, but no sign of Danny.

Then a sound came to him, someone moaning. Holding his hands in front of him like a blind man, he slowly shuffled towards the sound that seemed to be coming from a dark corner. He reached the corner and was astonished when his hands continued to move through the wall, meeting no resistance.

Impossible!

He found himself in another room, one that was lit with a pale greenish glow. His mouth went dry with fear and shock when he saw his brother tied spread-eagled on the table. A man – no, a creature – was standing over him. Danny’s raincoat and shirt had been ripped open and a pulsating, branch like appendage extended from the creature to Danny’s exposed chest.

Whatever the thing was doing it was hurting Danny, because his brother was slowly twisting against the ropes, moaning.

“Danny!” screamed Alex. The creature snapped up, aware of Alex for the first time.

Danny managed to raise his head, looking at his big brother. “Run, Alex! Get away!” he shouted. His head fell back onto the table as he emitted another groan.  

Alex didn’t hesitate, didn’t think. Screeching like a banshee he leapt at the creature, swinging the hatchet. There was a sickening thud as the hatchet severed the repulsive tentacle linked to Danny’s chest. The creature jerked away from Danny emitting a howl of surprise and anger. The greenish glow intensified and, despite the unworldliness of the situation, it registered on Alex that there was a burn mark where the creature’s appendage had been attached to his brother’s body.

The thing appeared to be confused, standing trance-like, as if being interrupted while feeding was something it had never before experienced. Taking advantage of the creature’s immobility, Alex swung the hatchet again, this time at the ropes binding his brother to the table. He hacked at them and when they parted he pulled his brother unceremoniously off the table.

He shoved Danny towards the wall, hoping that the opening or whatever was still there.

“Run, Danny!” he shouted “Go!”

Danny melted through the wall. Alex charged through after him and was relieved to find himself back in the shed, his brother staring up at him.  

“Keep going!” ordered Alex, pushing Danny out the door. They ran along the path until they came to the curve in the trail and could see the house. There they stopped, gasping for breath. Neither boy could speak, not sure what to say, not certain what they had experienced. Alex rested his hands on his brother’s shoulders and wheezed, “I think we’re safe now.”

Danny gulped in air. He then looked past his brother towards the shed and his eyes widened in fright. He wanted to scream but all he could do was to squeak, “Alex!”

Alex turned and watched, terrified, as the creature materialized from the shed, lumbering purposely towards them. He turned back to his brother and in a calm voice that belied his inner fear he said, “Go, Danny. Run. Get away!”

“But… “stammered Danny.

“Go!” commanded Alex forcibly. The only thing that mattered to Alex now was his little brother’s safety.

Danny ran towards the house as Alex turned to face the abomination that was lurching towards him. He saw that the severed limb had regrown and a sinking feeling came over him. If that thing could regenerate, there was no way he could destroy it by hacking it to pieces. The best he could hope for was to slow it down enough to provide Danny a chance to escape.

Alex instinctively understood that whatever the thing was, it was very old, much older than the house or the shed. It was something evil, something that had occupied this land long before humans had appeared. His feeling of hopelessness evaporated, being replaced with anger. This evil monstrosity had hurt his brother and was responsible for the deaths of three young members of his family. 

Instead of fleeing, he charged. The entity swung an arm-like branch at him, but Alex managed to duck under it and felt great satisfaction when he sunk the hatchet into the wooden creature, right between its knotty eyes. There was a howl from the creature and Alex knew he had hurt it.

“I got more of that for you, you bastard!” snarled Alex as he wrenched the hatchet free and swung again. He managed to get in another savage cut before two limbs wrapped around him and flung him away. He landed hard, the hatchet flying from his hand and the breath knocked out of him.

Dazed, he made it to his feet. He couldn’t see the hatchet and the thing was steadily approaching him. He knew he was finished, there was no hope. But he was not going to give up. He would attack the thing with his bare hands if necessary, delay it long enough to give Danny time to get away.

“Alex! Duck!” shouted a voice behind him.

Alex ducked just as something flew past his head. It hit the ground just in front of the hideous creature and shattered. Flame erupted and quickly spread over the creature. Alex watched, transfixed as flames from a splintered kerosene lamp engulfed the entity.

Something black emerged from the flames, something with a diseased greenish glow. They heard it howling, “NO! NO!” then it dissipated, disappearing as if it never existed.

“It’s gone,” said Alex, instinctively knowing the thing had been destroyed by the flames. All that remained was some burning wood.

“Alex, look,” whispered Danny.

Alex looked over to where Danny was pointing and saw three small figures, two boys and a girl. He knew who they were. One of them, who Alex guessed was Andrew judging by the clothes the boy wore, smiled and waved, mouthing the words “thank you”.

The three youngsters turned, and, holding hands, walked away, slowly disappearing in the mist.

“Who…?” Danny started to ask.

“I’ll explain it all later,” replied Alex as he studied his brother. The kid was soaked through and was still in his stocking feet, standing in a muddy puddle of rainwater. Rivulets of water ran from his rain drenched hair and down his chest. Alex was relieved to notice that the burn mark was fading.

They were both shaking, and not just from the cold.

“That was good thinking with the kerosene lamp, Squirt. You’ve got a good arm,” commended Alex.

Danny looked down at his wet feet, embarrassed by the unaccustomed praise from his older brother.

“What are we going to tell Mom and Dad?” asked Danny looking at the remains of the broken lamp and the ashes of the burnt creature.

Alex thought for a moment then silently said, “The truth.” He smiled at his brother and added, “Come on. You’re a mess. Let’s get you cleaned up before Mom and Dad get home.”

***

The first emotion that Elliot and Miriam Benning felt when they returned home that night was relief. The house was still standing, and there was no evidence of police or ambulances.

The second thing they experienced was shock. They found the two boys talking quietly in the kitchen. Danny, dressed in pajamas and a housecoat, was sitting on Alex’s lap, leaning against his brother as the older boy was showing him something on a tablet. They were sipping hot chocolate and looked up and smiled at their parents.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” greeted Alex.

“Ah, is everything okay?” asked their mother suspiciously. She glanced around quickly but saw no evidence of damage.

Danny nodded, “Yeah, we’re fine Mom.” He couldn’t suppress a yawn.

“Come on, Squirt,” said Alex, “Time for bed.”

“Um, can I sleep in your room tonight,” asked Danny shyly.

Alex was not surprised at the request. Neither of them would get over this day’s experience for some time. “Sure,” he said tousling his brother’s hair.

Alex noticed the bewildered looks on his parents’ faces. “Danny and I had a bit of a scare today,” he said. “We’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

Elliot and his wife merely nodded dumbly, unsure how to interpret what they were seeing. They watched their sons as the boys went upstairs.

Alex, one arm draped over Danny’s shoulder, said to him, “Tomorrow I’ll teach you some soccer moves.”

“Promise?” asked Danny hopefully.

“Promise,” affirmed Alex.

Miriam turned to Elliot as the boys disappeared and whispered, “Who are those two? Ours?”

“They look like ours,” confirmed Elliot hesitantly.

Miriam frowned and looked at her husband, “I wonder what happened?”

Elliot shrugged, “I don’t know, but whatever it was, it can’t be all bad. They actually seem to like each other all of sudden.” After a pause, he frowned, “I wonder how much progress Danny made cleaning out the shed. I forgot to ask.”

“Does it matter?” asked Miriam. “Just what do you plan to do with that shed anyway?”

“Tear it down,” replied Elliot emphatically. He glanced furtively up the stairs to make sure the boys couldn’t hear him. “You know, I never liked that building. Don’t tell the boys, but the damn thing always spooked me.”

Cold freezes not …  

© vivien masseau taylor 

Cold freezes not the will, the poets' skill

rather, they in rhythm seasonally rhyme

activate the time to sublimate the cyclic chill

opposing solid state inertia

immobile, sedentary shutdown

Poets, they, in death-defying style

like junco, sparrow, jay, vibrate

puff out to insulate their wit

fiercely feeding, flip about at seedy trays

They energize, cogitate these fertile days

in sealed cocoons, skating icy surfaces

of thought, their watery depths transformed

to mirror-shine, they brood and meditate

in winter's frosty cave

whether cosy room or draughty garret

creating high estates of mind

They ferret truth

subsumed at length in words refined

We should be so glad

they sprout and bloom toward eager spring

they croon, they ring, they sing

new gifts they bring in rhymes sublime

nudging us to redefine

Ourselves

Mouse’s Kitchen

© John W Partington

“Cat!” the small Lupean snarled as he approached Mouse. Mouse was a large tabby cat from Mu-Three. Mouse was filleting fish at a counter while demonstrating to a small collection of Sauciers. The restaurant was a posh establishment at the nexus point of several dimensions, and therefore had a varied clientele. Chez Meeger served all manner of insects, lizards, and mammals. It all depended on the dominate race from the dimension connected to the nexus.

“Now,” Mouse ignored the wolf-man, “You have to be delicate. This is arctic char from Omicron-Seventeen. It is the most powerful aphrodisiac in the omni-verse, but it’s also eighty-seven percent bone. Not cartilage, but actual bone.”

“Cat! I’m talking to you!” the Lupean shouted as he approached the counter.

“Excuse me,” Mouse ushered the Sauciers back to their stations, “What is it Ralph?”

“Roolf! My name is Roolf! How many times do I have to tell you that cat?”

“As I’ve explained Ralph,” Mouse explained again, “I’m a cat. My jaws can’t make the long o sound, so one of these days when you interrupt a lesson again, blam! Right to the mun! Now what can I do for you Ralph?”

“There is fur in the quiche!” Roolf slavered, “This is the fourth time this week. If it happens again I will fire you!”

“You can’t fire me Ralph. You’re the head-chef, not the owner.”

“Then I will demote you to Commis. You will not be Sous-Chef any longer!”

“We’re a unionized kitchen Ralph,” Mouse sighed, “You can’t do that either.” Roolf leaned in so that his snout was a hair’s width from Mouse’s nose.

“Then I will gut you like a pig, and bury your carcass in a shallow grave in the forest behind my house.” Mouse gulped.

“That you could probably do,” Mouse admitted.

“Oh good,” a six foot beetle with striking red marks on its back came into the kitchen, “You’re discussing the situation.”

“Good morning Mr. Meeger,” Roolf and Mouse said at the same time.

“I was explaining to this cat the consequences of his actions,” Roolf continued.

“And I was saying it wasn’t me,” Mouse licked along his arm, “I groom myself regularly. I take out all my loose undercoat before coming to work, and I take regular baths with friends.”

“You lick each other?” Mr. Meeger asked.

“We’re cats,” Mouse shrugged, “Mostly cats anyway. There are a couple of cat enthusiasts, but I won’t bother you with the details.”

“Your perverted lifestyle is no cause for discussion…” Roolf started.

“Jealous much?” Mouse asked.

“What?”

“Loser says ‘what’” Mouse whispered just barely loud enough to be heard.

“What?” Roolf repeated. Mr. Meeger and Mouse both chuckled.

“Anyway,” Mr. Meeger continued, “The health inspector will be by this week to check out the kitchen, again. So Mouse, I want you to clean it tonight after closing. I want you to clean it to perfection.”

“Not to be an ass hat,” Mouse started, “But there are twenty people in this kitchen, eleven of which are covered by some sort of fur or hair. How do you know it’s mine?”

“It’s cat hair,” the beetle said.

“And you are the only cat!” Roolf exclaimed.

“Easy Ralph, you’ll hurt yourself,” Mouse snided.

“Anyway,” Mr. Meeger continued, “After work Mouse, scrub this place clean. No cat hair anywhere.”

“I had a date tonight,” Mouse pouted.

“You have a perversion every night,” Roolf snapped.

“Yeah, but tonight it was twins. Can’t I clean in the morning?”

“No,” the beetle answered, “I think the inspector is coming tomorrow afternoon, but you can take the morning off to get some rest after cleaning. And there’s one other thing…” He held up what looked like a mesh wetsuit in one of his pincers.

“What’s that?” Mouse asked.

“It’s a hair net,” Mr. Meeger answered, “You’ll have to wear it from now on.”

“That’ll fit my whole body!”

“It’s an whole body hair net, because your whole body is covered in hair. I’m sure you’ll get used to it, in time.” Roolf smirked with barely contained glee.

“What happens if there is another cat hair?” Roolf asked.

“I would have to let Mouse go,” the beetle admitted, “So please, Mouse, clean the kitchen.”

That night, after the rest of the staff had left, Mouse scrubbed the kitchen like it had never been cleaned before. He washed every surface, and then got out a ladder to reach all the places his three foot height didn’t allow. It was past midnight when there was a bang on the kitchen service door. Mouse opened the door to see a large slug with a package under one of its tentacles.

“Special delivery,” the slug slurred while releasing a splosh of slime.

“Thanks,” Mouse signed for the package and then spent close to an hour cleaning up the delivery man’s trail. Mouse continued cleaning, all alone, until three in the morning. At that time he opened up the package, smiled upon seeing the contents, and then pulled out an instruction manual. He tinkered around the kitchen an hour longer, and then as the sun was rising he made his way back to his apartment.

The next afternoon Mouse went to the restaurant wearing the body stocking, which made him look something like an animated marshmallow walking about town. When he got to the kitchen he found Mr. Meeger and Roolf talking to a large bipedal lizard. The lizard was taking down notes in a pad of officious looking paper.

“There is the culprit,” Roolf pointed at Mouse.

“Mouse,” Mr. Meeger started, “the inspector, while impressed by the overall cleanliness of the kitchen, found cat hair in the food stores and amongst the implements. I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go.”

“Fair enough,” Mouse sighed, “But before you fire me can we view the hidden cameras I installed last night?”

“Hidden cameras?” everybody but Mouse blurted. Mouse went to the screen used to display food orders, punched in a few commands on the keyboard, and then video popped to life. After a few minutes of scrolling through the empty kitchen the screen displayed Roolf sprinkling hairs from a bag at strategic points throughout the kitchen.

“Duh du du,” Mouse chanted.

“Roolf, you’re fired,” Mr. Meeger said, “Mouse you have my apologies. Can you take the post of Head-Chef until something more permanent is arranged?”

“Sure,” Mouse agreed, “Do I still have to wear this?” He pulled at the body stocking.

“I think that would be prudent,” the health inspector said, “Why did you do it?” he asked Roolf.

“He’s a cat,” the wolf man answered as if it explained everything.

“Thanks for the job Roolf,” Mouse smiled, “Cross my path again, and Blam! Right to the moon.”

“But you can’t use long o,” Roolf looked confused.

“I’m a cat. It’s my nature to upset dogs. Mr. Meeger, there’s an unauthorized person in my kitchen. Can you call some sort of security to remove him? I’ve got cooking to oversee.” Mouse swaggered into the kitchen with his tail in the air. “Franco!” Mouse called to a large crustacean, “pull some lobster. We’re celebrating.”

“That’s like cooking my cousin,” Franco replied.

“I’ve met your cousin,” Mouse laughed, “that’s not the kind of cooking I’d do with her. Now, pull the lobster and get some eggs and spinach. We’re making breakfast!”

“It’s past one o’clock,” somebody in the back of the kitchen shouted.

“The next person who ruins my moment cleans the bathrooms,” Mouse ordered, “Now, eggs, spinach, lobster, chop chop. You’re still here?” Mouse looked at Roolf.

“There will be a reckoning cat,” Roolf snarled, and then he skulked out of the restaurant.

“I can’t wait to tell my roommate,” Mouse smiled over the screams of lobster hitting water, “All in all not a bad Thursday afternoon.”

Vacation from Work

© John W Partington

“That’s deliverable one fifty-two complete,” Evan said as he moved a document from the pile on the left side of his desk to the pile on the right side. His tone indicated a measure of pride, and smugness.

“Janice, deliverable one fifty-two is complete,” he called to his assistant at the next desk.

“Yes Sir,” Janice replied with a note of indifference, “You don’t have to tell me every time you complete a form.”

“Then how would you know to pick it up?”

“I collect everything once at the end of the day,” she explained, “Jackass,” she added under her breath. Evan adjusted his tie, a day gift from his son which the boy had purchased with his own allowance money.

“What’s next?” he asked.

“Deliverable one fifty-three” Janice suggested.

“I think I’ll get a coffee first,” Evan announced. He moved toward to the kitchen. The hubbub of noise from the outer offices stopped as Even surveyed the cubicle jungle like a mighty panther. He himself had been a cube dweller until a month ago. Then his promotion had come through, and while he was only middle management it was Management. He shared a small office with his assistant and another manager. Evan moved into the kitchen with a confident smirk on his face.

Normally a middle manager was insulted to be close to the kitchen, but Evan liked it. He could overhear some of the water cooler gossip from his office if he strained his ears. He heard his name often, and while he couldn’t quite make out what was being said he knew it was about him. Completing one hundred and fifty-two deliverables in a month was something that was certain to be noticed. The cubicle dwellers would be jealous.

Moving back into his office he lounged in his chair for a moment. It sounded like a gaggle of geese in the cube farm as all the employees started to talk; no doubt they were talking about Evan and his meteoric rise to power. Suddenly all noise in the cubes stopped as a dark figure moved into the kitchen; Evan hadn’t seen who it was but he had his suspicions. No doubt it was Brad coming to congratulate him.

A few moments Brad, Evan’s Executive Manager, came into the office.

“Good Morning Evan. Janice, could you take a break?”

“Certainly” Janice smiled, and then quickly left the room. Evan noticed the swishing of her stockings as her thighs rubbed against each other sounding like a pair of crickets. He would have to talk to her about that; it was distracting to his work.

“How’s it going Evan?” Brad asked as he sat in Janice’s vacant seat.

“Great” Evan answered, “I just completed deliverable one fifty-two, and was about to start one fifty-three when you walked in.”

“You got promoted out of the cubes a month ago, and you’ve already found your water and completed a hundred and fifty deliverables.”

“One hundred and fifty-two; I was about to start fifty-three.”

“Do you miss the cubicles Evan?”

“Sometimes Brad, but on the whole I think I like management better.”

“Maybe it’s time you consider taking a vacation, you know because of the stress.”

“Oh, I don’t think I can do that. I have too many deliverables; maybe in a couple of months when things settle down after year end, but not now.”

“I was reflecting on the Peter Principle; do you know what that is?”

“Not really.”

“It’s the process of people getting promoted to one level higher than their competence can manage” Brad explained, “It means that eventually everybody will be incompetent in the job they are doing because they’ve been stretched beyond their limits.”

“And you think you might be suffering from this?” Evan suggested.

“No” Brad laughed, “I thought you might be happier back in the cubes.”

“Lord no. I love this job; sure there’s stress, but I’m handling it.”

“I’m not so sure. Maybe you should take a couple of weeks vacation to de-stress.”

“Well, what proof do you have that I’m cracking?” Evan asked.

“There’s the office dress code.”

“I know” Evan admitted, “The tie is in poor taste, but my son bought it for me with his own money and I promised him I would wear it to work. I wore it today, because being Friday there are less people in the office. He’s six, he thought it was a grown up tie.” The tie had a picture of a buxom and busty woman standing by a roadside fruit stand with the caption “How about those melons?”

“It’s not the tie Evan.”

“Well than what is it?”

“How do I put this,” Brad pondered, “The rest of us wore pants today.”

Bend

© Julie Band

The girl looked down into the clean, clear fishpond.  She dipped her hand into the cool water and watched as air, water and light combined to create the allusion that her arm was bent at an alarming angle.

Her stomach was tight from the thought of the conversation she would soon have with her father.   She needed his permission to attend school and he was not an easy man to speak with.

Just like the effect of light in air and water worked to make her arm look grossly malformed, she often felt that her father’s ears and brain worked to bend and twist the meaning of her words.  Compliments were seen as insults, reassurances as threats, and requests for help or privileges as attempts to deceive or manipulate.  This was not to say that at times he could not be reasonable: he could.  But she was never sure what made him so, which father she would get: happy and rational or angry and argumentative.  More often than not, his mood was cantankerous and she had learned to avoid him, only dealing with him when necessary, and in those moments agreeing with whatever he said. This was far better than having her words leave her lips only to have them served back to her as black, twisted barbs.

In the past, if she had really needed something, she could always ask her mother.  She had a way of knowing when to approach her father and how to plead a case to ensure success.  Her mother was gone now, though and the girl knew she would have to face her father herself and hope he would agree to pay the funds for her school.   

She pulled her hand from the water and patted the back of her hot neck with her now cool palm.   She thought of the many ways her father could bend and twist the meaning of her words this time.   She anticipated his arguments and had sat for hours thinking of counter arguments, diffusing words and possible pleas.  She stood and braced herself.  Now was as good a time as any and she walked into her home to face him.  

New Beginnings

© Janice D. McDonald

She looked down from the balcony to the perfectly manicured lawn where chairs were perfectly arranged in long neat rows. Each chair was covered in pristine white satin accented by wide scarlet lace, miniature white orchid clusters were centered in each knot, perfectly matched to the small bouquets of red roses with white orchid centres that marked each side of the aisle. The perfect red and white rose archway stood at the end of the aisle. It was something out of a fairytale; a dream come true. It was their dream.

Turning away from the perfect scene, she walked through the French doors into the massive guest room. Butterflies danced in her stomach when she glanced at the white lace gown hanging beside the full length mirror. The gown was inspired by Grace Kelly’s royal wedding, complete with layered petticoats, long sleeves and a fitted lace and pearl bodice.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.

“May I come in?” a familiar voice asked.

“Of course, Melinda,” Catherine replied and greeted her dearest friend with a smile and warm embrace. “Is everything ready for tonight’s dress rehearsal?”

“We’re all set. Guests are expected to arrive in the next two hours. I’ve given specific instructions to the wait staff around the cocktails and dinner, what to serve when, and all those details. Everything is exactly as you planned.” Melinda paused. “Is that the dress?” She pointed to the sleeveless crimson chiffon evening gown hanging up near the French doors.

“Yeah. I wanted something completely opposite to the wedding gown. Something a bit more modern.” Cat walked towards the gown, ran her hands over the soft material and smiled. “Well, I guess I should start getting ready.”

“Do you need me to do anything?” Melinda offered.

“Would you just keep me company until it’s time? It helps to keep my mind clear if we just chat about, well, anything else.”

“Absolutely. Did I tell you about the new guy I’m dating?”

***

Tiny blue lights hung from the ceiling like raindrops trapped in slow motion. At the centre of each table was either a round mirror with large cream pillar candles or hand-cut rounds of wood holding sea shells and sand.

The crystal sang as Charles tapped the side of his glass. The chatter of the guests slowed to a soft murmur.

“If I could have everyone’s attention, please. On behalf of Catherine and I, we’d like to thank you for coming this evening as we prepare for our wedding tomorrow.” Charles glanced down towards Catherine, “ I can honestly say that I’m the luckiest man in this room, to have such an elegant and radiant fiancée. Catherine, you are my heart and soul. I look forward to officially calling you my wife.” Charles turned to everyone in the room, “to my future wife.”

Crystal glasses clinked and cheers were sounded in response. Cat slowly stood beside Charles, her own glass raised, a radiant smile on her lips.

“Darling, how kind of you to profess your love to me in front of all our friends and family. Actually, I’d like to play you a little something I came up with while preparing for this event.” Cat nodded towards Melinda standing beside the sound system.

The static of the sound system crackled as it warmed up, and then Charles’ voice echoed through the speakers: “It’s just a piece of paper. It’s not like it matters, and cripes, if it keeps her off my back, what the hell do I care? I’ll just keep attending conferences or plan more business trips.” Charles paused. “I swear, she’s got no idea what’s going on. Look love, I’ll see you in two weeks, but I must get back to the guests now.” he paused again, “I love you too.”

Gasps filled the room, a chair squeaked on the floor; glass shattered on the floor.

“Darling Charles, you thought I was none the wiser, but really, you’re a terrible liar. I’ve known about Sheila for over a year. You may have fooled your parents, and even your best mate, but I had you pegged a long time ago. And to be honest, it was easy to keep up the charade and well, you were convenient for social obligations.” Cat pulled the ring from her finger and dropped it into Charles’ hand and turned towards his parents, “Mr and Mrs Sampson, I’m sorry to do this to you in front of so many of your family, but I knew you wouldn’t believe me without actual proof. Do yourselves a favour, renew your vows instead? Have the dream wedding you were never able to have. Celebrate true love with your loved ones, oh and kick this one out of the house. You don’t deserve such a spoiled and selfish son, and he certainly doesn’t deserve such kind and loving parents.” Cat addressed the slack-jawed crowd, “Could everyone please raise their glasses?”

In stunned silence, glasses were raised.

“Live life on your own terms and without limits.” Cat toasted and drained her glass.

Before Charles could say a word, Cat strode out of the room. She heard a single applause, followed by more clapping and then raised voices as she walked through the cocktail lounge where she passed friends, family and wait staff. She made her way through the hallway and out the front door to the waiting car, where she got in and calmly closed the door.

Like chocolate….

© Anne-Marie Dallaire-Sarazen

Some of these are hard, some are soft

Some leave a bad taste in your mouth

Often hidden under a pretty appearance

Some may not be given a second chance

The larger ones often are not the best

The finer ones; one must slowly ingest

Hazelnuts, praline, almonds, fruits of all kinds

Hide under a couverture asking to be devoured

Some exotic combinations now in style

Spices, peppers, salt of every colour beguile

None of these will ever replace the classics

Orange, raspberry or rum of the Jamaique

When it comes to special presentation

The finer the better; the sky has no limitation

Boxes, ribbon, decors, dainty mould

Here the friar is often made by its coat

From white, pale brown, dark almost black

The colour’s purpose is to attract

Do not be impressed by the use of pastel

These decors are always artificiels

Not a type of food to be eaten on the go

Neither whole should it be made to swallow

These delicacies take much time to savour

Or you may be looked upon as a beginner

The French are my favourite; I mean the recipes

The truffle confection is named after its shape

Active ingredients: caffeine and theobromine

Nectar of the Gods; it will nourish your mind

Maligned as a food that will make you fat

Only the sugar is responsible for doing that

Why do you think our neighbours to the South

Call this confection a candy bar for the mouth

Like love making, the art of its appreciation

May be practiced to the point of satisfaction

Remember how gauche when you first tasted the candy

Over the years, maturity surely will bring you to ecstasy!!!

February 28, 2013

Christmas at the Cottage

© Elizabeth Taylor

From the window, Andrea 12 and Cheryl 11; watched the softly falling snowflakes land upon the snow-covered pine trees. Andrea’s family invited Cheryl to join them for their annual Christmas pilgrimage to the cottage.

“Andrea, do you think your mom would allow us to go for a walk in the fields?” Cheryl asked.

 “Let’s ask her” Andrea replied. The two friends ran to the yard to find Mrs. Mooney. “Mom, would it be alright if Cheryl and I went for a walk to the back of our property?” Mrs. Mooney gave her permission. The field was flat with only a large cluster of tall pines. The girls could be watched from the kitchen window while she prepared supper.

“Yes”, she told the girls. Just be sure you are back home before dark.” “Alright! Let’s go Cheryl!”

They sank up to their knees in snow with each step they took. Andrea suggested, “Let’s go stand under the pine trees. The tree boughs are long and block the snowfall so, the snow under the tree will not be so deep.”

A gust of wind whistled through the dense pine branches making them sway and creak. The sound startled Cheryl. She stepped in closer to the trunk and looked straight up, then stepped back, grabbed Andrea’s arm and pointed up into the tree; that was when they saw a small round face with pointed ears…dressed in an ELF suit staring back at them!

Andrea spoke first; “Are you really Santa’s Elf?“ “What is your name and how did you get into this tree?”

“My name is Spark. I fell into this tree from Santa’s sleigh when he had to make a sharp turn towards the East because he realized he plotted the wrong course into the GPS and would have ended up in the Western hemisphere during day time instead of night time. That would have been a catastrophe because all the children in the west would have been awake! I need to find a way to tell him where I am. My cell phone fell out of my pocket when I was tumbling through the sky.” “We were flying at Mach speed and he did not see me fall out of the back of the sleigh!” “I have no way of communicating with Santa to tell him where I am.”

“Not to worry”, Andrea reassured him. “I have my cell with me. My mother makes me take it everywhere I go!” “You are welcome to use it to contact Santa.”

Elf had a perplexed look on his face. “What is the matter Elf?” Andrea asked. “Well”; he said, your phone is on the Bell network but mine is on the Jingle Bell Network.” “I will have to do some configuring of my network router.” The two girls could feel their heart-beat racing. The intensity was overwhelming.

Then Spark dialed Santa’s cell phone number. “HO, HO, HO Merry Christmas, Santa Speaking!” The voice on the other end sounded panicked: “Santa, this is Spark speaking.” “Spark, why are you calling me from the back of the sleigh? Why not just come to the front and speak to me?” “I am not on the sleigh, Santa. I fell out of the back of the sleigh when you made the sharp turn to the East. Here are my coordinates so you can pick me up when you come West.” Santa wrote down Sparks coordinates; confirmed the information once again and hung up his phone.

The three said a hasty final goodbye and wished each other a Merry Christmas.

The next morning, Andrea tried to make a call on her phone and realized Spark had left it on the Jingle Bell Network so she now had a direct-line to Santa!

What’s going on?

© Reva Atkinson

I hate the bus. I hate the people in the bus, behind the bus, waiting for the bus, getting on the bus, and getting off the bus.  In short, I really hate the bus.  At least the tube provides a much faster ride so that any annoying people won’t be annoying for very long.  But sadly, that is my only form of transportation to and from work.

My name is Mary Parker (formerly Lamb – but due to the unbearable taunting of others, involving singing the dreadful song, “Mary had a little lamb”, I changed my name to Parker.  It seemed suitable at the time. I was born in Poughkeepsie, New York and found myself in London married to Richard. Fortunately, I am no longer married to him. I have a dog, Mr. Parker, a white shitzu.  He is the perfect companion: he listens when I talk, never complains, and is always available for a little pet and scratchies.  I couldn’t ask for anything more really. Though, I do crave for the companionship of a real live and in the flesh male companion. A certain Jonathan Rhys-Meyers comes to mind, who strangely enough, bears a remarkable resemblance to Elvis.  I call him Mr. Shakespeare.  I’m not sure why, but it seems suitable.

I would like to describe a recent and typical day at the office.  It goes like this:

8:19am – another dreaded day begins as I start to take notice of the moving form of Gillie, the other receptionist at the medical clinic where I work.  She is slithering back and forth across the car park in a desperate search for someone, anyone to walk into work with her.

I begin to ponder: does she fear being alone? Is this the reason why she must always surround herself with people?  And if that doesn’t happen, she grabs hold of the phone? I cannot help but wonder.

And in she blew like a monsoon.  I was in the middle of a phone call with a sick staff member.  I could soon feel Gillie’s piercing eyes on me.  She finally ordered me to “unplug” my phone headset.  And so another day begins.

11am – crisis in the first bathroom floor. Nigel, the practice manager, comes to tell me the “toilet is plugged.” Gillie jumps out of her chair, eager to save the day and win the affections of all once again. She runs into the hallway shouting, “where’s the bloody plunger?”  A few minutes later, she pops her head out of the bathroom yelling at me, “Tell Millie to bring down more paper.” Millie, as instructed, comes down with a roll of toilet paper. Gillie quickly berates me in front of Millie, “No, no! I said we need paper towels, not bloody toilet paper!” I told her I was sure she meant toilet paper. Millie just laughed.  Thanks Millie.  I always could count on you for support. NOT!

The mail comes in late. I quickly flip through it. At the same time, I hide away some pamphlets on the rack for fear Gillie might want to know what they’re all about.  I succeeded.

3:37pm – Stanley, one of our volunteers who can trap you into a long conversation about nothing, readies to leave.  I try to look busy, but decide to engage in a conversation with him. I have to do that once in a while.  I can’t be a total bitch. While talking to Stanley, Gillie was finalizing her plans to go to a workshop in October called, “How to deal with angry customers.”  Good, she’ll be out of my hair for a whole day. I’m looking forward to that.

Later, while Gillie was on the phone, the elevator man was on the other side of the counter writing on a piece of paper.  Gillie appeared rather agitated as she wheeled herself back and forth in her chair, probably dying to help the guy out.

And so I end on this note: What did Gillie accomplish today?

1.    Talked to people around her

2.    Talked on the phone

3.    Hugged skinny Gillie from Accounting

4.    Endeared herself to Dr. Daisy by bragging about how she had run into her husband

5.    Booked medical appointments

6.    Attacked the children as they came in for their appointments

7.    Faxed a few items

8.    Brushed her ‘80’s style big hair

9.    Filed her nails

 In all, a rather productive day I’d say.

Hallellujah

© Patricia Elkins

He was cleaning a car near his camper by the tracks. Washing and waxing the surface.

Guns and grenades tattooed where the freckles on his chest used to live.

She walked toward him in the sun, holding her breath as thistles crunched beneath her feet.

He stopped, then turned and caught her eye among the bruises, and the scars.

He laughed as she touched her face. A series of cackles and then the exposure of steel. His eyes grew wide before grenades exploded into blood and bone. Shattering under the weight of guilt.

He was left to rot in the midday heat.

She hurried down the tracks and took the last train to the church by the river.  

Awaken the Dead

© Janice D. McDonald

It was pitch black. From beyond the darkness, someone called her name.  She didn’t recognize the stern voice. She struggled to open her eyes. It was still pitch black. She couldn’t see anything, but she could hear people calling her name.  

“I’m right here,” her voice echoed inside her head; no words escaped her lips.  She reached out her arms.  They stopped mid-reach as they struck something solid and rough; her shoulders brushed against something cold.  She reached out again more slowly this time; her hands stopped.  She tried to rock her body from side to side, but it felt rigid and heavy; taking energy she didn’t have. She could feel her legs and feet but they too were constrained. Her breath quickened and she fought against the darkness, slamming her fists above her.  “I’m right here; get me out of here.” Again, she tried to scream, exerting all of her effort to see past the blackness, to feel, to be heard. “Ouch,” a sharp pinch startled her… she felt a stabbing sensation under her fingernail.

Panic crept in as the voices around her grew louder. There were more voices now, machines beeping in the background, the drip of fluid hitting the floor and blackness turned to blinding white light.

“Wake up!  Please just wake up!” a soft, more familiar voice pleaded as warm hands wrapped around her shoulders; they felt like fire against her cold skin.

“I’m awake!  I’m right here,”  she felt tears stream down her face. “Why can’t anyone hear me!  I’m right here!” She screamed in frustration; her fists pounded the solid surface above her; her feet kicked at the darkness, but it was unrelenting and closed in.

Amelia

© Michele Partridge

As Amelia lay on her back, her eyes gazing up at the ceiling with its exposed pipes and wires, she was amazed to discover how quiet dying could be.

She could feel her heart beating, its rhythm slow and at times sporadic.  Sometimes, when her heart would hold its beat for a second, a pain would bloom in her chest, only to disappear when the rhythm began again.  She could feel her blood – she could smell her blood – trickling from a dozen wounds on her body like a tap left carelessly dripping.  

It felt too quiet, too unremarkable to be dying.  

She wondered what would happen now.  Would the police come?  Were they even now on their way?  She had managed to dial 9-1-1 on her cell phone before it became a broken pile of plastic.  She had heard the operator answer the phone.  Amelia thought that, perhaps, she had been able to say something – “help”, maybe.  She was afraid, though, that it had only been a gasp as the knife made its final foray through her skin, sliding sickly-smooth into her stomach, while the phone was snatched from her hand.

The man with the knife had been thorough in his destruction of her phone.  And of her.

She knew about GPS in phones, and that sometimes the police can find you even if you can’t speak to them.  As long as the phone was on.  She turned her head gingerly from one side to the other, looking for the remains of her cell phone.  It wasn’t there, and she frowned.  Had he picked it up?  She couldn’t remember.  She tried to picture the moment the phone hit the floor, and what happened after, but it was hazy.  She remembered that he had smiled at her, as she lay there on the floor – an unforgettable grin of joyous hate that left her cold and trembling, and absolutely certain that he was going to finish her off.  Her terror was so intense that she almost welcomed it.  He had knelt beside her, tapping her arm gently with his finger, and said, “See you soon.”   Then he hit her.

She lifted a hand to her throbbing temple where his punch had landed.  It hurt to move her arm, and she felt her skin pull apart on her bicep where a particularly nasty deep cut lived.  The sudden pain was tremendous, and she tried to cry out, but all that emerged was a liquidy groan.  Her mind buzzed with the agony, repeating to itself over and over, ‘Oh my God, it hurts, it hurts!” 

She dropped her arm, let it fall with a smack of her knuckles on the concrete floor by her hip.  The buzzing inside her mind intensified, overpowering everything, creating white and red dots that danced in her eyes.  She was going to pass out.  “Oh, God”, she prayed, “please let me pass out.”

Mercifully, she did.

She had no idea how much time had passed when she awoke.  She thought that the light through the dirty warehouse windows was different, more yellow and less gray.  Could it be morning already?  She tried to remember what time it was when she had entered the warehouse the night before.  Probably close to midnight, maybe even later.  She wished she had checked.  It bothered her not to know the time, or how long she’d been lying there.

She felt she should be doing something – trying to crawl away, trying to find herself some help.  But though her mind thought she should be moving, her body had other ideas.  Her arms felt like lead, heavier than the heaviest steel beam and twice as stiff.  Her legs felt cold, and she wondered if there was any blood left in her body.  She wanted to cry but at the same time felt strangely calm, strangely accepting of the entire situation.

Then, she heard the sweetest sound:  sirens – faint and in the distance – and she prayed with all her heart that they were coming her way.  Had they found her, despite her smashed phone?  She was so eager for them to find her that she tried to sit up without thinking it through.  Agony ripped through her stomach, while various other wounds on her body crackled and oozed with the movement.  She gasped, trying to breathe through the pain and just keep moving.  But it was too much, and she had nothing left to keep going with, so she carefully laid herself back down and hoped they would find her soon.

The pain ebbed, and she found herself focusing on the sirens.  Definitely coming closer, getting louder.  And more than one.  The relief was overwhelming.  She felt herself drifting away, wanting desperately to sleep, but she gave her head a shake and opened her eyes wide in an effort to fight off the swoon.  The light through the windows was brighter now.  Morning had come, and with it the cavalry.  She just had to hang on, just a few more minutes.

Car doors slamming, people’s voices and the sound of boots hitting pavement.  They came through the door with a crash.  She had never heard anything more hopeful in her life.  She raised her arm, despite the pain, and moaned, “I’m here”.

And there they were, surrounding her, touching her.  But she didn’t like the touching part so much – that hurt, a lot – and she tried to push them away.  They were poking at places that throbbed, places that still bled, and she needed them to stop.  She reached both hands out to swat away the paramedic kneeling beside her, but he grabbed her hands and held them between his own.

“You’re okay, now,” he whispered.  “We’re here.  Everything is going to be fine.”

His partner began cutting at her shirt, trying to expose her cuts by gently pulling the stuck fabric from the wounds.  He was quick, and he kept his gaze on his work, but Amelia needed him to leave her be.  She thought she might scream with this new pain he was causing her.  She tried to reach for him again, but realized the other man still held her tight.

She looked up at him, into his deep blue eyes, and felt a shift inside her.  He smiled – the same calm, joyous grin he’d had on his face when he’d slid the knife into her gut.  She tried to squirm away, but he easily held her firmly to the ground.  Then someone covered her face with an oxygen mask and she felt like she would suffocate.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” her killer purred.  “I’m here now.  And I’m going to take good care of you…”

He smiled.  She screamed.

City Park 1:  Pond Thoughts

© vivien masseau taylor

The fountain pumps a spray

bullrushes sway

at pond's edge

in the city park.

A fair attempt

at landscape art

teasing out a nook

for sanctuary

if you can ignore

the roar of transports

encircling a man-made

island of repose

where blackbirds raucous

in the reeds

impose their warning.

Seasoned traveller

countrified

pulled here from afar

knew what to anticipate

slow progress toward

re-urbanizing.

Blow wind, blow me

through the change

increase my range of coping

prove I can re-seed

bend just like that reed

rooted in strange city soil

at small water's edge

re-forming.

The Story for When the Word of the Week was Big.

© Hero van Harten

“BIg news, Jakey boy”, I whisper. “Today’s the day.”

I gently lift him off his mattress and out of whatever nightmare ordeals he’s whimpering his way through. He snuggles into my shoulder, sweaty and warm.

“Today’s the day we go and see Grampa and Suki in their new house”, I murmur. “Get up now, honey. We have to drive very far.”

“So far?” He asks, struggling to open his eyes. “Do you promise?”

I quickly stuff some extra clothes into the old purple backpack that he’s been using as a schoolbag now that he’s in kindergarten. There’s a trick with the zipper that makes it hard to close but I won’t risk taking a suitcase. At the last minute I grab his nighttime book from the floor beside his bed. We know the story by heart now, the brave squire boy, the loyal horse, the giant dragon, but he still loves it and it’s light. It fits easily into the bag.

We hurry downstairs and out the door to the car. I’m cold, Jake says and he shivers. I wish I could bring his blanket but leaving it on the bed, rumpled as usual,  might buy us a few of extra hours. “Look at your breath”, I say, as he breathes puffs of smoke into the cold air. “You’re a dragon.”

“No” he says. “I’m not the dragon. I’m just the little boy.”

And he is, of course he is, little, brave, almost beaten but not quite, just the little boy. I buckle him into his carseat and quickly glance up and down the street. Nothing moves. Maybe we’ll get lucky, if the car starts quickly, if the morning stays unbroken, if no one looks up or walks to the window to see us go.

“You’ve got a target on your back”, the woman at the shelter said. “As soon as you sign those papers.”

And I can feel it. It’s like a flashing bulls-eye sitting just over my shoulder. It lights up the space behind my eyes with a red and fearful glare. But I’m smart and I’ve always been fast and I can be brave, this time.

We drive for hours, through the night and early dawn, and don’t stop until Jake can’t hold that morning pee in any longer. The rest stop we pull up to is quiet and empty. It’s one of those state run centres off the highway and there’s a trail in behind that leads to a small waterfall and a lookout. Jake spots it right away. I start to shake my head no. I’m itching to get across the border. I don’t think he’ll follow us there. I’m pretty sure he’s got a record and at the very least he can’t take his gun across, but Jake’s eyes are full of pleading. I guess we could both use the walk, stretch our legs before we get back in the car.

I let Jakey run ahead. He’s all over the path, poking around in the plants on the sides of the trail looking for snakes and scraping up the bursts of lichen on the rocks with his dirty fingernails. I catch myself grinding my teeth, all tense cause he’s hoisted himself up to walk along the railing. Don’t worry, mama, I won’t slip. He says. Famous last words, of course. His collarbone’s been cracked twice, his wrist fractured, his x-rays are traced with lines like a well used map. Neither of us has escaped from this unbroken.

Come down, Jake, I call just as his foot slips on the wet wood. My heart leaps. He steadies himself in the next step, jumps down, runs over to me and grins, sheepish and proud all at once. I smile back. There’s a cluster of flowers on the ground beside us. This is borage, I say. It’s for courage. How do you know, mom? He asks as though he can’t believe I know much of anything.

I laugh. I had a book once. You can learn a lot from books. He tosses off my words with a flick of his head and runs down the path again. The flowers are a soft sleepy blue and purple with downy leaves like the back of a tiny vole. I am reaching out to stroke them when I hear Jake scream.

By the time I look up he is frozen on the ground, curled up in a ball, his hands over his head. There is a man standing above him. A shadow looming in a broad brimmed hat. It’s not him but I still can’t move. I can’t move. I’m not a mom. I’m no longer human. I’m nothing, a paper target, fluttering with fear.

“I just wanted him to slow down.” The man says, bewildered. “I just got into work. I just asked him to slow down.” He holds out his empty hands.

When I finally pick Jake up off the ground he cries into my cheek, whispering to my neck and hair. “He’s a dragon.” Jake says. “I heard him breathing. He called me kid. He sounded like a dragon.”

He is shaking. I am shaking. We can’t stop no matter how tightly we cling. You’ve got a target on your back. She said

Our fear is everywhere, in the shapes and the shadows. You’ve got a target on your back

I feel him coming behind us, huge and hulking but I don’t turn around. He isn’t there but still, I feel his fingers bite hard into the soft spot of my shoulder where Jake is hiding. I hear the growl of his breath and it raises the fragile hairs on my neck like a fiery wind.

The Great Barrier

© John W Partington

Two men were sailing around the world in a small sail boat. They were accomplished sailors, and anticipated no difficulties. Unfortunately such is not the way with the world. Overconfident in their ability they continued to sail through a storm, and hit an uncharted reef. The boat sank, and the two men managed to swim to a nearby island.

The island was truly a deserted isle. There was little in the way of shelter, and nothing that could be described as food. Thankfully the men had their wits about them when the boat went down, so they managed to gather some survival supplies. Being good friends, but knowing that cannibalism was the only option should they not receive deliverance, they decided to fish using tackle from the boat.

Their first foyer into the ocean was pitiful. They caught seaweed and debris from their sunken boat. After several days, weak with hunger, they continued to fish but knew there was little hope. One man carried a knife, the other a cudgel; neither was willing to make the first move.

When all seemed bleak the line started to jerk, and on the water’s horizon a marlin jumped at the end of the hook. Both men grabbed the rod and started to reel in the fish. It was truly a battle of epic proportions as the men, one by himself being too weak to accomplish the feat, together pulled and drawled the line until with a last titanic pull the fish sailed over their heads onto the beach.

Imagine the surprise of the men when the fish, instead of gasping at the gills and flopping on the beach, stood up on its tail fin and addressed the men as if at a cordial party.

“Gentlemen,” the fish said, “You have caught me well and fair, but I am a magic fish so if you let me return to the ocean I will grant you each a single wish.” The two sailors advanced menacingly on the fish. The marlin, whose tail was ill suited to an escape on sand, stood trying to reason with the two men.

“Anything,” the marlin continued, “Anything you can wish. I can grant you money, women, the means off this island. I can magically transport you home. Anything you could wish for I can grant...” The cudgel came down resoundingly on the fish’s head while the knife started the process of cleaning the fish even as it drew its last breath.

Later, over a fire made from debris of the boat, both men laughed and talked with full bellies.

“Ce que disait le poisson ?“ the first sailor asked.

“Je ne sais pas,"  the second sailor replied, “Je ne parle pas anglais. Sans doute, s'il vous plaît ne me mangez.”

My Perfect Life

© Monika Jain

Everyone left for their destination one by one. Chloe put the baby down for his nap and sat down with her first coffee since morning. This was her routine for last 6 years, every single day. Some days she felt blessed to be able to be able to bring two beautiful children into this world and some days she couldn’t grip the reality of her  life. She turned her head, looking around the room and there were toys, books, and clothes everywhere. Dishes were piled up in the sink and she had no idea what she was going to cook for dinner.

Every waking moment of her 9-month-old son was like running a marathon for Chloe. He was into everything. She wondered if she could have just a tiny fraction of the energy her little angel had. A mere thought of the day ahead exhausted her. As she took another sip of her coffee, which completely lost its flavor, she turned on her laptop. Bling! There was notification.

“Hey someone sent me an email. At Least I have someone who remembers me.” The email was a Facebook notification from her friend, Natasha, she uploaded a new picture again.  “Oh man where on earth she finds time to take pictures, let alone upload them.”

It was too difficult to resist the temptation, so unwillingly Chloe clicked the button. There Natasha was in her full glory - ever beautiful and adorned in a beautiful peacock blue embroidered dress, fitted to her body like a glove. Chloe looked at Natasha from top to bottom and she couldn’t find a single sign of post-pregnancy weight, unlike her own body where bumps and lumps sat like unwanted guests. Her chestnut hair cascaded like a waterfall and her smile was as beautiful as the sunshine. She looked like a goddess, wrapped in her husband arms as they both looked down so affectionately at their 8-month-old daughter.

Chloe felt a sharp pain in her chest as if someone had squeezed her heart. She could not take another breath and tears rolled down her cheeks. “When did last Steve look at me like that? We hardly even talk to each other.” She felt ashamed of her own emotions, how could she be so ungrateful and jealous. That was so unlike her, the inner struggle was putting her to shame, but she found herself lost in thoughts.

Her mind wandered to the past. It was a beautiful summer evening and a friend invited her to a party. She wasn’t a really keen on going but something in her forced her to venture out that day. How little did she know that evening will change the course of her life. Steve was invited there too. They felt an instant attraction the moment they laid eyes on each other. After that, it was as if everyone else had disappeared from the room. They talked the whole evening and still, there was so much to say. Within a few months, they both knew that they were perfect for each other. Getting married and settling down with each other was not something worth waiting for.  So there they were, Chloe and Steve who were strangers to each other a year ago now shared their destinies together. Life was just perfect in every way possible, they were young, well respected in their jobs, well settled in their lives, and most of all, they had each other.

Chloe always liked the idea of raising her children and Steve supported Chloe’s decision. Chloe took lots of pride raising Emma herself. She took note of every little thing Emma did and documented every single milestone. She couldn’t thank Steve enough for supporting them financially and working so hard. Even though motherhood came with lots of sleepless nights and challenges, it still made Chloe the happiest person on the planet. They were soon blessed with another child, a beautiful angel, Nathan.

Everything was still the same, but Chloe didn’t feel as blessed anymore. She craved Steve’s love and attention. She missed going out for dinners and just sitting by the beautiful lake being immersed into each other as if nobody else mattered. But lately, it felt as if they both walked on parallel paths that never intersected. He worked all his waking hours and even when he was there, his eyes told Chloe that he was somewhere else. It bothered her to her core. Even though she had no energy, she felt lonely. This is not the life she envisioned for them.

Chloe woke up from her memory and did not even realize when her silent tears turned into sobbs. She just hated her life. She wanted more. She wanted to be wanted. She wanted to be validated. She wanted what Natasha had. She felt so weak in her knees that she just fell to the floor curled up and fell asleep until Nathan’s cry woke her up few hours later. She felt agonizing pain in her heart. She didn’t want to wake up to the reality of her life, but she was the mother and she lost that choice the day she gave birth to her children. She picked up Nathan and just held him tightly to assure herself that her life had some meaning.

After Emma came back from school with her never ending stories, Chloe couldn’t help smiling. “See it is not so bad after all, I wonder what was the fuss about,” her heart told her.

As Emma heard the sound of the key turning in the door she shouted out “Dada is here,” and ran; Nathan trailed right behind her. She just couldn’t help smiling once again, her world felt complete.

Steve walked in and planted a kiss on her forehead, “Hey hon how was your day?” As she opened her mouth to reply she saw him immersed in the mail he picked up from the mailbox.

She took a deep sigh and said, “it was alright.”

She wanted to share all the little antics their son could do, all the stories Emma had in store for them, her own ideas and how proud she was to be a mother of her beautiful family with Steve, but he announced that he had a meeting at nine the morning. Chloe finished up whatever she needed to do and plopped herself in front of the TV. Another evening passed just like that. Deep sorrow clenched Chloe heart once again. Suddenly her phone chimed beside her. It was a text from Natasha. She invited Chloe and Nathan for a play date next day.

Chloe considered it, thinking she could use some change. The next morning Chloe and Nathan got ready for the play date. It had been a while since she actually had adult company. Her brain was so foggy all the time that she felt totally disconnected from outside world events except groceries and diaper deals.

It was a beautiful breezy day and Chloe felt excited. “I think that is what I should do, get out little more and enjoy some adult company. I need to rejuvenate myself from time to time.”

With all her excitement, she stepped on Natasha’s porch. Just as she was ready to ring the doorbell, she heard Natasha’s husband Marc’s voice.

“Natasha, what exactly do you do all day? I asked you to get my clothes from the dry cleaners, but you didn’t. I needed my black suit for today’s meeting, Do have any idea how important this deal is for our business?  Look at all the mess around; I can never find a single thing in its place in this house!”

Chloe froze in her place, She could hear their little daughter screaming and then Marc’s voice emerged again.

“Natasha, can you at least calm Erin down? I have a phone call to make!”

Chloe felt numb. She stood there trying to make sense of what she heard. None of the pictures fit with the scene she just witnessed. Where was all the love and affection and notion of perfect family? What a mirage! Or maybe they are having a bad day just like I was. She just ran back to her car and drove home.

When Steve came home late that evening, Chloe didn’t realize that she fell asleep leaving all the mess in the kitchen. It was Saturday the next day. She woke up by hearing the giggles from downstairs. She saw Steve was playing and chasing kids around; they were laughing so hard.

She heard Steve saying, “Shh let’s keep it down and let mommy sleep today.”

She stepped into the kitchen. The dishes were done, it was spotless. She suddenly remembered telling Steve once how much she hated waking up to a messy kitchen. She smiled as she hugged her husband and thought to herself,  “I think I am just gonna stick with my own life.”   

Absolution

© John W Partington

Trevor drove his Ford Mustang across the across the west Texas panhandle. The sun shone, and with the top down his long hair fluttered in the breeze. He passed a lilac bush, but at eighty miles an hour it was little more than a purple blur.

Purple: the children had been wearing purple school uniforms. It was spring, and the first blush of good weather before the rainy season was upon the land. The trucks were driving across the potholed and cracked pavement through a landscape as dry as Texas. The ramshackle buildings on either side of the road indicated a people either too stupid or too proud to move to a more hospitable area. The children ran onto the road in front of the trucks waving for the driver to stop.

“What do I do?” the driver asked.

Lights flashed behind the Mustang, and a siren wailed. Trevor pulled over to the side of the road. The police officer sauntered up to the driver’s side, already starting to write a ticket.

“Licence and registration” she demanded.

“Here you go Officer” Trevor replied with a sigh. He flipped his wallet open to display the license inside a plastic holder. The officer paused when she saw the picture. His hair had been shorter after being just discharged from the army.

“You know you were doing eighty in a sixty zone?”

“Yes Officer.” She raised her eyebrow.

“You in a hurry?”

“Just trying to out run my demons.”

“So you’re a tortured soul” she half laughed.

“I have issues” Trevor admitted. She handed over the ticket, her fingers lingering on Trevor’s as the paper exchanged owners, and then her hand lingered on the Mustang.

“There’s a café about thirty miles up the road. Try stopping in there for coffee; it should take you half an hour to get there if you obey the speed limit.” The cruiser pulled away as Trevor sat at the side of the road.

“It’s an ambush” Trevor answered, “Drive on, faster.”

“But…” the driver started.

“That’s an order. I’m responsible.” Like a flock of sparrows before a raptor the children tried to split around the truck, but gunfire started herding them back into the centre of the road. Men were springing out from behind the wrecked buildings while the truck ploughed into the first row of children. There was a splatter of crimson and the gentle crunch of something heavy rolling over something soft. Trevor fired his pistol out the window while the driver pressed down on the accelerator.

The air horn of the passing semi woke Trevor on the side of the road. Looking at the clock in the dash he saw he had only been asleep for ten minutes. The dreams were coming faster; the demons were closing in.

Putting the car in gear Trevor drove out onto the otherwise deserted road. The semi that woke him was already a heat smudged blur in the distance. He drove, and drove. After twenty minutes he saw a sign for the Last Stop Café, which claimed to be the last outpost of hospitality for a hundred miles. Maybe a cup of coffee would be a good idea.

“Sergeant, you did nothing wrong” the officer remarked from behind his desk, “We don’t want to lose you, but with your drinking, brawling, and all the other issues you’re going to be a Section Eight.”

“I understand, Sir. I’m damaged and now the army is throwing me away rather than fixing me.”

“It’s not like that, Trevor. We’ve done all we can to help you. You’ll never get past that war until you forgive yourself. We’re soldiers; people die. Sometimes they are innocent; just born on the wrong side of a boarder or there at the wrong time…”

“I got you Sir, ‘war is Hell.’”

“Trevor, try to get past it. Find absolution somewhere other than the bottom of a bottle. Where do you want your discharge?”

“Texas, I think. That’s where I enlisted; I might was well go back where it all started.”

The café smelt of warm apple pie and discarded cigarettes. After the brightness of the sun outside the inside was not unlike a cave. It took a few minutes for Trevor’s eyes to adjust. When they did he saw that the café was unremarkable except for the one person in it that he knew, briefly.

“Trevor! Over here” the officer called from the booth in a corner. “I was hoping you would show up” she said as he sat down.

“Honestly, I just want a coffee” he said, “I didn’t know I was being set up for entrapment.”

“You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“Should I?”

“We’ve met before, ten years ago. You climbed into my truck and told me to start the convoy rolling. An hour later you ordered me to drive over some school children sent onto the road for an ambush.”

“I, uh…” Trevor started.

“I never got to thank you” the officer said.

“Thank me?” Trevor asked.

“You ordered me to run over those children; you absolved me of responsibility. You took the blame for something I did; and I never got to thank you. I can’t think of what my life would be like if I had to live with that for the last ten years.”

“You’d probably drink a lot” Trevor admitted, “and get speeding tickets from attractive law officers.”

“Are those the demons you’re trying to out run?”

“For the last ten years.”

“I forgive you” she said as she placed her hand over his, “It wasn’t an easy decision, and I thank you for taking it away from me.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever thought of it from that perspective.”

“How about some coffee and apple pie?” she asked.

“Sure, what’s your name?”

“Joy” she answered; and for the first time in ten years it was.

The Christmas Elf

© Michele Partridge

I hate elves.

Creepiest things ever created by man (except possibly the clown, but that’s something else altogether).

Case in point:  the Elf on the Shelf.  Whoever invented this is a cruel bastard, that goes without saying. But my encounter with the Elf in my sister’s house has scarred me for life.

A couple of years ago, around this time – and, really, through no fault of my own – I found myself temporarily homeless.  The company I worked for at the time forgot to pay a tax or something – and then forgot that they had forgotten – and so ended up basically bankrupt, and yours truly was out on his ass.  No good-bye, no “thanks for showin’ up”, just a brief explanation from a shifty-eyed number-cruncher and that’s all she wrote.

So anyway, I found myself camped out on my sister’s couch that Christmas.  She has two kids – sweet little things, all gapped-toothed and bug-eyed – and these little girls just loved the Elf on the Shelf.  I swear my sister, Kathleen, lost countless hours of sleep just trying to find new places to put the Elf.  She was happy to see me, I can tell you that!  I think she agreed to let me stay with her just so she could pass the chore on to someone else and get a good night’s sleep for a change.

That’s right – in exchange for a lumpy couch and three squares a day, all I had to do was make sure the Elf was moved to a new hiding space before the angels woke up in the morning.

And, truth be told, I kinda liked the responsibility.  It became a challenge to find new and unusual places to hide the Elf – sticking out of the toaster, wrapped around the toilet paper roll, in a shoe.  And I really started to look forward to seeing the little girls’ faces when they finally found their Elf.  Priceless.

But, as things tend to do, everything went sort of sideways on me.

Within a few days of moving in, I found work at the factory making good union-dough.  Those people – they know how to have a good time!  And, it being Christmas and all, there were several functions that I was invited to.  I’m not really the type to ever say no to a shindig.  I was out a lot, let’s just put it that way.  I was still living on Kathleen’s couch, however, and the responsibility for the Elf was still mine.

One thing led to another, and I missed moving the Elf one night.  When I woke in the morning and realized what I had done, I rushed home (yes, I had slept at a new “friend’s” place that night, don’t judge me).

As soon as I walked in the house, I could hear the bustle and hum of the girls having their breakfast in the kitchen, despite the early hour.  I figured the jig was up.  I walked slowly into the kitchen, ready to face their little, disappointed eyes, and bracing myself for Kathleen’s disapproval.  But I got neither.

“Uncle Ray!” little Sammy the Blonde yelled.  “You’ll never guess where I found the Elf this morning!” She clambered off her chair and, grabbing my hand with her sticky fingers, led me to her mom’s room.

“Look at the silly Elf,” she said as she pushed open the door.

And there was the Elf, sitting cross-legged (cross-legged!) on the corner of Kathleen’s dresser.  I smiled and thought Kathleen will kill me for leaving this chore to her. 

I agreed that, yes, the Elf was very silly, and left it at that. Later that day, I apologized to Kathleen for staying out all night.

“Ray,” she said. “You live your life.  What you do is your business.  But,” she said with a little laugh, “next time, find a better place for the Elf than my room!” 

I explained that I hadn’t put the Elf in her room at all, that I had actually forgotten all about it the night before.  I don’t think Kathleen believed me – not at that moment, anyway.  She gave a nervous sort of chuckle.  Then we went in search of the girls.

“You know,” I said to Rachel and Sammy as they sat on the couch in front of me, little hands clasped in their laps.  “You're not supposed to move the Elf, right?”

Their heads nodded in unison.  Rachel piped up, “Oh yes, Uncle Ray.  We never touch the Elf.  Otherwise, he might tell Santa that we weren’t good and Santa would put us on the naughty list.”

Sammy leaned in close and whispered gravely in my ear.  “I don’t want to be on the naughty list.”

I smiled and patted her hand.  “Okay, good,” I said, and thought they’re afraid of the little bugger. 

But I was also a bit concerned.  Kathleen swore she hadn’t moved the Elf, and I didn’t believe the girls would risk the wrath of Santa Claus by playing with the Elf.  And I know for a fact that I hadn’t put it on my sister’s dresser.  It was a mystery, but at this point, I still believed there was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Determinedly, I put this incident out of my head, and just carried on moving the Elf around the house.  I’d been doing this now for a couple of weeks, and finding new and imaginative locations was becoming an issue.  I spent a lot of time thinking about where to put the damn Elf, and it was starting to grate.  

Then one night, not surprisingly, I forgot all about moving the Elf.  I had gone to the pub to watch the game, and was so tired when I got home that I just went right to sleep.

In the morning, the girls woke me up.  They were crying and frantic.  They couldn’t find the Elf anywhere.  I was immediately wide awake.  I checked the last place I had put the Elf (dangling from the banana holder), but of course he wasn’t there.  All of us searched the house for it – the poor girls still crying and afraid that they had done something to send the Elf away.  Like I said, whoever made this up was a right bastard.

During the search, every time I would run into Kathleen, I asked in a side whisper what she’d done with it.  And she kept asking me to just tell everyone where it was.

In the end, Kathleen found the Elf, inside her underwear drawer.

Over the next week, I stopped moving the Elf, and would just wait to see if it moved on its own.  I went so far as to set up a camera in the hallway, but since it wasn’t a real video camera, it didn’t work very well.  I made Kathleen swear not to touch the Elf either, just to see what would happen.  Even so, we’d find the Elf in a new place every single morning.

I say “we”, but I really mean Kathleen.  She found the Elf under her bed one morning.  Another day, she found it curled up on her pillow, right beside her head.

And then one day, when she stepped out of the shower, she was startled to find it sitting on the highest shelf in her bathroom.  She needed a step stool to reach him, and when she finally got up there, she realized he was positioned to see over the shower rod and right into the shower.

As so, finally, Kathleen started to get creeped out too.

We decided it was time to retire the Elf.  I buried it in the big garbage can at the side of the house, beneath a small mountain of mostly rotting trash, and brought it all out to the curb for the next morning’s pick up.  We told the kids that the Elf must have gone back to the North Pole, since it was almost Christmas and he was needed at home.

That night was the first night I’d slept well in weeks.  No tossing and turning, no straining to hear any unusual sounds.  At one point I thought I heard a door open, but when I sat up and listened, I didn’t hear anything more.  I laid back down on my lumpy-comfy couch and fell into a deep sleep.

Which was abruptly cut short the next morning by the pain of a plastic doll head smacking me in the forehead.  Kathleen – obviously angry judging by her red, almost purple, face – had chucked the Elf at me!  I jumped off the couch like it was a trampoline, frantically brushing the thing away from me.

It’s possible I screamed.  Couldn’t swear to it, though.

Kathleen was seething.  “That was not funny, Ray” she ground out between clenched teeth. 

“I didn’t do anything, Kath, I swear!” I said, my eyes never leaving the creepy Elf, still lying on the couch.  A wilted piece of lettuce was stuck to its face, hiding one eye.  The other eye seemed to stare right at me.

Kathleen’s anger suddenly drained away, and she looked like she was going to cry.  “What the hell, Ray?” she whispered.  “It was in my bed when I woke up this morning.  Right under the covers.  What the hell is going on?” 

We both looked at the Elf - all one-eyed and sinister - and we decided enough was enough.

We took the Elf out to the back yard and threw it in the fire pit.  I squirted enough lighter fluid over it to burn Chicago to the ground again, struck a match and set the creepy doll on fire.  

We stood together for a long time, not speaking, and watched it burn to ashes.

***

To this day, we don’t talk about the Elf.  Kathleen and I made a silent pact to forget it and move on.  Every now and then, one of her kids will mention the Elf on the Shelf with nostalgia.  But they can see how much it upsets their mother, so they usually change the subject pretty quickly.

As soon as I could, I moved out of Kathleen’s house and into an apartment of my own.  It has a big old wood-burning fireplace in the living room, and an incinerator in the basement.

Just in case.

July

© Dominique Boily

All the months of the year, from glacial January to festive December, have been invited to the gala of all seasons. Colorful October always makes a grand entrance, but it is blossoming July that is the queen of the ball.

With her grand gown of beautiful flowers and her warm, sunny smile, she dazzles the crowd as she twirls around and is gone way too quickly, before anyone can grab her arm and ask her to stay for just one last dance.

She will stay just long enough to tell us that now is a time for love… for extended walks in the park and for romantic picnics. The perfect occasion to eat fresh berries and sip sweet bubbly drinks while reclining on a blanket…listening to children playing, bicycle bells ringing, birds singing and leaves swaying in the delicate breeze.

She makes the rain taste sweeter and the air more inviting.

She gives us a special kind of courage… making it more acceptable maybe…for us to steel a kiss from a lovely stranger behind the azalea bush.

She entices us to stop and sit on a carpet of moss at the creek’s edge, and even fall asleep while the warm sun dances on our face, wrapping our whole body in a soft caress, until we wake up to a generous August.

A Poem For You

© Jaxon Horsnell

Look upon yourself

And see the wonders

That the world

Big and round

Shines a light to lead you

To the destination

That brought you here today

Look upon yourself

And see your future

That was always meant

For you to accomplish

You may wonder

That the world

Big and round

Showed you your future

Right now

March 7 2017

Teleflush

© John C. Nash

I'm not quite sure when the following happened. Hell, I'm not sure where some of it did.

It started and ended in Jos, Nigeria. And I do know the original date, and the final date, but not all the dates in the middle. The start and end were both the same Friday the 13th, and the time at the start was 19:47, and at the end was 19:49. But it was a long, very long, two minutes.

In my Canadian government job, I had some expertise that was useful to an agricultural development project in Jos, which is on the plateau in the middle of Nigeria. Jos used to be one of the British "hill station" towns where the Europeans could get away from the cloying heat of the coast. We'd gone to a fashionable bar called the Plateau Club that was a pseudo-American country club style. After dinner and a couple of sodas -- I was staying off booze to keep a clear head -- I needed the toilet.

As I sat on the throne, I noticed the cubicles were the same as the ones in my Ottawa office building, down to the stamped Life-Pro trade mark. I know I went in the washroom at 19:47 -- there was a digital clock on the hallway wall, which I suppose was more or less correct. I know I daydreamed for a couple of minutes, rather ignoring the fact that I no longer needed to be there. I'd only arrived two days earlier, and jet lag was still keeping me off-balance. A bit of quiet for a couple of minutes was welcome.

Anyway, I finished my business, flushed and came out. Funny, I thought the walls were cream-yellow, but now I noticed they were light green. I washed my hands, disposed of the paper towel and pulled open the door as another man entered. I held the door while he did. Not a local -- he had fair hair and a pale complexion.

"Tak!" he said.

Odd. That was Danish or Norwegian.

Even more odd -- the corridor with the clock was now a plain industrial one, rather short and leading to what looked like a shopping mall concourse.

How did that happen?

I tentatively went to the corridor opening and looked out on the concourse. I wasn't in Jos. Jeez! I wasn't in Kansas anymore either. From the names on some of the stores my guess was Denmark. Then I saw a sign with an arrow to Station. Maybe I could find out where I was.  

Keeping careful track of my route I followed the signs to the station. It was a large one, in the late 19th century style that had many tracks coming to a terminus. It was difficult to figure out which it was, but I was finally able to get to the side and see one of the signs that are there to let passengers know which station they are stopped in. Aarhus. I was in Denmark.  

I suppose I should have felt a sense of panic or dread. But somehow the novelty of the situation was just too fascinating. Still, I carefully made my way back out of the station to the shopping mall. Bruun's Galleri was the name over the entrance. Then I traced my steps back to the washroom, and found the cubicle I'd been in.  I had to wait a couple of minutes until it was unoccupied. The man who came out wasn't obviously from Africa. I went in, closed the door and wondered what to do next. I presumed I must actually do  something. But just in case, I cracked open the door. No. It looked the same. I looked out in the corridor. Yes, no change. 

I found I had a candy wrapper in my jacket pocket. Thankfully, I'd put on a  jacket and slacks for the Plateau Club and didn't look too out of place here. I put the wrapper on the small shelf in front of the mirror, then went back in the cubicle. The wrapper would save me going out in the corridor to check whether I'd been transported.

This time, I decided to flush. When I opened the door this time, the wrapper was gone. And the walls were now white. Oh oh. Where was I now?

A surge of panic hit. I washed my hands carefully as a way of distracting myself and to regain some equilibrium. I exited the washroom, and found I recognized that I was in one of the University of Ottawa buildings. I think it was for Law. Yes. Called Fauteux. This could be awkward, as I was supposed to be in Nigeria now.  Except when was now? If I could move in space, perhaps I was also moving in time. Very unsettling.

I looked back at the washroom speculatively. As I did, I saw a man come out in a shirt of the highly decorated type worn in Nigeria. He looked familiar. I think he was one of the Plateau Club staff. His expression was clearly one of puzzled distress, and he disappeared back into the washroom.

What to do? Well, all this moving about was making me a bit thirsty. I knew where there was a coffee bar in the University Centre. Oh. Money. I took out my wallet.

Yes. I had a couple of $20 bills at least. But I'd left home in winter. Hmm. Must be moving in time as people weren't wearing winter coats, but did have jackets or sweaters.

I walked across the road and open space and into the UniCentre and found a coffee. I asked for a receipt -- if I ever got out of this, I wanted evidence of where I'd been. The date and time on the receipt showed I'd shifted about five weeks forward.  

I sat on a bench and drank my coffee. At one point, a student asked if I had the time.

"Sorry. I discovered my watch stopped earlier today," I lied. After the student was out of sight, I snuck a peek at my watch, which was clearly going and showed 11 minutes to 8.

Well, I guess it's back to the washroom, I thought. At least the coffee had given me a reason to go there. I made sure I used the same cubicle as I came out of. With some anxiety, I pressed the flush bar.

I opened the door slowly. Now the walls were bright orange with brown stripes! I shut the door, and flushed again.

This time the door opened on pale yellow walls. Was I back? There was the African I'd seen in Fauteux Hall, splashing water on his face. Don't blame him.

I came out and washed my hands, and said, “This is a very strange washroom.”

His eyes went wide, and he rushed out of the washroom. I left with less panic and rejoined my colleagues, noting that the digital clock in the hallway now said 19:49.

After a bit, one of the other foreign consultants said "You're a bit quiet. Hope you've not got a bad tummy or something."

I replied, "No. Just thinking about something I don't quite comprehend."

"That's 99% of life", he laughed.

Given what seemed to have happened, I wondered if I'd hallucinated. Had someone put LSD in some food or drink, or perhaps there was ergot around the agricultural places we'd visited. Then I reached in my jacket pocket and felt the receipt.

I asked my colleague, "What's the date today?"

He told me, adding "of course."

I held the receipt in my lap where others couldn't see it. Yes. The date was five weeks hence.

March 1, 2017

First sight, Eidetic

© vivien masseau taylor  

I remember how

the light in the room

seemed to gather to a point

when you entered

focussing in your eyes

your dark hair, your mouth

not so much a halo

as a gentle aura

humming round

your entire being

floating toward me

extracting as you moved

all the various illuminations

from the space.

   Corners faded darker

in the presence

of your radiance

shading to a labyrinth

of concentric shining bands

a vibrating spiral

drawing me in

into its vortex

as if your body

could usurp

all luminescence

into a mirror

on which played

the flickering images

of my own reflection

capturing my essence

and yours, co-mingling.

   Smiling shyly

you let me hover

savouring the glow

before your lips began to move

your hand, reach out …

Dance Etiquette

© John C. Nash

This is a true story. Like many true stories, it may be more unlikely than many fictional ones.

At the end of summer in 1980, I was one of the representatives to Amnesty International's International Council in Vienna. My role was to participate in that least-popular of volunteer jobs, that of financial planning and administration, known as Working Party D.

We were well received in Vienna, with Chancellor Bruno Kreisky giving us a welcome address. Near the end of the 4-day meeting, there was a formal dinner in the Rathaus, in a large room I suspect the ordinary tourist does not get to see. It had an intricate parquet floor in multiple woods, with wall sculptures adorned with gold leaf. Waiters in tuxedos served us. We were seated at large round tables, 10 at each table. Somehow I was seated between a very tall English woman -- possibly over 2 metres -- likely in her thirties as I was at the time, and an Indian gentleman in his later middle years. He informed us that he used to be a non-vegetarian but had given this up.

I chatted mostly with the Indian gentleman as I recall. The English lady, who was assisting the meeting with simultaneous translation, did not seem inclined to conversation. As we were finishing our dessert, a Strauss waltz filled the room. Somehow a 13 piece orchestra had set up, out of sight of our table. Almost immediately, six of our table mates stood and went to the dance floor, leaving just one lady seated opposite me at the distant side of the table.

All my life I have danced. I turned to the English lady and asked if she would care to do so. With great formality, she informed me `I don't dance, on principle.' It later occurred to me that, being involved with languages, she was using a dialect of English where `on principle' has the silent ending `with short men'. I am somewhat shy of 5 feet 6 inches, and will allow those well-versed in metric-Imperial conversion to compute the difference in our heights.

The lady opposite was looking very lonely. She was wearing an interesting dress of a style that was not current, but of obvious good quality. I got up and walked around the table. My `Would you like to dance', was greeted with a huge smile and a `Yes'.

We threaded our way between the tables to the floor and started dancing to the lively tempo of the Strauss music. My partner was of similar height and age to myself. I learned later that she was a physician starting her career, Finnish by nationality, but who was from the Swedish speaking minority and who had a German name. She has since become a very senior representative of her country on medical issues. The dress was of silk and had been acquired by her grandmother in the early 1930s.

However, almost as we started dancing, I realized that I had a delicate issue of etiquette. The waltz requires a couple to remain connected. My partner was, in the older idiom, buxom. Moreover, 1980 was a high point in the more demonstrative phase of the Women's Liberation Movement. As the strong beat of the music drove us around the floor, it was obvious that my partner did not employ what a friend of my wife calls `members of the supporting cast'.

As we danced, there was a very regular and periodic body contact, which was disconcerting for me and possibly uncomfortable for my new friend. Now a busy dance floor is not the place for a long discussion of how to resolve such matters. I quickly surmised that I had the option of either holding the lady more loosely or more closely. The former might suggest that I regretted asking her and wanted to get away. It would also make it awkward to execute a reasonable facsimile of a Strauss waltz. Pulling her closer could be construed as an unwanted advance. Nevertheless, I felt it worth the risk, put a bit more pressure on the hand in her back and asked “Is that more comfortable?” as we now swirled more fluidly across the wonderful wooden floor under brilliant chandeliers and the vacant gaze of golden angels and cherubs.

The answer I received remains a source of questions about her command of English and of Scandinavian forthrightness, for she replied "It is stimulating, but I like it!"

The Encounter

© Allan McCarville  

The boy ran, terrified, knowing that if he was caught the men would punish him severely. He twisted and turned, ignoring the branches that grabbed his clothes and tore at his skin as he stumbled through the heavy brush, the sounds behind him indicating his pursuers had not given up.

He glanced over his shoulder to see how close they were and he missed his step. His ankle twisted and he plunged, head over heels, down the side of the rocky ravine. Pain shot up his right leg and he heard, then felt, something snap in his left arm. He lay at the bottom of the gully, blood trickling down his face but felt nothing. Maybe I’m dead, he thought hopefully. Maybe I’m finally free. 

Then the pain came. He wasn’t dead. He closed his eyes as tears of disappointment leaked out. When he opened them, he found himself looking up into the face of a young woman regarding him with concern.

She put her fingers to her lips to signal him to be quiet. “Some men went by the top of the ridge a couple of minutes ago but didn’t look down here,” she whispered. “I think they will be back soon so we better try to get out of here.” She looked down at the small figure and asked, “Can you stand?”

“I... I can try,” replied the boy uncertainly.

She helped the boy to his feet and clamped a hand over his mouth when he cried out. She embraced him and then slowly removed her hand. “I know it hurts, honey, but you have to be quiet.”

The boy looked up at her and nodded briskly, indicating he understood.

The boy wasn’t very big, barely breast height, but nevertheless was too heavy for her to carry. The woman glanced up toward the top of the ravine – no way they could climb up that.

She turned and pointed down the gully. “We’ll go that way. The ravine tapers off as it gets closer to the road. There’s cabins across the road by the lake and we can get help there.”

The boy looked in the direction the woman indicated but all he saw was woods and underbrush. “Are you sure?” he asked.

The woman smiled down at him. “Yes, I come here often. This is one of my favourite hiking trails, but it’s not every day young boys drop at my feet.”

The woman led them through the thick brush until they reached a dirt road. The woman pointed to a lane directly across from them, “I will distract those men and lead them away from you. Go to the cabin at the end of that lane. There’s a man renting it. His name is Benjamin Pierce and he will help you. Benji’s a good man and he’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

“But if they catch you…” he began but she put her fingers to his lips.

With that she left and disappeared into the woods. A few seconds later he heard one of the men shouting, “There! There’s someone in the bushes!”

Steeling himself against the pain the boy stood, and moving in a manner that was a cross between a hobble and a lurch, he stumbled across the road to the cabin. He was halfway across the road before he realized he didn’t know the woman’s name.

***

Benjamin Pierce looked out through the large windows at the lake. It was a stunning view but he was unmoved, it did nothing for him. He sipped his wine but it had no taste. Like the view, it offered no enjoyment, only emptiness and once again he wondered why he had bothered to make this annual pilgrimage. Same as the other times, he felt nothing.

Annie was gone. She was not here.

They had been married eight magical, wonderful years. Years full of hopes and dreams and plans – and love. They used to come to the lake every summer, getting back to nature as Annie used say in her laughing carefree manner. Ben would teasingly remind her that the cabins had the same conveniences as their apartment in the city, so one could hardly brag about roughing it.

They had made plans, planned their careers, planned their finances, planned their future, planned to have children someday.

They had not planned on a drunk driver running a stop sign, killing himself and Annie. Ben had not been with her, and in the five years since the accident he felt guilty for surviving. He should have died with her. Now his life was empty, meaningless.

Each year he returned to the lake – their spot, rented one of the cabins and spent a couple of weeks searching for an answer to his question. Why was he still here? 

Suddenly, something fell against the door jolting him out of his musings. Irritated at the intrusion, he strode to the door and yanked it open. His intended scathing comment was stifled when a small boy fell into him, knocking him backwards. Without thinking, Ben scooped the boy up and carried him to the couch.

Ben wasn’t a doctor, but ten years in special combat operations had taught him how to quickly assess injuries. Ben could tell from the unnatural bend in the boy’s lower left arm that it was broken and he appeared to have injured his right leg, but Ben didn’t know if it was broken or sprained. There was also something about the way the boy was sitting that wasn’t right. He gently lifted the boy’s shirt, concerned he may have broken some ribs. What he saw on the boy’s back shocked him; the boy had been whipped.

“What’s your name, son?” asked Ben.

“J… Jake. Jake Cassidy” stammered the boy.

“You’re safe now, boy,” he said trying to reassure the boy who was now shaking in fear or exhaustion, maybe both. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Ben grabbed a first aid kit from the kitchen and took out a triangular bandage that he quickly formed into a sling. “Okay, Jake. My name is Ben Pierce and we’re going to put that arm in a sling to help support it.” He helped the boy slowly manoeuvre his arm into the sling. Then he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

The call was answered almost immediately and Ben gave his location, explained the circumstances and that he needed an ambulance.

Jake nervously watched Ben as the man tried to make him as comfortable as possible. He was still hurting but the sling made his arm more comfortable and the pain in his ankle had changed from a stabbing pain to a throbbing ache. The woman was right, he was trying to help.

Jake felt a sense of security begin to envelop him but he shook it off. He had to keep his guard up and would not allow himself to trust this man. He had been betrayed far too many times.

Ben took a blanket from a chair and carefully wrapped it around the boy. “Who did this to you, Jake?” he asked.

“I.. I fell down the ravine,” replied Jake.

Ben gave Jake a look that clearly conveyed he knew the boy was not telling the whole story but decided not to push it. Leave the interrogation to the police. His involvement was to keep the boy calm until help arrived, then he was done.

Minutes later a loud knocking on the door announced the arrival of the paramedics. Ben let them in and stepped aside to allow them to treat the kid. The younger of the two asked Jake what happened and Jake repeated his story.

Ben pulled the senior paramedic aside and quietly said, “There’s more to it than that. Check his back. That wasn’t caused by falling down a ravine.”

The paramedic did and shot Ben a frown when he saw the marks on Jake’s back. He then removed a syringe from his bag which panicked Jake when he saw the needle.

“It’s just something to help with the pain,” said the paramedic.  The younger paramedic left the cabin, then returned with a gurney. When the two paramedics tried to lift him onto it Jake began to struggle.

“No! I can’t go to the hospital! They’ll find me.” Then Jake surprised himself; he grabbed hold of Ben’s hand. “Please don’t let them take me!” For the first time in his young life he had reached out to someone, a stranger who he had only met fifteen minutes earlier. He didn’t understand it but the man, Ben, made him feel safe. He never had that feeling before and didn’t want to lose it.

Ben placed his hand on Jake’s. “Jake,” he said, “you need to go to the hospital. Nothing will happen to you.”

Jake shook his head and almost wailed, “Please, let me stay.”

Ben glanced up at the paramedics. “Where are you taking him?”

“Cedar Grove Regional,” answered the senior medic.

Ben nodded. “I know where it is.” He looked down at Jake and added, “Jake, the police will be here soon and I need to talk to them about what happened. You’ll be safe in the hospital – no one can get to you.”

Jake still held onto Ben tightly. “Jake, once I’ve talked to the police I’ll go to the hospital to check up on you. Okay?”

“Promise?” asked Jake, his voice weakening as the pain killer started to take effect.

“Yes, I promise,” repeated Ben reluctantly. He had done his civic duty and had no need or desire to see the kid again. He just wanted to get back to what he was doing before the interruption. Now that he had made that promise, he was committed to at least visit the kid. Ben always kept his word. 

Jake’s hand slipped out of Ben’s as the pain killer pushed him into sleep. Ben watched as the paramedics wheeled Jake out to the ambulance, finding himself staring at his now empty hand. As he waited for the police, he tried to shove the kid from his mind. He had helped the boy so now he could get back to the life he had before the interruption.

Why? You’re only going to wallow in self-pity. Ben frowned at that unexpected truth that came from nowhere. 

***

The next morning, Ben decided to check out even though the cabin was his for several more days. During a restless and sleep deprived night, he realized that the only thing he was accomplishing with his annual pilgrimages was to ensure he continued to live in the past. As much as he wanted to do that, Annie would not have approved. He didn’t know how he was going to move forward, but languishing around the lake was not the answer. 

He loaded up the car and settled in for the three-hour drive back to the city.  He was mulling over his options when he remembered he had a promise to keep.

Against his better judgement, he drove to the hospital. Upon arrival, he was told that he could not see the boy because he ‘was not family’. That worked for Ben, so he asked them to let the boy know he had dropped by as promised and turned to leave.  

“Excuse me. Are you Ben Pierce?” asked a woman who was standing nearby and had overheard the conversation.

“Yes,” replied Ben to the middle-aged woman.

The woman smiled and said, “I’m Vivian Forbes. I’m Jake’s social worker.”

They shook hands and Forbes spoke to the receptionist. “It’s okay. Mr. Pierce helped Jake yesterday so he can visit.”

Forbes led Ben down a corridor and stopped in front of a closed door. “The police are with him now, but when they’re done you can go in and visit with him.”

“How’s he doing?” asked Ben.

“He has a concussion and a broken arm. He sprained  both his right ankle and the ACL in his right knee, but the doctors feel surgery is not necessary. However, it will take time to heal,” Forbes informed him.

“What’s going to happen to him?” he asked.

Forbes sighed and said, “He’ll be here for another day or two then he goes to a group home. After what he went through he’ll need counselling, plus he will be testifying against his stepfather when the case eventually goes to trial.”

“A group home? Where’s his mother?” asked Ben.

“She passed away a few years ago. Roger Smith married Jake’s mother when his biological father died. As Jake’s stepfather, he had legal custody of Jake and no one knew what Jake was enduring until he ran away. Fortunately, he ran into you before he was caught. Jake’s stepfather and several other men – and women – are facing several abuse charges.”

“How could his own stepfather beat him like that?” asked Ben. Then he had another puzzling thought. “There were others? How could they stand by and watch that happen?”

Forbes said nothing, but Ben detected something in her body language and he suddenly realized the full truth about Jake’s abuse. “Oh, that poor kid,” he groaned, feeling physically ill.

“He’s got a hard road ahead of him,” was all that Forbes said.

“I really hope you can find him a good foster home,” said Ben.

Forbes merely shrugged and said, “We’ll definitely try but it doesn’t look good. Jake will be thirteen in two months and finding foster homes for older kids is tough, especially for someone who has been traumatized like Jake.”

Thirteen? Ben would have sworn the kid was younger. “But what will happen to him if you can’t place him?” he asked, trying to ignore the concern that was beginning to develop despite his efforts to the contrary. 

Forbes regarded him thoughtfully and answered, “He will stay in the group home for now, at least until the trial. After that, he’ll likely be moved to a long-term youth care facility, likely Rosewood.”

The idea of a twelve-year-old kid being institutionalized did not sit well with Ben. But he also knew there was nothing he could do about it. Further discussion of Jake’s future ended when a man and a woman stepped out of Jake’s room. They nodded to Forbes then looked at Ben quizzically.

“This is Ben Pierce,” said Forbes. “These are detectives Grimes and Benson.”

“Ah, Mr. Pierce,” said Grimes offering his hand to Ben. “Young Jake told us about how you helped him. Thank you for what you did, stepping up to help the boy.” He indicated the closed door with his thumb, “There’s a kid in there who thinks you’re Superman,” he chuckled.

“Anyone would have done the same thing,” said Ben uncomfortably.

Benson shook her head. “No, unfortunately, most people would not have helped. He’s lucky you were there.”

Grimes took out his notepad. “We know you already gave a statement to some officers yesterday, but we might need to speak with you again. We have Jake’s stepfather and some others in custody and more arrest warrants have been issued. He flipped through the pages. “You live at Mountain View Apartments?”

“Yes, Apartment 607,” confirmed Ben.

“Nice digs,” said Grimes, obviously familiar with, and impressed by, the location of Ben’s upscale residence. “We’ll contact you in a day or so to arrange a meeting. The only other person we need to contact is the woman Jake claims brought him to your place.”

“Woman? Claims?” questioned Ben.

Grimes nodded. “Yes, we can’t locate anyone matching her description. We talked to several women who were renting cabins in the area but drew a blank.” He glanced at the door and added quietly, “Since he has a concussion the doctors think that perhaps he imagined the woman. It would be nice if we did locate her if she exists, but it’s not essential to our case. We have enough evidence to put those scumbags away for a long time.”

They shook hands and after they left, Forbes led Ben into the room. Jake was lying on the bed, staring at the wall and didn’t notice them enter. He turned his head and when he saw Ben he cried out, “Mr. Pierce! You came!”

Ben moved to stand beside the bed and Jake reached out with his good arm and latched onto Ben. Forbes noticed it was Jake who initiated the contact. Up until now he had been shunning any form of physical contact, especially from men. It was evident to her that for some reason Jake had formed a bond with Pierce, although it appeared to be only one way.

“I promised I would,” Ben reminded him.

“I know,” Jake said. “I didn’t think I would see you again.” He looked away for a moment as if searching for something then turned back to Ben. “I just wanted a chance to thank you for what you did for me.” He turned away from Ben in a futile effort to hide the tears that started to run down his cheeks. Embarrassed, he wiped them away with the back of his good arm. “Sorry,” he stammered.

Ben wasn’t sure what to say or do; it had been a long time since he had to comfort anyone. He patted Jake on the shoulder. “It’s okay Jake. I think you are a very brave boy and you’ll get through all this.”

Jake’s expression didn’t indicate much in the way of agreement with what Ben said.

Ben straightened up and turned to Forbes. “Well,” he said, “I need to be going. I have to get back to the city.” He held out his hand to Jake. “Good luck, Jake. You’re going to be okay.”

Jake just blinked away tears and shook the proffered hand but said nothing. Ben reached the door and took one last look at the boy. The boy gave him a weak smile, but Ben saw only fear and uncertainty reflected in Jake’s face.

That was the image that stayed with him as he drove back to the city.

***

Six weeks later, Vivian Forbes sat on the sofa, Jake beside her and Ben in an arm chair across from them. Both man and boy were very nervous.

“You know,” she said looking from one to the other, “this is just a trial weekend. It will give you both an opportunity to get to know each other better. If this visit goes well, then there will be a temporary placement. We’ve managed to move quickly in this case because of the circumstances, but permanent custody will not be possible for at least a year.”

Ben nodded that he understood and once again wondered if he was making a wise decision. He had been to Afghanistan, had led troops in firefights, had seen the horrors of war. He had been scared, a perfectly normal reaction for anyone being shot at, but now he faced a different type of fear. Taking on the responsibility for a traumatized young boy was undeniably outside of his life experiences.

Jake was mending very well. He still had a cast on his arm and walked with a limp as the ACL was still healing. With the bruises gone, Jake was a very good looking young boy.

Jake nervously studied Ben, but for a different reason. He had already made up his mind; he wanted to live with Ben and was ready to move in now. However, the rules stipulated at least one weekend visit before even temporary arrangements could be made. It gave both parties an opportunity change their mind and opt out. His fear was that Ben would do precisely that. 

Ben pointed down the hall. “Why don’t you take your bag to your room, Jake? It’s the last door on the left.” Jake nodded and did as Ben suggested.

While Jake was gone, Forbes commented, “I can tell you are a little nervous, Ben. That’s understandable. It’s a major life changing decision should you go forward with it.”

When Jake returned Ben asked him, “Would you like something, Jake? Milk? Juice?”

Jake shook his head replying, “No thank you, Mr. Pierce. I’m good.”

Just before he sat back down, Jake froze, pointing at a framed photograph he hadn’t noticed before. “It’s her! That’s the woman!” he exclaimed.

Ben looked at the picture and shook his head, “No. It’s impossible, Jake. That’s Annie and she died five years ago.” What is this kid up to? wondered Ben, beginning to feel anger towards the boy. He was bitterly disappointed that the boy would lie now. 

Jake was adamant. “It was her.” He closed his eyes as he tried to remember what the woman had said to him. “She pointed to the lane and told me to go to that cabin that the man there would help me. She said, ‘Benji’s a good man and he’ll make sure nothing happens to you’.” Jake looked directly into Ben’s face and said, “She said I’d be safe with Benji.”

Ben’s face drained of colour.

Jake was devastated. Only ten minutes into the trial weekend and he had already destroyed any hope of staying.

“Ben? Are you alright?” gasped Forbes.

“I’m okay, Vivian,” Ben replied slowly, but he was looking at Jake. “The only one who ever called me Benji was Annie. Not even my parents called me that.”

Ben shivered in awe as he understood the revelation he was experiencing. Ben knew Jake was telling the truth, and that Annie had led this boy into his life. Death was not the end, love did prevail, it didn’t end in the grave. 

Ben stood and cupped Jake’s small face in his hands, gently lifting until the boy was looking up at him. He no longer had any doubts. Using his thumbs to wipe away the tears that had formed in the boy’s eyes he softly said, “Welcome to your home, Jake.”

Tables Overturned in the Counting-House

(while we are in the parlour eating bread and honey)

© vivien masseau taylor 

Daily government reports are tabled

of our progress

in resource development

statistical evaluations

of our girth expanding over time

The fiscal tables multiply

percentages of GDP imply

equations of self-worth

complex measurements

of our accomplishments

on parent earth

We're bargaining away the livelihood

of future generations

our view, foreshortened now

Our levels of consumption

graphing upwards counsel how

our climatic table of delights

is unstable, begs

immediate reallocation and repair

Can we turn tables

on despair and mindless greed?

Our unbalanced need

has broken off reciprocal accord

with nature. She cannot sustain

our using up more than our share

Before only dregs remain

Beware! our tables have

no legs

4/3 - a Baby Boomer Memoir  (excerpts) 

© Melba McGee 2017

Needle

    -  from 1stThird - a time of Growing and Learning to Sparkle on Command.  (Melba McGee) 

Tonight's the night!

Now to put the plan into action. The summer's bright after-supper sky beckons me to the window and beyond, but first ...

"Dad, may I borrow the car, to go to Mary's house tonight?"

"What's happening at Mary's house?"

"Just some school plans."

And, off I go, driving through the summer's long evening light. Yes, I am going to Mary's house, and yes, we are off to some plans made earlier that day at school. I find it still works best if I lie using the truth; it is the artful dodge created when leaving out some information rather than adding untruthful and difficult-to-remember details.

My Dad has just purchased a new car, with a 326 engine, somewhat of a rarity in the small town where we live.

It's 1966, and at age 16, I am the holder of my own driving licence (something denied my brothers who must wait until they are at least 18 and have outgrown their male teenaged restlessness and recklessness).

My father always insists that either he drive me everywhere at night, or that I take the family car so he can be rest-assured that he knows the condition of the car driven and, as well, is assured that the driver is not some crazed hormoned-up teenager.

Off to Mary's, and then off to the unpopulated road by the Auld Kirk. Flat, straight, new pavement, and the residents won't mind because they are lying in the Auld Kirk's cemetery.

But this night the road is not unpopulated. Everyone is already there, lining both sides of the street, speaking in the hushed voices of teenagers who are in anticipation of the real deal!

Mary jumps out of my car with alacrity.

Her scarf is at the ready.

I am in position for the first challenge of the night.

To rush along the challenger, I press the brake and the gas at the same time, spinning the tires to warm them up just to the beginnings of the blue-black smoke of burning rubber (something that I heard to be a true and good idea for winning because hot tires grab the pavement better).

The back end of my car slews slightly to the side.

The challenger is a longtime success story from the impromptu drag races, and he is unfazed by my adrenaline and my 326 cubic inches of sure winner as he pulls up beside me, and gives one, long, considered look out his side window.

Mary's brightly coloured scarf is thrown high into the night's summer breeze and wafts ... gently ... down ... to ... reach ... pavement-WE'RE-OFF!

Through the deafening roar of engines, screeching tires, blood coursing in my ears, and the oh-my-gawd-what-am-I-doing looped-thought spinning in my head, I hold onto the steering wheel and try to acquit my own and my Dad's car's reputations and still not wet my pants! My focus is on the speedometer's needle and my intent is to bury that needle at its far end!

And then my opponent shifts gears and easily pulls ahead of my 326 sure thing!

There are other races that beautiful evening, lots of laughter and some thrills and near misses. Someone breaks out the beer. We all pretend that we like the taste of warm beer purloined from some parent's stash, sipping and cheering into the lavender hush of a night that promises many more of the same that summer.

After dropping Mary back at her home, after pulling over to throw up, twice, after chewing some gum to eliminate the taste of beer and vomit and pure adrenaline and core-deep blood-freezing fear, I turn the car towards home, following the line of golden pyramids' glow pooling down below each street lamp.

"How went the school plans?"

"No hitches."

"Car back in the garage?"

"Yes, thanks Dad."

Yep, lesson learned, luck appreciated. Never again would I risk it all for such an unsatisfying thrill. The risk of the loss of my Mum's and Dad's trust would continue to be a guiding principle on into adulthood and parenthood and through my whole life.

Though challenged again and again, I never again went to the drag races, not even to watch. I never again tried to bury the needle. I never again fed my ADHD adrenaline's need for speed, nor anyone's need to be the best, at such risk to drivers and spectators lining the road, and to vehicle or property.

Over the years, during any of the near misses that any person experiences, that same deafening roar and pulsating visceral fear popped up just to remind me how good it is to be alive, despite my own night of being the crazed adrenaline-ized teenager trying to bury the needle.

Yet, sometimes when I am driving home on a beautiful summer's evening, with the radio on and playing some nostalgic song, I harken back to my young, naive, freckled, braided, red headed, 16 year old, hair on fire self, and hear the old siren's call, "YeeHaw!"

And the car wants to turn towards the Auld Kirk, years and miles away...

Chemistry Lesson

- from 2ndThird - Jobbing and Keeping up with Success (Melba McGee) 

This drug, known as oxycodone, is an opiate, a reliever of severe-pain, and addictive. Most of us have heard about it in media and movies. Because of its high street value, drug dealers find and steal it wherever they can. A single pill can cost many dollars on the street. This is the stuff of lost lives, of prostitution-of-every-ilk as a way to earn enough money for the next fix, and of lost futures.

This chemical crossed my path, again, after my kidney surgery. My golf-ball sized kidney stone was too large to remove the new way (without an incision) so I was to be relieved of the constant grinding pain by cutting into my back, cutting into the kidney, removing the stone, and then re-stitching everything back together.

The internal pain caused by the stone was gone when I woke up, and the surgery pain was livable...duh, they had me high on anaesthesia! They added more of the good stuff to keep me ahead of the coming pain. I also had some naturopathic chemistry to help with recovery, and pain.

When I was discharged, I was given some scrips which I tucked into my purse for consideration. The discharge nurse reviewed the need for me to keep ahead of the pain, which was likely to be considerable in the first days. If the kidney pain got ahead of me, I would be crippled by it. Most people are. She talked to me about using the oxycodone, one of the scrips, which had me set up for more than a dozen pills.

So there I am, much relieved to finally, after a year, be free of grinding, can’t-straighten- up pain. So, who needs Oxy? Nevertheless, I decided to swing round the pharmacy anyway, for the other scrips.

Once at the pharmacy, I handed over the prescriptions, including the one for Oxy, and asked for only one pill of Oxy, just to have it in-case. The pharmacist was astounded, even stupefied. I’m guessing that most people want it, want it all, want to take the first one right now. He asked what I was thinking, not to take the full scrip, that no one ever asked for only one pill.

I told him, "This chemical is much in the news! The potential for addiction is, apparently, great. I have decided fifty years ago to live the life of real food, natural remedies, living consciously." (Aside: sort of begs the question of how I then got that kidney stone, and got cancer, eh!) "I don't want that kind of potential abuse to be in my home where I babysit the GrandKidlettes, where other adults come to visit, and where live my husband and I (I am a recovered but still wary alcoholic)."

The pharmacist reminded me about the keeping-ahead-of-the-pain thing. I acknowledged the rightness of his advice, and I asked for my single pill. I asked him to keep the rest on file and someone would certainly come by for another pill if and when needed.

He excused himself for a moment, and returned (I think he was reading his pharmacist’s manual, or maybe he was giving me a minute for sober second thought) to mention that I would be paying the dispensing fee each time I accessed the chemistry / scrip. This fee was in the neighbourhood of $6. Added to the astoundingly low cost of the Oxy, I figured I could afford it.

I went home, with my single pill of Oxy, and did continue the naturopathic homeopathic options.

In the night, the pain arrived and I could see what they were talking about. In the morning I called the discharge nurse to ask her if this was normal, and she calmly, and politely, and professionally reminded me about our conversation of the day before. She asked if I had taken the pain med. I said, “You mean the oxycodone?" She said, “Yes.” She, too, was astounded at my reasoning, and suggested that I take that one pill and send someone to pick up more Oxy.

I asked her if this was likely to be the top of the pain curve, timing-wise. She said likely, yes.

So I emptied my incision drain bag, drank the required giant glass of water, lay down, watched some mind numbing TV (at my house that is old movies) until I fell asleep. I always prefer to sleep away any pain that I cannot ignore by living beside the pain instead of through it.

The next day I had, indeed improved. The following day I flushed the single pill, called and asked the pharmacist to put the scrip into my file history.

All this pushing me to take the oxycodone leaves me agape. This is one terrifying drug, which, according to the tv, kids find in their parent’s medicine chest, and then take to a party to ingest, or to sell to other kids. The experience seemed so without concern coming from the other side of the chemical relationship.

My Dad, a bio-chemist, used to talk about the “wonders of modern medicine” and about “better living through chemistry”, and, later in life, added a question mark to both of those phrases.

Now, apparently, this chemical is so commonplace that rarely is the use of it challenged or refused.

That is my wonder: I wonder how my kids’ kids will grow up thinking about chemicals in our food, in our homes, in the air that we breathe, in our medicine cabinets, at our parties, in our day to day lives, or will they think about it at all?

Passenger

   - from 3rdThird - Unjobbing, Tidying Up, Shared Wisdom (Melba McGee) 

I am but a passenger in this vessel of flesh and blood.

Sometimes we imagine that we are the driver making all the decisions.

Sometimes we think that we are committed to ride out the latest route with no choice, Like a prisoner, consignee, or trapped with no escape but the final one.

I used to take my ride for granted.

I rode hard, made bigger and bigger demands on myself, and I ignored warning lights and messages from my ride, from others.

My ride has been like a roller coaster, with all the high highs, and all the low lows. With all the sudden stops,

the jerky turns,

the feeling of imminently being thrown into the air, or losing my stomach contents. With all the wild and exciting rides.

With all the satisfaction gratification rides. YeeHaw!

And now I pause, and notice that I am

not so high,

not so fast,

not so quick to meet demands,

unable to ignore messages about my tenure as a passenger on this ride.

I certainly am still a passenger on this ride,

but my vehicle reminds me often that my tenure as passenger is coming to an end, and that I must take the wheel for this 3rdThird of my life

if I am to avoid being ejected or suddenly grinding to a stop, once and forever.

Steady on.

New Perspective

-  from 4thThird - a time of Just Being, Love and Peace. (Melba McGee) 

Here I sit, in this comfy old rocker with just the right squeak, a shot of aged sipping whiskey in my hand warming my insides with each sip, looking out from this rustic established structure with the proven-secure roof over my head.

And I am gazing, then staring, then sensing, then taking in all that is before me.

The scent of wood surrounds me: new wood, old wood, treated wood, raw wood, damp wood, waxed wood, wood smoke; chair, stool, and table beside me, walls behind me, porch roof above me, railings in front of me, steps leading to gate beyond me. Beautiful wood that was well chosen and has known loving care for a long long time.

The colours meander their way into my consciousness, made more obvious in their rain splattered condition.

The wood varies from new wood sandy brown in the rails replaced recently, to established-wood-ebony of the rocker, to old wood weather-greyed as it stood guard silently sheltering any and all from what pours down from the skies.

Beyond the gate is a lane leading over a gentle rise and out of sight, its slate colour claiming its grounding solid presence.

Blackened stone dust lines the lane,

Canadian Shield granite colours create the stone fence piled alongside the lane over the time of generations, placed there to delineate the field where animals must remain, to be stored for future use in footings and foundations, to protect the plough from work- halting breakage caused by these same rocks if they remain in the fields where they popped up from the earth's ever-shifting depths.

To the left of the lane, beyond the stone fence, is the old gold colour of recently harvested crop. Looks like straw stubble left behind to be turned back into the earth to replenish some of what the grain took to grow its life-giving crop of oats and wheat.

And on the right, the last of the season's hay still struggling green after the final cut, where Holstein dairy cattle graze on the fall's final still-lingering fresh feast, with white hens and red rooster strutting and voicing their presence.

Beyond the usual solid mature cedar growth fencing the nearby fields, there are fields that have already been turned over for the winter, scenting the air with newly turned rich dark brown soil.

The taste of the whiskey is reminiscent of the family whiskey barrel where it spent its childhood and maturing years. Oven baked biscuits with freshly churned butter at my elbow taste like home.

Squeak, squeak, squeak ... back and forth I rock, as one with understanding the rhythm of these surroundings, and yet new to them.

My shaded two-seater swing is absent from this yard. As is the old hand pump that has produced most excellent water in abundance for family generations until it didn't during my watch on the family farm. My family's gardens are relocated to odd and unfamiliar locations, with most of their bounty long gone onto table, and into jar or freezer for winter's mealtime delights.

My hands have the evidence of a long life, serving in productive work, holding gentle onto a wee one snuggled into my neck or at my breast, holding back an animal that is ten times my weight, lifting giant pots of breakfast, lunch and dinner, brushing away the tears of a loved one, knitting love into sweaters, scarves, and toques, sewing quilts to guard my family against winter's chill. But now my hands are pale pink, with no calluses or tan, still sporting scars of life lived in activity, no fresh tears or cuts, clean neat nails that once needed attention after each day's chores.

My jeans are faded and fitting to my form, my familiar sweater starting to lose those stitches I placed there long ago. My brown leather shoes are comfortable and scuffed and fit my stool-rested feet just as if they are a second skin.

Why I am here in familiar, yet strange surroundings is just beyond my reach.

Until the womyn of the house comes out to sit, and chatter with me. From her appearance and her familiar manner of speaking with me and her gentle love, I realize that this is someone I know, someone who knows me, my history, and my real self. Someone who can answer my questions about where, why, how, when, and who. She calls me Grammum and invites me inside, beckoned by the aroma of favourite foods, warm welcome, and love. In plain sight on the side board is our family bible with all its contained family history, in the breakfront are the Bunnykins dishes from which all the family children have learned to eat, on the table is my favourite teacup that I purchased at Carp Fair instead of going on that ride all those years ago.

I have come home again, at once new and yet tantalizingly familiar.

No longer do I spend entire empty-hearted mind-numbing days sitting alone in the hall that is lined with all the other aged and unfamiliar inmates, who have the same questioning look on their faces that I surely do.

Here is the same table, the same home, the same family that have sustained me during my, apparently, long long life and where I shall spend this 4thThird of my life.

Bad Therapy

© Susie Loranger 

The event had happened so many years ago, yet traumatized her still. She had nightmares almost every night and was getting depressed. Her mother begged for her to seek help, so that was why Red was sitting here today; waiting for Doctor Lobos.

“Please come in. My name is Dr. Lobos, what I can help you with today?” said the doctor.

“My mother thinks I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, so I’m here for you to determine whether that’s the case” Red answered.

“Is there some triggering incident that your mother thinks is causing your problems?” asked Dr. Lobos.

“I don’t remember all the details but when I was a little girl, my mother sent me to check on my frail, elderly grandmother. She told me to not to dawdle, to stay on the path, and straight to grandmother’s house.  I got distracted, picking flowers and playing in the woods. When I reached grandmother’s house, the door stood open. Something didn’t feel right. I called out to my grandmother and she didn’t answer, I entered. She was in bed with her cap pulled far over her face, and looking very strange.”

“What do you mean by strange?” Dr. Lobos asked.

“Well, she looked gray and had very large ears, big eyes and very large teeth.” Red answered.

“When people get older, their appearance changes; their ears lengthen for example.” Dr. Lobos explained.

“Well, she didn’t look like the grandmother I remembered, then I was talking with her and something happened. I don’t know what. But I know I was in danger.” Red answered.

“Sometimes we develop obsessions. In my youth, I was a hunter and the perfect kill alluded me, escaped and I’ve been hunting her all these years, trying to find her. Do you think your problem could be some sort of obsession?” Dr. Lobos asked.

“I don’t think that’s my problem,” Red answered.

“What do you think your problem is?” Dr. Lobos asked.

“I can’t remember all the details. All I remember is that it’s my fault my grandmother is gone,” Red answered.

“I want you to think back, try and remember the details,” Dr. Lobos prompted. “Take a deep breath and think back to that dreadful day.” He continued. Red looked around the office, trying to keep the panic at bay.

She looked at Dr. Lobos and said “It wasn’t my grandmother in the bed.”

“Who was it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered.

“Think back,” he said in a soothing voice. “Continue to breathe deeply. Try to remember what the stranger looked like,” he continued. The panic welled up and she started to hyperventilate. Her eyes went wide with fear, sweat beaded on her forehead.

“I can’t do it. I don’t want to remember!” Red yelled out.

“That’s ok, I’m here, and I’m listening.” Dr. Lobos encouraged. It was then, that Red noticed something strange.

“Doctor, I just noticed what big ears you have!”

“All the better to hear you with...”

December: 2016

© Hero van Harten

I am walking my son to his weekly piano lesson. It's just after dinner, not even six o'clock but dark already, in the way of December evenings. The road is dark. The street has no sidewalks so my arm is wrapped tight around his small shoulders, pressing him close to my side. Fat snowflakes are falling, fast, white, feathers gathering in the pools of streetlight and spiraling down.  The hood of my son's jacket keeps slipping back. I push it up every time and every time he turns his little face to smile at me, grin after grin, wet snowflakes melting on his cheeks and nose.

He looks like my father or maybe like my father would have looked if he had grown up somewhere other than Holland after the war, on a farm full of landmines where nothing could grow. My father was a skinny kid and my son's cheeks are round and full but he has the same squinty eyed smile and huge laugh. You can see it in photographs. My dad's laugh is so big, his mouth so wide, like he's going to swallow the world. You can almost hear it, echoing back from black and white and then the thick, sun drenched, Kodak moments of our past.

My son is eight years old  and he's telling me a knock knock joke that I have heard so many times before I could recite it backwards. But there's something about the way he can't stop giggling, his too big, crowded teeth fighting to keep the laughter contained long enough for him to finish the punchline. It makes me smile and laugh like I'm hearing the joke for the first time.

Eight is my favourite age. His elbows and his knees are too big for the rest of him and he runs and slams and flops his way through the world, tripping over end tables and banging into furniture. The cat slinks off every time she hears him coming. She has a great sense of self preservation. At night, I fold his long limbs into restful shapes and kiss all the forgotten bruises, knowing he will kick the covers off and end up tangled in the arms of the pajama shirt he tried to take off in his sleep. He's full of ideas and accidents. He drops his spoon at breakfast and spills the milk and yesterday he broke a small blue glass bird that was a present one Christmas, wrapped up in paper in my stocking, a long time ago. He bit his little lip at the crash and looked up at me and my heart hurt for a moment when I swept the pieces into the dust-pan but we have a rule: You can't cry over things that can't cry over you. It was my father's rule, being tall and clumsy too.

I tell my son stories about my father as we walk. The time he stole the milkman's cart and raced it down the hill, bumping over cobblestones and hurtling through the air when he finally hit the bottom, the times that he would break his curfew and drive the family car as far as he could to the flashing lights of a movie theatre, a busy city,  a long and crowded highway, full of cars, anywhere to get away. He would roll back the odometer when he got home, claim he'd gone to a neighbour's farm to help with the cattle, a neighbour sympathetic enough to lie.

Then, I tell him about the time when I was 8 years old, shopping in the city with my father and he gave me twenty dollars to spend on my own. It was Christmas-time and the snow was falling just like tonight, I say, fat white flakes that settled just so on my hand. My father danced beside me, clumsy and grinning, to the garbage can drum beats of the street band stationed in front of the huge department store, singing with laughing voices. I reached into my pocket to throw my twenty dollar bill into their collection can that sat, fat and full, on the sidewalk but my father stopped me.

I tell my son how my father crouched down, not smiling anymore, looked into my eyes and asked if I was sure that I wanted to give all my money away. I nodded, eager to do well, to be good, he led me away. He took my hand and pulled me down a street to a corner I'd barely noticed on our way to the mall. The man who sat there, in a dirty coat, was hunched over like a goblin from a nightmare and he smelled like the dark garbage filled puddles that gathered near sewers and under the overpass by my school. He didn't look up when I handed him my money, uncertain, underneath my father's watchful eyes. He took the money with his dirt blackened hand and didn't say a word but my father laughed. He lifted me up into the air and spun me around around and around laughing until I was so dizzy my heart thudded against his chest as fast as the heart of a little bird.

My son is listening. He is turning in slow circles in the snow but his eyes watch my face, spin after spin. I tell him these stories because I know my father loves him. He can't see him very often and he never remembers his name but if he could, if he had the strength I knew him to have, my father would race my wild boy down the street in the snow, so fast, running full speed until the very last moment when he would collapse with laughter and let himself be beaten. My son runs the last few steps to his piano teacher's house. Like an afterthought, he turns back and reaches out to grab my hand through the layers of mitten and glove. I can almost feel him. Then he turns away again and is gone.

I stand there in the street for a while, watching the snow fall, wondering if I will remember this moment, the echo of his laughter still fading in the night. If it will slip under my skin like a sliver brought to the surface by that knock knock joke, by a streetlamp shining on fast flakes of snow. Or if it will disappear like so many others, swept away like shards of glass glittering once before they are gone. A dog barks. I go home to call my father, to enter into the confusion of his ramblings with a smile hard on my face. My heart is beating fast.

The Stittsville Creative Writing Group is a program of the Ottawa Public Library. The group – at least all that are able to attend – meets every Thursday at the Stittsville Branch for a little over an hour to read pieces they have written. Some of these writings are inspired by two randomly generated words of the week, while others have their own genesis. The group aims to encourage and give as much positive feedback as possible, with detailed criticism only in response to the author’s request.  

Other writers groups supported by the OPL exist, often using rather different models. However, SCWG has found its process works to the extent we have been in “business” for several years. Moreover, despite increasing our membership limit to 25, the OPL still has to maintain a waiting list.

To add your name to that list, point your web browser to

https://biblioottawalibrary.ca/en/stittsville-creative-writing-group

Acquiring this book 

This book is available at no charge as an epub electronic book. Other electronic formats may be made available later. To download the file, which is DRM-free, go to  

https://archive.org/details/CreativeMusingsAnAnthologyByTheStittsvilleCreativeWritingGroup 

A limited number of hard-copy versions of the book were prepared. If there is sufficient demand, we will undertake further printings on a subscription basis. Please contact  

StittsvilleCWG@gmail.com 