" A summer of cones" by Marg Heidebrecht

It’s been a summer of cones at my house. Not just the ice-cream variety devoured by grandchildren on the front steps, while we play a game where we each choose a car colour, and count until someone’s tally reaches ten. This summer required a different cone, the one pet owners recognize; the plastic weave-a-collar-through-looped-tabs contraption that extends and widens to prevent an animal’s mouth from reaching a site that needs to heal.

Think lamp at a party if an exuberant dancer flipped the shade upside down before pulling it over their head. In July while our American neighbours were celebrating their independence, 13-year-old Blossom was losing hers. A tumour, an anaesthetic, an incision. And a plastic cone.

There are complicating factors. A husband who’s also endured an anaesthetic, an incision, though thankfully not a tumour.  Plus, a second dog, Gilly, who’s prompted by instinct to lick and clean her companion which could, probably would, loosen the stitches that are doing their best to hold the wound closed.

“Keep the cone on. Keep the dogs apart.” The vet is calm, competent; a man of few words. I once asked how he made a diagnosis given his patients’ inability to describe their symptoms. He told me he wouldn’t know what to do if they could. He relies on observation, experience, and I rely on him. On his assistant too. Amelia is upbeat, chatty. She reports with enthusiasm on a recent pig roast and describes how she nabbed tickets for an upcoming rock concert; a peek into how she spends her time when she’s not answering the phone or passing sterilized instruments to her boss.

With the older dog restricted to walks to the curb and the younger free to explore the yard, I become an elementary school principal setting up a schedule for outdoor play. Blossom: cone off, leash on, outside, inside, leash off, cone on. Gilly: backyard, back in, leash on, long walk, leash off. On repeat and on my own since my usual assistant is occupied with his own regime of ice packs and physiotherapy.

The conversation inside the house sounds like Abbott and Costello’s on-stage banter in Who’s on First? in which the similarity between names of baseball players and the questions about their field positions creates confusion. And a hilarious skit. My own frantic opening and closing of doors to check Who’s Where? is less amusing; a slip-up could lead to a set-back. Forget stitches for snitches. It’s glitches I’m worried about.

Overnight requires a sleep divorce. I move into another room with the recuperating dog; a 40-year throw back to the broken sleep that accompanied a newborn. This time, it’s a thump, not a cry, that startles me; the sound of a restless dog bumping into the door, a wall, the bookshelf in her attempt to find a comfortable position. Wide awake. Both of us. Other nights are too quiet; I turn on the bedside lamp, observe the subtle rising and falling of her chest that indicates she’s still alive. Again, as with infants.

Eight medical appointments over six weeks; we persevere through antibiotics and additional sutures until a single word is entered on her chart. Healed. Insert celebratory, party-popper emojis here. An extra hour has been added to my day. I no longer slide chairs toward the table to clear a path or set partitions between Gilly and Blossom with the diligence of those separating church from state. When I open the back door to watch two exuberant dogs scoot across the deck and scamper down the stairs, my shoulders relax. 

It’s Friday. I’m lingering over the crossword instead of driving to the clinic. Unsettled, out of whack. I call Amelia. She laughs when I tell her we’re fine but that I miss the established routine. She uses words like "special" and "favourite" when referring to Blossom. Since part of her job involves building rapport, I expect she sprinkles these phrases into conversations with dozens of clients about a roster of pets.

But special, favourite? I agree. Of all the dogs, in all the houses, over all the years. Blossom joined our family after birthing three litters of pups, and is unphased by the time it takes little visitors to clip the purple leash onto her collar for walks to everyone calls The Blossom Park in spite of what’s written on the sign. 

Blossom's the one who eased me into retirement and provided a routine to cling to during months of lockdown. Our other dogs have liked me, even loved me, but this dog adores me. She follows me from room to room, from my desk to the microwave to nuke my coffee; when I leave the house she waits by the front door for me to return. 

Using the dog math equation for calculating age, Blossom is 91. At some point, there’ll be another visit to the vet and difficult decisions to make on her behalf.

But not this summer. Not yet.

***

Marg Heidebrecht lives and writes in Dundas, Ontario. Her first book of essays, In the Shade: Friendship, Loss, and the Bruce Trail (here) was shortlisted for the 2020 Hamilton Arts Council Literary Awards. Her second collection, Mosaic through East-Facing Glass: A Collection of Personal Essays (here), was shortlisted for the same awards in 2024 and includes “Invasions,” an essay which won the creative nonfiction prize in the 2022 Hamilton Arts & Letters contest. 

She’s also published several opinion pieces and many letters to the editor in The Globe and Mail and The Hamilton Spectator. The spring retreat at Elm Hurst Inn ignited a spark for her new project which is unnamed, unfinished, but less untidy now that Scrivener’s been downloaded to her laptop.

“Summer of Cones” was originally published as “Stitching” in Commuterlit.com here. For information about submitting to CommuterLit (and to a few other places), see here.

 Visit Marg at:
https://intheshade2019.blogspot.com/
https://mosaicmarg.blogspot.com/
https://www.instagram.com/intheshade2019/?hl=en

For more short stories, poetry, and essays by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, afternoon workshops, and writing retreats here.

 

“The Lost Art of Writing Letters” by Leslie Steves

Imagine you have received a letter – not a bill or an invite to increase your credit limit – but an actual letter. A letter from a loved one, a friend, or a distant relative.

The excitement builds as you break the seal on the envelope and pull out the finely decorated stationery. The flow of the elegant handwriting draws your attention and time stands still as you read all the gentle messages. Upon reading the closing statement. “hope to hear from you,” you smile – you now have an entry into a letter writing sequence.

At this point some would be thrilled for the opportunity to write and mail a letter, whereas others who have lost, or abandoned, the true art of letter writing would simply send an email.

We’ve become so accustomed to the fast world of “type, correct, click” that many of us would see the effort of physically writing a letter, finding an envelope, and sticking a stamp on it as an unpleasant burden.

But I am willing to face this more disciplined journey.

I saw how, in the past, letter writing helped my family keep in touch. We often received letters from far away relatives. Unlike a short phone call, letters could be passed around and reread for days after. They often included photos or postcards, and some relatives even took to including small side-sketches as part of their letters.

Some would argue that emails serve the same purpose and are a more efficient way of communicating. True. But in my mind, nothing compares to that moment when you hold a letter in your hand – especially one you didn’t expect!

I had many of these moments in my university days.

My mother would always, send a “do your best, we love you” letter. Whereas my dad’s would have more of a “you’re smart, don’t quit” theme.

Either way I was tickled and always wrote back to them – not to just to reassure them that I was still taking classes and studying hard, also to keep our relationship flowing.

During this time, I also wrote to my grandmother and great aunt. That was a challenge! Not only did my handwriting need to be legible, but there was no room for any error in my grammar or spelling, or their next letter would include a lesson!

They enjoyed hearing of the goings-on in my young life, so I was happy to describe my university adventures – sticking mainly to academics and only cautiously mentioning “social outings” (a.k.a. pub crawls).

Their letters gave me insight into in their lives. Like when “a young rascal” took grandma’s favorite seat on a bus and when the priest in Aunt Charlotte’s church mispronounced a word during a sermon. I always got a chuckle out of their descriptions of these “serious” moments.

Set in a conversation these stories may have been forgotten, but with a handwritten letter, they can be revisited numerous times. And for that reason, many people keep the letters, as my grandmother did. After her passing, we found all the letters I had sent her neatly organized in a drawer.

I am also reluctant to part with the ones I’ve kept. I don’t want to lose the chance to reread them and to hold something that was written just for me. My father’s pointed handwriting and my mom’s gardening instructions still speak to me.

Once when I expressed my dismay at the lost art of letter writing, someone called me an old-school boomer and said I needed to get with the times and just send emails.

And I do. The boring simplicity and trivial effort of sending emails is my usual form of communication.

But on occasion I still rise to the challenge of getting my thoughts in order and executing flawless handwriting on some finely decorated stationery.

Perhaps others will join my crusade and revive this lost art so people can have an “I got a letter!” moment. So much better than “another email to open” task.

***

Leslie Steves is a retired teacher. She enjoys having the time to continue the tradition of hand writing letters to loved ones. Her other writing endeavors include short stories, children’s stories and the occasional poem – often inspired during quiet time in the garden or daily walks with her dog.

For more short stories, poetry, and essays by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

“The Holey Robe, Three Women, Two Men, and a Nun” by Rochelle Doan Craig

 

The mid-nineteen-fifties were the best of times for me because I loved the beautiful, limestone buildings and gentle life on the sprawling green campus of Western U., but also the worst of times because of my poor relationship to my resentful French language professor, Dr. Jenkins. He continually picked on me as the alien in his French class, though possibly for good reason.

Dr. J’s voice, was as gruff as his appearance. He looked beyond retirement age. Maybe the university couldn’t find anyone pompous enough to replace him.

There was nothing casual about him. He always wore his long, black, professor’s robe, giving the impression that he was going to bless us or, more likely, curse us. He was just a language professor, for heaven’s sake, not a professor of Catholic Theology.

His mortarboard hat, firmly clamped onto his grey, wire-haired-terrier-like, bushy hair, was pushed down hard enough to defy Stalin’s army to dislodge it. The front point of the cap pressed down into his forehead, making him resemble an ape or at the very leas, the comedian, Jerry Lewis. Its tassel dangled down like a weary-laden donkey’s limp tail.

Weren’t you supposed to give those hats back right after graduation, or pay a penalty?

His eye colour was a moot matter, maybe heterochromian, with two different colours like a Shetland Sheepdog. His shaggy, grey eyebrows sprang out and overhung his eyes, like frost-bitten ivy drooping down from the top of a craggy wall.

His moustache, a small grey, prickly porcupine clinging to his upper lip, was stained orangey-brown on one side just above where his pipe was screwed in.

Professor Dr. J. had reluctantly allowed me into his second year Honours French language class, but really didn’t want me there as I hadn’t been in his first-year class. Shockingly, I’d had the audacity to transfer from an obviously inferior, Executive Secretarial Science major. Not fooled by the title “Science,” to him I was like a hobo crashing an elite wedding dinner at the exclusive, London Hunt and Country Club.

So I was an interloper. The other class members, three women, two men and a nun, had been with him the year before, were at least a year ahead of me in knowledge, and were serious Honours students. And they were all a year or two older than I, not counting the nun who was of indeterminate age. The sister wore the whole nun outfit for that time: long black habit with the white wimple headgear, opaque black hose, black army-style Oxford boots, and the de reigueur rosary and crucifix.

Prof J. took every chance to belittle me and nit-pick my mistakes, which were admittedly extensive.

My worst sin was not signing up for his Summer Language course which was complete immersion into the distinct language and culture of another province, Quebec, 1,200 km (800 miles) away. Apparently, everyone who was serious about that second language (and also wanted to please him), attended.

I didn’t have the money and I would have to work in the summer tobacco harvest to help finance my next year of college.

One particular day he came sweeping into the classroom, wearing, as usual, his professorial black robe. Its tail almost derailed itself, trying to avoid getting caught in the closing door. Then I noticed something for the first time. A bit of his robe’s hem had pulled away from the main body of the fabric, and had created a hole.

If it was my robe, and I’d had the money to buy my own stapler, I could have temporarily repaired it. I said nothing.

He lifted his chair to position it at his desk, shoving one leg of the chair down through the hole in his hem. As he turned to write on the blackboard, the entrapped chair jerked and clattered along behind him, like tin cans tied to newly-weds’ honeymoon car’s rear bumpers. Owlishly, he swivelled his head backwards to see who was making that racket – suspecting you-know-who.

That sound you didn’t hear, was my gut bursting with repressed laughter.

One time I had a paper to hand in, and as I approached him, Dr. J. thrust his left hand out to me. Thinking that it must be some kind of strange, French handshake and perhaps a gesture that he wanted to be more friendly toward me, I put out my left hand and shook his left one too.

He jerked his hand away from mine in revulsion and snarled, “Miss Doan, I merely wanted that paper you’re holding.”

Later, to get in my own digs at him, whenever he assigned us an unscheduled, early Saturday morning class, I would come to class with my hair up in rollers and pin curls, covered by a kerchief, my fuzzy slippers flopping over my clumpy, rubber galoshes, and with my pyjama cuffs rolled up, but clearly visible.

I never understood his motives for assigning those Saturday morning classes. Was it to deny us out-of-towners the chance to go home for the weekend; or make us miss some fun campus activity; or just to make sure we stayed sober the Friday night before? Or all of the above.

Before Christmas and New Year’s break, he announced that he would hold the first class of the New Year on the Friday morning, not letting it wait till Monday. No one else was having classes that day. But I didn’t dare miss it or he’d be riding me even harder for the rest of the year. So, I cut short my time with family and showed up in class in my new, bright neon pink pyjamas. The only other attendee was the nun, who lived on the fringe of the campus, and apparently had nothing better to do. She was not wearing P.J.s.

In the end, he gave me a decent mark, probably hoping to get rid of me, but I came back the next year for another go at him.

I do believe that I have the dubious distinction of having personally, started that slovenly trend of wearing pyjama bottoms, instead of pants in public, which has become fashionable over the years, since that 1955-56 academic year.

If I’d been on TiK-ToK back then, I’d have owed my fame to Professor Dr. Jenkins and his holey robe.

Rochelle Doan Craig is an unrecognized (and rightly so) artist, failed writer with 144 unsold copies of her self-published memoir, The Twelve Years of Christmas. She’s also a much-maligned, burned-out teacher, rural newspaper contributor, travel-lover, pet-liker and Tough Love (before the term was invented) mother of six (three of each kind), grandmother of sixteen and great-grandmother of 6 1/2. She has taken workshops, retreats and Zoom classes with Brian for ages and is currently wracking her brain for her memoir: The Twice-Lost Son. 

Read more about The Twelve Years of Christmas here.

For more short stories, poetry, and essays by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

“The Salty Cat” by Natasha Boomer

First, I was a witch, alone in my basement apartment, lighting candles, burning sage, sprinkling powders, making potions to spread along doorways, and casting spells. Enchanted words whispered soft enough to keep secret but loud enough to release the spirits to do my bidding, which, for me, was about boys and my size 14 waistline, which I would prefer to be about a 10.

However, being a witch isn’t all bedknobs and broomsticks; in fact, there is almost no flying beds. It mostly involves bathing in walnuts and pine cones, then taking that bath water to the closest intersection and throwing it away, completely naked.

But in those days, the most naked I could be, half a block from the corner of Delaware and Hallam, was braless and shoeless. I don’t know if you have ever walked barefoot at midnight under a full moon, balancing your own bath water in a bucket with a faulty handle, but a bra and shoes are the most effective tools for a witchy endeavour such as this.

I never really wanted to be a witch; I got caught up in all the Pagan pomp and circumstance, and there was a really cool girl in my improv class who called herself a High Priestess. I was well into my 30s until I realized I just wanted crystals, house plants, a garden with an estranged door in the middle of it and whatever number of cats makes average men wrinkle their noses, in a bad way.

The trajectory from witch to cat lady is easy; it’s a path of very little resistance once you know which way you are sliding, it spins out around availability. Dogs are too needy, so I was never going to be a dog lady. I wasn’t old enough to be a bird lady and not young enough to be into hamsters.

I could have been a pig lady, but in all fairness, my access to pigs was very limited, especially in my 30s. I had a very lurking landlord and an upstairs neighbour who rode a unicycle … everywhere … by choice. Plus, I didn’t need an animal who was more stubborn than I was, but at the same time more emotionally available. The choice was practically made for me. It would be cats.

Being a cat lady is very much all-encompassing. There are days when you wonder, am I a lady who loves cats or is the cat lady who I am? Over time, the veil becomes razor thin, not because you have eight cat shirts in rotation, two of them “taco cat,” which you wear proudly and unironically, almost always have cat hair on your clothes or, worse, in your nose, and have not once but twice mistakenly drunk cat urine.

It is because, at any given moment when you meet a kindred within three minutes, you both have your phones out, showing each other 5 to 95 pictures of your cat in different shades of sun, but mostly because you, through no fault of your own, start recruiting normal women into cat ladies.

Like my friend Samantha. Sam was twenty years younger than me and wasn’t necessarily a friend at first, but she was a client who came so often for Reiki treatments that she became one. After a while, it was impossible to keep our souls apart.

Within six months of my knowing Sam, she had two cats, and I am not saying I am responsible, but she did call me one night to discuss the possibility of getting a kitten, and at the end of the phone call, she had two kittens and a new, long-lasting pejorative term that men would slur towards her when she told them she wasn’t interested.

Reiki brought us together, our love of cats tied our bonds, and for a period of time, we walked a path of shared obsessions. Crystals, cleanses, celery juice, long concrete-jungle walks, in Toronto, where we discussed spirit guides, and essential oils. Samantha was my shadow; whatever I loved, she followed. I showed her the Kool-Aid, and she willingly drank.

It was nice to have a buddy who was equally obsessed with the accoutrements of a healing world. We each had every single essential oil you could buy, all the Medical Medium books, we knew when all the crystal shows were touring, and had a growing obsession with salt lamps, especially since we found out that Winner had different-shaped ones.

“I heard they have a cat salt lamp,” she said, face down on my table.

“A freaking what? An actual cat? Are you kidding me? I need this in my life.” The tone in my voice was only amplified by the Reiki, which used my body as a conduit. How could I possibly be a cat lady with no cat salt lamp? This seems like something that needed to be fixed immediately.

“I know. Me too, I need this in my life.” She matched my energy.

“Then we will have cat salt lamps, Samantha … what’s your last name?”

“McLeallan.”

“Then we will have cat salt lamps, Samantha McLeallan.” The declaration was made. Even though I no longer identify as a witch, the spell was cast, and the spirits sent out to do our bidding, which would not be easy, because we would both need one.

We decided I’d borrow my mother’s car and we would travel to every single Winners and HomeSense in the Greater Toronto Area in a single weekend until we tracked down the cat salt lamps, and who knows what other interesting shapes.

For us, it did not matter how many actual plugs we had in each of our own apartments, each no bigger than 600 Square feet; we were on a mission, and not unlike Buzz Aldrin, Neil Armstrong and Michael what’s his face, it was going to be epic.

At first glance, it didn’t look like our inaugural stop at Leeside, and Laird would produce any salt lamps with any shape. I mean, we were not settling for regular hunks of rocks; we were looking for shapes, hearts, bricks, globes, a leaf, a teardrop, the cube; we were beyond a shapeless lump of salt. So I went off to grab some snacks, six bags of different lentil chips, each one worse than the next.

As I made my way up to the cash, I heard in a deep, familiar whisper, ““Boomer,” she was crouched down, half-hidden, and opening a box in between her leg.

““Samantha, what are you doing?” I knew exactly what she was doing; she had found a broken box, poorly wrapped with packing tape, and she was opening it back up. “What are you doing?” I asked again to fill the space between her getting caught and us finding out what was in the box. Which would come first, only seconds would tell.

Her face morphed from consternation to a joy that could fuel a light bulb, accompanied by a low-pitched squeal that, I think, in the 1800’s, did fuel lightbulbs. By the neck, she pulled out the elusive cat salt lamp. We were both in shock and dismay, and it felt a little bit like we were in The Lion King at the edge of a cliff.

“OMG, Samantha, how did you know?” The bags and bags of chips I cradled in my arms kept me from reaching out to touch the cat.

“You take it.” She launched it towards me.

“No Way! You found it. You illegally opened that box You had the knowing it was there.” I crushed the salt snacks against my chest to contain my ugly envy. I didn’t want her to see it and ruin this moment. “How did you know?” I asked in a more rational tone.

“I just did. I don’t know, I just did.” She was still hunched over the box.

“Then it’s yours, babe. There will be more; this is only our first store, and the first box? What are the chances? There will be so many more!”

There was not. We filled that hatchback with salt lamps for two full weekends and a Wednesday evening, neither of us saying no to a single new shape. We giggled and rolled our eyes at ourselves as we filled my mother’s red Honda Fit with heavy salt lamps. Two crazy cat ladies, on the road, searching for a collection of things that the rest of the world would never understand.

Despite the fact that she had found hers right out of the gate, she never wavered in her commitment to find mine. “We will find it,” she said. “We just need some magic.” When she said it, you believed her.

We were big and outrageous together, kindred spirits whose passions were ginormous but honest. We laughed, sat in traffic way too long and sang “That’s What Friends Are For!” eight times at the top of our lungs on the Garner Expressway, with the windows rolled up, because she had never heard it before, which was the only disgusting thing about her.

Three months later, moving into the cold, dampness of late fall, that part of fall that might as well be winter, Samantha had left my house after a Reiki treatment: “I think I will walk home before it snows.”

Thirty minutes later, she called me, not long enough for her to be at Pape yet. I could only hear a squeal, one that could light a light bulb in the 1800’s.

““I found it.”

On her way home, she’s stopped in at Winners at Bay and Bloor.

““Now, Boomer, it has a broken ear, but we like that. I think it’s fitting, ‘cause we like stray cats.”

“Oh my god, Sam, you just went on a whim? For me? How did you know?”

““I just did. I don’t know, I just did. You want it right?” She did not wait for my response. “I’m getting it!”

I think Samantha was happier than me that day, but that was her enchantment. Neither of us considered ourselves witches, just crazy cat ladies whose ability to understand each other was magical.

***

Natasha Boomer is a Bohemian. A wanderer, collector and teller of stories, writer of eight one-woman shows and four plays, lover of animals, server of tables, walker of miles and miles a day, teacher of improv and chakras, master of Reiki, eater of vegan cuisine, driver of a 2010 red Honda Fit, speaker to most strangers in all grocery store lines, propagator of plants, maker of gardens, and a prominent laminator of anything and everything.  Life is good, life is hard, and in between are our stories.

For more short stories, poetry, and essays by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

“Manifest Destiny” by Larissa Thomas

"Manifest Destiny" Larissa Thomas

Debra’s figured out the keys to the Universe. She’s practically an expert. Basically a physicist. Where attention goes, energy flows. What you focus on expands. She’s pirated every book and workshop by Hicks Goddard Dispenza Zenkina Frances Hay Hill. Her trailer park comrades don’t realize it, but she’s a fuckin’ genius and doesn’t belong in a place like that. Not with people like them.

Debra’s got enviable pin legs and her C-cups are dynamite. Lady’s a dazzler. A pleasure to behold. She’s the vibration of her dream home. She’s a lilac jacuzzi and a four-poster waterbed. The energetic match to a 1970 cherry red Buick Skylark. Atomic mirror for a dusty rose velour jumpsuit, sapphire piñata, scorpion-shaped fountain that eternally flows with champagne and never needs to be cleaned.  

Leaning back in her plastic chair smoking a Pall Mall, she spies a storm on yonder. Debra intuits it’s not just a natural disaster. She conjured it. Been practicing the Law of Attraction for weeks. A cyclone of yearning hurtles towards Camelot Toe Trailer Park at 88 miles an hour. Just like she scripted. Visualized. 369’d. Defined and declared. Everything she desires is nearly upon her.

“I fuckin’ told ya!” she screams. Ciggie half-spent, dangling from her frosted lips as she stands up, the lawn chair near snapping from the enthusiastic thrust of her thirty-five-year-old hindquarters. The soundtrack of Debra’s Best Life is an arrangement of airborne metal torpedoing single-pane windows, screeching tires on gravel and sticker-covered guitars percussively slapping vinyl siding. 

“Debbay, you shitstain bimbo!” JibJab hollers, tossing beers, tobacco products and binders indiscreetly bursting with his favourite porno mags into the back of his rusty Chevy. “There’s a fuckin’ tornado headed straight for us!” 

A tornado of everything Debra desires.

JibJab shakes his greasy head and spits out a hunk of chaw, going back for one last box of phlegmorabilia. His brother, Biggy Bag, ropes his prized possessions - poorly taxidermied roadkill and a papier mache beer fridge sculpture of their mother - into his matching rust-bucket.

Small minds. They couldn’t possibly understand Debra’s vision; quantum shifting out of a bunkie, wedged between Jib Jab the jumbo jack-off’s trailer and Biggy Bag’s converted car-zebo, into an aspirational micro-mansion subdivision. Transcendental she-bologna in a negative energy manwich, no more. Their jealousy won’t stop her.

She glides into her shanty and gracefully removes her prized mermaid costume hanging on the collapsed clothes rack. Dress for the job you want. Dress for the life you desire. Be your future self now. 

She exquisitely experiences abundance and freedom as she stuffs herself into a shimmering emerald tail and pink plastic shell bra. Deliciously embodies orgasmic lightness as she accentuates the look with a stunning zirconia shrimp necklace, places shimmering pins in still-processing just-permed hair, which burns from the anticipatory sweat. Twelve hours until it’s safe to get wet or suffer the frizziness. Sometimes one is limited by three-dimensional reality. She wasn’t expecting today to be Manifestation Day. 

But

You

Must

Trust

Divine

Timing.

Debra leaves behind her old life, and heads towards the squall with open arms. The constrictive mermaid tail slows her roll, thwarts her rapidity. Hipping and hopping won’t get her anywhere. It’s always toughest right before you get what is meant for you. Darkest before dawn.

“What would you have me do, Cosmic Daddy?” she yodels into the deluge. She struggles for a moment, but the Universe always provides a solution.

“Rip it!”

She follows the signs and tears the mermaid tail seam with her bare hands. 

“I said rip it out of here! You dumb fuckin’ bitch!” Biggy Bag yells from across the way. “Get your pimply ass outta the park, that twister’s gonna eat you!”

Debra snorts. “You see fear, I see opportunity.” 

And opportunity is headed straight for 32 Nirvana Ave in Camel Toe Estates, her dream home; the one with the big pool and peach bricks. The owners are long gone, it’s Debra’s now. 

She runs straight into the superstorm. Her vision board’s coming to life. Sucked up in the interstellar swell. Spinning and twirling; a siren in a frothing sea. Her fantasy smells like grass and sulphur. She barely registers the gravel lacerating her frosty flesh or the microwave that smashes her hip bone or the nail sticking out of her thigh. Obstacles are simply tests. The injuries are a sign that Debra’s about to break through her upper limits.

Everything she yearns for is within reach. 

A brand new Macbook careens into her welcoming arms.

Shovel.

Deluxe lawnmower. 

Hotdog.

This is the moment before the moment she has it all.

Wind stops. Mid-air, everything freezes. 

Debra savors the milliseconds as the clouds part and the sun breaks through, kissing her skin like pieces of broken glass. 

And then she’s falling. 

Into the Universe’s bountiful breast. 

She strikes water, sinking to the bottom of 32 Nirvana Ave.’s impressive in-ground pool.

Debra’s perm is ruined!!!! 

She didn’t think this through. The chlorinated water fills her lungs and everything stings. For a moment she doubts the megacosm, but any manifestor worth their salt knows that’s the kiss of death. Never doubt or limit what comes through. Debra will attract a hairdresser later. She’ll co-create some oxygen now.

Mesmeric ribbons of red casually engulf her; a symphony of disembodied fish dancing for their Mermaid Queen.

The Universe isn’t done, though. More gifts fall from the sky. Just for Debra.

Her dream car. 

Titanium rake.

Spinning clothesline.

Imported trees.

Terra cotta roof tiles.

They’re all hers.

***

Larissa Thomas is a writer, artist, Enneagram aficionado and tarot reader toiling melodramatically in an endless pocket of tornado manifestations in Ontario. She's currently working on an illustrated collection of strange tales. Subscribe to her Substack for work-in-progress here.

For more short stories, poetry, and essays by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

“Time to Confess” by Carla Reid

Whenever my mother caught me trying to weasel my way out of something by lying. I was lectured on the sin of telling lies.  Mother was religious and often stretched the 10 commandments to 11 to include whatever point she was making. Lying, often made it to the top of her list.

I wasn’t convinced lying was so bad.

It wasn’t till the ripe age of 5 that I learnt that my mother and the gods played on the same team.

 I had discovered that if I had a cough at bedtime, my mother would bring me out of bed to sit in the living room. She would bundle me in a blanket at the end of the couch. Bring out the record player. Set our favourite album, Oklahoma, on to play. Then give me candy to sooth my throat.

It was terrific. The more I coughed, the more candy I got.  It was a great gig, and I mastered the art of coughing quickly.

Night after night I’d sit sucking candies and listening to records. I was perfecting the art so well that my poor mother took me to the doctor’s. Allergies, he said.

When we got home it was decided that my small bedroom across from the bathroom might be the cause of the problem.  The fragrance from the soap could be setting my cough off.  My older brother had the large bedroom at the back of the house and got shuffled to the little room I was in. I got the big one. I figured it was a score. Now I had room for all my toys.

Carla, age 5

After a couple of days, the lure of candies called and I started coughing again. Back to the doctor we went. The tonsils must come out was his solution. I was 5 and had no idea what he was talking about.  My parents looked grim, and I started to worry.  I knew I couldn’t confess that the cough was brought on by me. If I did, my mother would kill me.  But the way they sold it with the promise of ice cream and Jello, I figured it was a good trade off.

That morning came a After a couple of days, the lure of candies called and I started coughing again.

I heard my mother and father in the kitchen eating breakfast. As I wandered in announcing I was hungry.   I was told I couldn’t have breakfast until after the operation.  I remember thinking maybe I should confess to the coughing fit.  But quickly thought better of it when my parents brought up the promised ice cream.

I don’t remember much other than fear starting to creep in at the hospital as my parents waved me off. The nurse took me into a ward filled with beds full of children. Some were crying, some were talking and others rocking and hugging stuffed teddy bears.

After that it was a blur till I woke up back in the ward. My throat hurt.  It really hurt and ice cream and Jello didn’t tempt me.  My parents took me home the next day and I was tucked in bed with the radio to keep me company. I really didn’t feel well and all I wanted to do was sleep.

That night I woke in pain with blood all over my pillow. Quickly my parents wrapped me up and whisked me to the hospital. I heard the word hemorrhaging as the doctor and nurse rushed me into a brightly lit room. The nurse started to pound on my arm with a little mallet looking for a vein. The doctor kept shouting at me to stay still and stop crying. I remember being terrified.

The next day I awoke in the ward again. That afternoon my parents came to get me. My throat hurt even worse than before. I was tired, I was cranky and ice cream still couldn’t tempt me. My parents were told if I wasn’t eating, I must swallow corn syrup.

 It was a real fight. They begged. They cajoled. Then they forced.

 I still hate corn syrup.

And so. At the age of 5 I learned two life lessons.

 1) Don’t lie. Lies can spiral out of control and get you into a lot of trouble.

2) God and Mom played on the same team.

***

Carla Reid is retired and living in beautiful Grimsby with her partner and cockapoo Mika. They say her career path went from womb to tomb. Starting in Early Education she wove life through cooking, opening restaurants, developing a clothing line and ended as an Executive in the Retirement Industry. Now settled steps from the escarpment and surrounded by vineyards she has time to enjoy the pleasures of cooking for friends, painting and writing. 

 For more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.