A Woman Studied, Danielle P Valiquette

In my first year of university, I had the same shoulder-length, razor-cut, and layered hairstyle as every girl I graduated high school with. On most days, after spending 45 minutes blow-drying my natural waves straight, I wore a simple ponytail. I spent another 45 minutes applying make-up—so that I looked like I wasn’t wearing any. As I preformed my beauty rituals, I peered through photos of camping trips, high school graduation, a trip to Miami over last year’s March Break, taped to my dresser mirror’s outer edge. Ex-boyfriends meticulously ripped from the photos, a mutated arm around my shoulder the only evidence of their existence. An assortment of curling irons, crimpers, blow dryers, hair gels, and make-up littered my childhood bureau. Stuck on the deep pink wall above the mirror was a bumper sticker that read:

“I have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that
people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me
from a doormat.” Rebecca West.

For the final act in my style sacrament, I choose the cleanest clothing from the assortment of designer jeans and name brand t-shirts scattered across my bedroom floor.

List:

Required Bedroom Updates
Replace white eyelet duvet.
Find
keys for childhood diaries.
Organize back issues of Ms. and
Cosmopolitan.
Dust and store dolls being used as bookends

I rode the bus—the 95 West—each morning, from my parent’s home to Carleton University, where I had yet to declare a major. The Mountain Equipment Co-Op knapsack my mother purchased for me as a high school graduation present, overstuffed with the assigned texts, rested weightily on my back, reminding me of my active pursuit of enlightenment. In those books, I discovered Susanna Moodie, Margaret Atwood, and Emma Goldman.

List:

MEC Backpack Contents
An Anthology of Canadian Literature in English Oxford
by Russell Brown
Canadian Woman Studies: An Introductory Reader by Nuzhat
Amin
M·A·C Viva Glam lipstick
Toothbrush and toothpaste
1 pair of
clean bikini briefs

Unlike my high school classrooms, the university lecture halls were filled with the unfamiliar. Without even leaving the city I had been raised in, I discovered an underground annex of difference. Yet, in Introduction to Women’s Studies, as in my suburban high school English class, each group sat segregated from one another. A small number of boys in baseball caps arrived noisily, like a buzzing swarm of bees, to sit at the far left of the hall. Presumably, from this vantage point, they surveyed the hall for good-looking girls. They must have felt their odds were good. Women dressed in baggy sweatshirts and loose-fitting jeans sat at the front, directly behind the teaching assistants. They wore their uniform wool work socks and Birkenstock sandals even in Ottawa’s cold winter months. They arrived to class either in singles or in silent couples, stopping only to smile at their mirror images. Out of their thrift store knapsacks, they liberated an arsenal of notepads, pens, and books. They wore no make up or jewellery and I envied their freedom.

On one Wednesday evening, in February, I had spent even longer than usual getting ready. Madonna played on my CD player as I fussed with my waves, primping for the pub Hillary and I were going to after tonight’s class. As I walked into the lecture hall, I became mortally aware of my obvious extensive efforts as compared to the majority of the women in the class. It took great will power to resist the urge to put a paper bag over my head, and I might have done, had my hands not been full with the two No-Fat Vanilla Lattes I carried.

“Over here, Nat.” Hillary called from the last row. I made my way to the seat next to her, and before I put down my knapsack, I handed her the lattes to hold while I got settled. Hil looked cute, as always. Iridescent pink shadow—MAC’s Sweet Lust, strategically placed under meticulously plucked eyebrow arches—accented her eyes.

“To keep you awake.” I smiled.

“I don’t know why this class has to be at night. We’ll have to wait in line now to get into the bar.” She handed me back my latte as I sat down. “Hey, you do the readings?”

The preceding week Professor Whitney-Knowles had assigned two chapters—Chapter Three Culture and Chapter Four Religion—in Naomi Wolf’s The Beauty Myth. I read the entire text.

“Yeah.” I whispered as the Professor Whitney-Knowles walked in and immediately began discussing the results of the last assignment.

In her hands was a small sampling of essays that were, in her words, “excellent examples” of what she expected from her students.

“Will your hottie be at the bar?” Hil asked. She referred to a guy in my Canadian Literature class I had been eyeing for weeks.

“Not sure. He wasn’t in class yesterday.” I said. “Quiet for a second, I think the Prof is reading my essay.” The assignment had been on the history of the women’s movement, through an exploration of the first and second waves of feminism. I had handed my paper into the teaching assistant for feedback two weeks before the actual due date, and had spent over a week incorporating her comments. “Oh my God. It really is my paper. Who knew?”

*

Over the course of our second year, Hillary declared first English, then Philosophy, and then finally landed on Psychology. I decided to declare Women’s Studies. The class population shrivelled to a fraction of the introductory courses. We sat at desks in smaller classrooms instead of in soulless auditoriums. The professors learned our names and smiled when they passed us in the halls. There were more Birkenstocks than kitten heels. The Ball Caps were all gone.

The former Women of the Front Row dominated the discussion groups. Liberal feminist values were questioned and lowered in the hierocracy of feminist thought. Radical, Socialist, and Marxist Feminism rose above the rest to become the chosen methodology. In 1996, all the cool kids were doing socialism.

From the back of the class, I listened to these women discuss the plight of lesbians and the double-whammy oppression of the black female. My heroines discredited, such as Susan B. Anthony, who was exposed as a supporter of the forced sterilization of black women, instead of celebrating her for her role in the enfranchisement of women. The professors lectured, and the students echoed, that this white woman fought only for the plight of her own.

The white, liberal feminist, only one peg lower than the white male, marginalized all others. “White” insinuated more adjectives than simply ethnicity: It implied middle-class, heterosexual, and privileged. To relieve the weight of my labels, I read and reread my assigned readings. I wrote papers on Canada’s aboriginals and actively pursued gay friends. I questioned how I could ever, as a white, middle-class heterosexual, know what it was like to be black, gay, or poor.
After class, the Women of the Front Row gathered in a cave of a café, as dark and murky as coffee itself. The air was heavy with the smells of hazelnut, and vanilla. They sat in groups of five or six, occasionally accompanied by Professor Whitney-Knowles. Their conversations alternated between hushed seriousness and boisterous debate. Despite not being able to hear clearly from my table on the other side of the small café, I imagined their academic talk. Conversations about sustainable development, the role of women in the church, or possible tax breaks for working mothers. This was desperately important talk.

Mid-semester, while attempting to eavesdrop, I was invited to join the Women of the Front Row. Excited by the possibility of enlightened discourse, I expressed my concerns about the latest essay topic on the significance of the feminist slogan, “The personal is political,” and its relevance considering the diversity of third wave feminists, who found little sisterhood amongst the middle-class, white feminists of the first and second wave.

“I mean, academically, I can state the facts, but who am I to tell anyone what it’s like to be black, gay, disabled? How can I understand that?” Thinking my words profound, I directed them to Louisa or, Lou, as she preferred, the only black women amongst the group. An astonished face greeted me. “Does that make sense?” I asked.

“But it is your responsibility,” she said.

“My responsibility? Why?”

“As someone who is taking Women’s Studies. As someone who knows better.”

“Better than a black woman? Better than a Lesbian?”

My shoulders sunk into a disappointed hunch. The disbelief was more than my body could take. These women were supposed to be in profound awe of my words. I had played this conversation repeatedly in my head. In my daydreams, the Fronts Rows nodded with overwhelming approval. Perhaps one member of the group continued to disagree, but the persuasiveness of my arguments had won over the remainder of the group, and collectively we convinced any stragglers. It ended with smiles and accolades for me. “You know, Nat, I think you’re right. There are too many people out their claiming to understand an experience that is not their own.”

Instead, it went like this:

“I told you she doesn’t get it,” said a woman in an oversized, blue hoodie. “It is because of people like you—with your suburban middle class lives, too frightened to break out of what you know—that we will continue to be plagued by sexism, racism, by prejudice.

“You don’t know anything about me.” I squinted at my offender.

“I know everything about you. Daddy is paying for your education: He is not happy that you are majoring in Women’s Studies. You still live at home because, well why wouldn’t you? Mom, who never went back to work after having the kids, still does your laundry for you, makes your favourite meal on Sundays, and feels as strongly about shopping as you do.”

“Jules, I think that might be a little harsh,” Lou said.

“Harsh?” Jules turns to face her friend. “Harsh? People like her keep racism alive. It is people like her who are afraid to leave their comfy cocoon, afraid to push society’s pressure points, afraid to be anything but an airbrushed image from a fashion magazine.”

I took Jules’ linguistic change to the third person, and the fact that all backs were now turned to me and engaged in fierce debate (interestingly enough about me), as my cue to leave. I found Hillary in the library, researching a paper on the outer symbols of inner beauty in the works of Jane Austen. I tossed my knapsack on the large oak table causing Hillary, and the entire fifth floor of the library, to look up.

“You look like shit.” Hillary did not bother to whisper.

“Who me? The racist? You mean me, the person single handily responsible for the further oppression of the exploited?” I slumped into the seat across from her.

“You OK?” Hillary said.

“No. No, I am not OK. You know those girls from first year Women’s Studies? The ones who always sat in the front row? Well, I was having coffee with them. . .”

“They invited you for coffee? I didn’t think there was an opening in the club.” Hillary closed her copy of Pride and Prejudice. “Cute jeans, by-the-way.”

“Thanks, these are the ones I was telling you about. They were way too expensive, but I couldn’t resist.” I jumped up and turned around to show Hillary my butt. “But seriously, Hil, do you think that I am racist?” I said over my shoulder.

“You’re the most accepting, politically correct person I know. You, the president and founder of the Georgetown High School Peace and Unity club? The girl who, whenever I call something ‘gay’, like for example this essay I am writing, you ask me why I think it is homosexual? Besides aren’t you in the middle of writing some profound paper on being a black feminist?”

“See that’s the issue, I questioned if I should. If I can comment on an experience that is not my own.”

“Seems logical to me.”

“Me too. But trust me, I was the only one at that table who thought so.”

*

In second year, my school bag was heavier.

List:

Second Year MEC Carrier Bag Contents
Feminist Theory - from Margin to Center
by bell hooks
Gender, Sex and Sexuality by Gerda Siann
MAC Studio Fix
Powder Plus Foundation
2 Trojan Brand Ultra Thin Condoms

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea, Nat.” Hillary said.

It was an unusually quiet Friday night; Hillary and I had been experimenting with our hair in the dormitory bathroom she shared with a roommate. Despite this, Hillary’s hair and beauty products overwhelmed the small room and provided little evidence of another occupant. On the back of the toilet, stacks of wicker baskets held her hair ties, bandanas, and headbands in a rainbow of colours. The air was a weighty mixture of face powder combined with the green apple smell of Salon Selectives hairspray.

“Pass me that bottle.” I motioned for the lemon flavoured Smirnoff, which stood amidst the tangled cords of blow dryers and curling irons, on Hillary’s turquoise tiled bathroom counter.
“Have you met some guy who is into Sharon Stone’s hair or something?” She passed me the bottle before picking up the scissors.

“I want it shorter than that. Almost shaved.”

“You want me to shave your head?” She drew out the words shave and head.

The next day, I used part of my student loan to purchase half-carat diamond studs, which I wore out with the girls to a trendy martini bar, where the lambent lights cast everything a cool, steel blue. The four of us perched in the window on brushed nickel bar stools. The entire time, conscious of my unrobed facial features, I talked through the Molson Canadian I held in front of my face. It seemed to me my nose had grown overnight, that the imperfections of my skin were on display for everyone to critique. I had nothing to hide behind.

My final paper explored how women in university sports were undervalued, largely because of the fallacy that men’s university sports, in particular football, made money for their schools. I called my paper The Football Myth and thanked my new hair for the “A.”

*

List. Possible Career Option After Graduation:

Barista at Starbucks
Continue working at Chapters and perhaps pursue fulltime
position
Volunteer at women’s shelter
Breakdown, return to school, and
effectively prove to my father that my Women Studies degree would get me
nowhere

My mother, my usual victim, and father were away for the weekend celebrating their 20th wedding anniversary, so I invited Hillary over to practice for my final cosmetology exam. I cleared the breakfast bar of the usual fruit bowl and napkin holder so the natural light filtered through the patio doors to the right of the kitchen.

Hillary didn’t have her coat off before she broke the news to me. “Guess what.”

“You got that job at the phone centre?”

“Yes, actually but that isn’t my news.” She threw her red ski jacket over a stool. “Jake asked me to marry him last night!”

“Oh my God!”

After an hour of reciting every detail of the proposal from the romantic dinner to Hillary phoning her mother, my assignment of make-up for black and white photography was a mere memory.
“So, do you want to be the blushing bride, the princess, or the sex kitten on your big day?” I said, as I unpacked my silver tackle-box of a make-up kit.
“Something romantic for the wedding, maybe I’ll go a little vampy for the rehearsal

party. I am thinking a full skirt of tulle for the dress.” Hillary rummaged through the pots of shadow, blush, and finally, choosing a salmon-coloured lip shine, tested it on the back of her hand.

“How very Vera Wang of you. We should go down to that little boutique downtown. I have been dying for an excuse to go in.”

“That place on York? My dad would have a heart attack. Anyway, I’m sure my mom will make my dress.” She shrugged. “I know your parents aren’t thrilled about this whole cosmetic artist thing, but I have to tell you Nat, I think it’s great. Now, if I can find a friend who is a hairdresser before August, I’ll be all set.” Lines of peach, coral, ruby, plum, and fuchsia streaked her hand.

“At least I am making a little bit of money. I mean, it isn’t what I plan on doing for the rest of my life, but I enjoy it. And the discount on all the make-up is great. Here try this orchid lipstick, very princess bride.”

“I was thinking that the bride’s maids could be in canary yellow. And you, of course, will be my maid of honour.”

“Thanks, but are you sure about this? He’s a great guy and all, but he still wears tapered jeans.”

“I know. I know. But I am OK with that. I guess it must be love.” Hillary said, and I made a mental note to include this moment in my wedding speech.

List. Post-Secondary Education:

Bachelor in Arts Women Studies / English
Cosmetology Certification
Masters
of Business Administration

By 2003, I no longer wore the least malodorous t-shirt plucked from the bedroom floor. Tailored black suits and silk blouses hung in my closet, which I paired with shoes purchased on sale at Holt Renfrew. I wore the basic homogeneous uniform worn by every other software consultant on weekly flights to Wayne, Pennsylvania, Dearborn, Michigan, or Fort Worth, Texas. My black Samsonite carry-on luggage filled each Sunday evening with designer cosmetics, high-end hair products, and a copy of Macleans magazine. My employer, a firm specializing in retail price optimization, did not know that the tortoiseshell glasses I wore—which matched my chocolate brown hair with toffee highlights—were non-prescription. I pulled my hair back each day in a casual up-do. When entertaining clients, I strayed from my once signature Molson Canadian and instead went for the more sophisticated and acceptable Apple Martini. I learned the value of talking in sports analogies and acquired a taste for Cuban cigars.

List. Acceptable Drinks while Entertaining Clients:

Crème de Menthe
Dry Martini
Mojito
Manhattan
Gin and Tonic

At first, I loved the rich feel of the bars where we gathered in the evenings, collecting after lavish, expensed dinners of steak and a well-aged, dry red wine. No matter the American city, the hotel bar carried a faint yet comforting musky smell of alcohol and smoke. Forever, for me, the smell of men at work, of business being done. The wood accents warm and inviting, juxtaposed the strategically placed television sets, each showing a different sport. Each attendee, claiming he would only stay for one drink, he needed to call home, catch the kids before they went to bed. The clients displayed the same uniformity that our meeting places did. Eerily unwrinkled button-down shirts tucked into crisp chinos.

Tonight’s hotel bar was more than most: More smoky, more pungent, darker. The gleam of the black leather couches contrasted with the bar’s crimson red walls. A senior associate and I entertained three senior VP’s.

“So, Tom, we still need to discuss securing resources for this project. Has the leadership team discussed who you can dedicate for the next six months?” I said, after getting the attention of the VP of Technology, who had been speaking loudly with his colleague about Sunday’s football game.

“You a football fan, Natalie?” He said.

“Can’t say I am. Though I enjoy the odd hockey game.”

“Canadians.” He smiles.

“Yes, we Canadians are certainly fanatical about our sport.”

Looking for a way to smoothly transition back to discussing the project requirements, I try to link my preferred resource with the topic at hand. “I hear Steve is a big football fan.”

“Steve? Hell no. Not much of a sports fan that one. Good guy, just a bit different.”

“I think he’d be perfect for this project, can you free him up?”

“I have someone in mind. Don’t think it will be Steve.” He said.

“Does this mystery man have a name?” I think, reminding myself of a conversation with a senior colleague about entertaining clients. He had teased me about my novice assumption that hosting client evenings was about business, when instead it is about remembering their children’s names, updates on the latest technical gadgets, and consuming top-shelf alcohol.

As the night progresses, and the alcohol flows, one by one the VPs slink to the quieter lobby to take in-coming cell calls from their wives. Their conversations all begin with “I was just about to call you...” “Yeah, we were just grabbing a quick drink in the bar...” “No. No. We aren’t planning on being late...” “Yes, I am flying home tomorrow.”

“Natalie, maybe you can help us with a little debate we have been having,” said the VP of Technology.

Finally, I think, we are going to discuss the fact that the software’s delivery timeline must now be extended, or how the product will differentiate between two identical SKUs distributed in two separate geographical regions.

“How old are you? John and I have been debating this since you came on board last month.”

“Old enough to understand the complexity of your supply chain,” I said, with little hope of diverting them. I had lived this scenario before. After the initial “getting to know you” phase, the client bombards me with questions about my age, about when I graduated, and about the length of my career. These questions, always peppered with compliments about the quality of my work, are then followed by explanations regarding motivations. That, and don’t get them wrong, I was doing a fabulous job running the engagement, and they were asking only out of curiosity. They commented that perhaps I just looked young. However, they and I knew the truth, I didn’t look young: I was young.

I considered it part of my job, unavoidable, something to endure because I had achieved success so young, and therefore I allowed what I considered an acceptable amount of teasing before I gave in and answered all of their questions. I graciously accepted their exaggerated praise about being in my position so young and contemplated a less trendy, a less youthful, wardrobe for my next client.

List. Phrases not to use while Entertaining Clients:

“like”
“Do you know what I mean?”
“Where do you get your nails
done?”
“Sporty Spice was always my favourite Spice Girl. I wonder what
happened to her.”

Later, sitting up in my hotel bed, with my laptop on a pillow on my thighs, I called Hil.

“So, what’s San Francisco like?” Hillary asked.

“Well, the Marriott is exactly like the Marriott in Fort Worth, which is exactly like the Marriott in Wayne, Pennsylvania. Seriously, Hil, it isn’t as glam as it sounds. I spend half my energy trying to convince these guys that I am not just some dumb broad.”

“Maybe you could fake a British accent. The British always sound smarter.”

“Maybe I need better shoes.”

“You kidding me? I’d kill for your shoes. Truth be told, I’d kill for a reason to wears heels,” Hillary said. “Maybe you should get a new look. I saw the cutest hairstyle on one of the girls from that Survivor show. Short, but not too short. All spiky and crazy, but pulled together. Like organized chaos.” I heard the baby crying in the background. “I gotta go, Nat. Make an appointment this weekend, and I’ll get Jake to watch the boys for a few hours, so I can go with you.”

*

Even though the hairdresser said the style looked better messy, I stopped at every mirror in the airport to pat down rebel strands that had ventured too far outside my hair’s comfort zone. I wondered if I looked too radical, if it made me look too young, if it somehow gave away the fact that I purchased my shoes on sale. Eventually, after a few days of experimenting with different hair pastes, I began to feel more comfortable and, six months later, I was promoted to Senior Consultant. When my boss, who had been with the company since its conception, took me out for a congratulatory lunch, he fussed about me being the youngest senior consultant in the company’s history. Through lunch, I daydreamed about where my new colourist at Tony & Guy would take my career.

List. Items to Purchase to Further Career:

The One-Minute Manager by Kenneth Blanchard and Spencer Johnson
First course
for Project Management Professional (PMP®) certification
MAC eye shadow in
Hoax and Girlie
French Manicure

Now my hair hangs below my shoulders. It is dyed chestnut brown with caramel highlights. Hillary and I are in the bathroom of my downtown condominium. I sit on the closed toilet seat, turned towards a mirror placed on the marble countertop.

“You’re sure? Sure, sure?” Hillary says.

“Sure.” I nod. I do not take my gaze away from the mirror.

“You know, it could be worse. It could be a breast or your uterus you are losing.”

“Some days I would be OK with losing my uterus.” I smile as I look up at her. “I wish I could have a drink.”

With the scissors in my right hand, and a chunk of hair in my left, I cut the first strand. I have no plan or style in mind. I cut so that there is only an inch of hair left, my grey roots more noticeable as the coloured lengths fall. I throw each piece into the wastebasket and when I finish, I stand up, lift the lid of the toilet, and flush the hair down. There is no ceremony. I pick the mirror up and hold it so that I can see the back of my hair, my naked neck.

List. Lost Options:

Numerous hair accessories
Grey Goose Vodka
Cohiba Cigarillos
Negros
California Rolls (keeping them down, anyway)

I am waiting in my apartment lobby, slick in a new pair of Anne Klein wool trousers and my favourite knee high leather boots, when Hillary picks me up in her sea green Caravan for my oncologist appointment. As I enter the van, I toss an empty sippy cup into the backseat and brush off, what appears to be Oreo cookie crumbs from the passenger seat. There are two Tim Horton coffees in the cup holders, and the smell of the coffee and stale arrowroots fills the van.

Hillary looks up from scrubbing at a stain on her sweatshirt, her hair casually tied in a messy knot at the back of her head. “Your make-up looks really nice,” she says, and then notices my ear lobes. “Nice earrings. Did you go out and get those last night?”

“Yeah, just something to look pretty. You know?” I remove a toy truck from the dash to make room for my Burberry clutch and my copy of the September issue of British Vogue.

“Honestly Nat, I think you look great,” she says as her eyes return to my earrings. “How many carats are those?”

A Sharon, Lois, and Bram CD falls from the sun visor, as I open it to look at myself in the mirror and admire my latest purchase. “They are just under two actually.”

“Nice. I’d settle for enough time for a hair cut.” She smiles and I think that even without a stitch of make-up she is beautiful.

“You don’t think my nose looks big, do you? I’m considering having it done. There is a new clinic in Florida. More of a resort really, where you get some work done, you know, anything from your boobs to Botox, and then you recover on the beach.”

“I think your nose is fine, Nat.” Hillary says as she turns off the radio. “Listen, I have been doing some research on this therapy. It sounds pretty heavy-duty.”

“Yeah, we’ll have to go wig shopping.” I smile. “I can change my hair colour every day if I wish.”

“There is more than that.” She says.

“Like what?’

“Like what?! Natalie, there are serious side effects to this shit. You are going to be really ill.” More softly, she says, “It may leave you sterile, Honey.”

“That doesn’t matter. I’m 32.”

“You’re not 50.”

Wedged between the seatbelt and the van console is a copy of The Classics of Hans Christian Anderson. It is old and tattered, and smeared across the cover is a substance that could just as easily be glue, as it could be an affirmation that Hil’s kids will wipe their nose just about anywhere. From under my feet, I retrieve an orphaned mitten and begin to wipe the disgusting substance, first from my hands, and then from the book. On the book’s cover is the ugly duckling. A group of perplexed, fluffy yellow chicks surrounds him. Some of them even look like they are laughing. The ugly duckling cowers in the middle, his black, dishevelled feathers in stark contrast to the mob. What the cover does not show is that in the end, the ugly duckling transforms into a beautiful swan. By the end of the story, all of the children will want to be that swan. Without looking behind me, I throw the book and the mitten in the backseat. “Maybe I don’t want kids. I’m not you.” I say, as I search in my purse for a bottle of Purell.

The rest of the way we ride in silence. Hillary silently brooding as she drives and I flip through my magazine. The Fall issue, the largest of the year, mostly riddled with advertisements, full of beautiful people -- people admired by millions around the world.

Dani Valiquette lives with her two kids, twodogs, two cats, and one husband and leads a mostly sleep-deprived life. She runs her own photography studio called Life Equals Art and dreams of one day having spare time. She gave a reading of "A Woman Studied" at CJ'S Cafe on June 10. Many thanks to Dani for the photos of that event.

Note: For information about Brian Henry’s upcoming writing workshops and classes see here.

Loren Grossman joins Levine agency

Agent Paul Levine's wife, Loren R. Grossman, has joined the Paul S. Levine Literary Agency and is looking for clients. She specializes in nonfiction.

Areas of interest:

Archeology, Art/Photography/Architecture; ChildGuidance/Parenting; Coffee Table Books; Education/Academics; Gardening; Health/Medicine; Science/Technology; Law; Religion; Memoirs; Sociology.

Query by e-mail at lrg@ix.netcom.com

Send a one-page, single-spaced query letter, preferably by e-mail (although “snail mail” and fax are acceptable). No query-related phone calls, please. In your query letter, note your target market, with a summary of specifics on how your work differs from other authors’ previously published work.

Submission details here: http://www.paulslevinelit.com/submissions.htm

Home: http://www.paulslevinelit.com/

Note: For information about Brian Henry’s upcoming writing workshops and classes see here.

kt literary

After nearly ten years with industry powerhouse agency Janklow & Nesbit Associates, Kate Schafer Testerman formed kt literary in February 2008. KT literary concentrates on middle grade and YA fiction as well as diving into some adult commercial fiction and narrative nonfiction.

Kate is actively seeking brilliant, funny, original middle grade and young adult fiction, both literary and commercial; witty women's fiction; and pop-culture narrative nonfiction. Quirky is good. No picture books. Tips: "If we like your query, we'll ask for more."

Query by e-mail only. No attachments:
mailto:queries@ktliterary.com.%20Web
Home: http://www.ktliterary.com/main.html
Writer's Guidelines: http://www.ktliterary.com/submissions.html

Note: For information about Brian Henry’s upcoming writing workshops and classes see here.

“Street Food,” Cheryl Taylor

“Street food” is not what you think. Rather, I am talking about food offered to strangers on the street. Today, food was offered to me. That was a first. This is what happened: I was placing my groceries in the trunk of my car in the parking lot of the No Frills at Dixie Value Mall when a car drove up.

Inside were two Rubenesque ladies in their thirties. They were quite pleasant and explained they had been across the road at Burger King, had ordered too much for lunch, and now wanted to give away the remaining untouched Whopper.

Despite a bus stop right there full of people waiting for a city bus, no one would accept their offer. I explained I had already had my lunch but they were undeterred. They seemed so dismayed that no one would accept their offer that I decided to put them out of their misery and say ‘yes’. They would never know what I did with their burger but they could congratulate themselves on having done a good deed.

Believe this or not, I have never eaten a Whopper. I am a Quarter Pounder kind of gal myself. Was this going to be my first Whopper? Not a chance. I am too suspicious by nature to entertain the idea for more than the briefest of seconds.

My plan was to drive along Lakeshore Boulevard and assess pedestrians for need. But not seeing anyone who met my criteria, I went home. My sweetie wouldn’t touch it and if it was not safe enough for us then I wasn’t going to risk my dogs.

The entire episode started me thinking of the food I have offered to the homeless and hungry of the world. Years ago, my sister and I vacationed in San Francisco. We took a doggie bag from Ruth's Chris Steakhouse and were on our way back to the hotel when a homeless person asked us for money for food.

I don’t know your opinion on the subject but, having discussed it with a former nun, I have decided to not give cash but food. I offered him the doggie bag. He was so appreciative! Baked potato and filet mignon, who wouldn’t? On the same vacation, we gave a take home bag of calamari to a man who said he hadn’t had any for years. He, too, was thrilled.

I had thought I was on to something but things were different back in Toronto. The first people who asked me for money were met with offers of whatever food was available. For example, once it was a hotdog from a nearby stand, but he turned down due to dietary concerns. I ask you: would a starving person in a third world country say no to anything in the food category?

My favourite story happened early one Saturday morning in Bloor West Village. I was crossing at the light at Runnymede and coming towards me was a really scruffy looking character. My first impression was he was someone who had had a long love affair with alcoholic beverages. He made me nervous. As we approached each other he said, in the quietest, sweetest, voice: “Please ma’am, I’m awfully hungry. Can I have some money for some food?”

As I mentioned above, I do not give money. I give food. Thinking quickly, I remembered the muffin I had in my purse. I pulled it out and said, “Please, enjoy this muffin.”

In a flash, all his sweetness disappeared. "Fuck off,” he replied.

I could not have been more stunned.

I later read that the homeless of Toronto get more than their fill of donuts and muffins in the shelters. Maybe he was muffined out. But again, I ask you, would the starving people of this world have rejected my offer so vehemently?

In view of my reluctance to accept food from a complete stranger today, I wonder how brave panhndlers must be. But maybe it has nothing to do with bravery when one has a stomach that could not be emptier. May the fates be kind to all in this world who are in need.

*

Cheryl M. Taylor lives in Mississauga, Ontario with her sweetie and their two Havanese puppies. She attended Brian's "Welcome to Creative Writing Class" in Oakville, had lots of fun, and wrote some pretty good stuff, too. She's previously published stories in The Daylily Journal. This is her first piece for Quick Brown Fox.

For information about upcoming writing workshops and classes see here.

She's the type, Brody McVittie

She’s the type who tells you she doesn’t like sad songs,
right before she tells you it’s over
by Brody McVittie

She’s the kind
who’s really just not.

She’ll give you the eyes that say
stay

before pushing her lips to say
go away.

And she’ll turn her head
just a little to the left;
and the look, you think, is just right
and you wonder where to take her next
and she’s waiting for you to take her home
so she can tell you goodnight.

So you move closer
because it’s time and you’ve put in the
time
and she tells you it will take time
and much more
time
before the time you move your lips against her lips
when she moves her lips
and not against yours,
moves her lips to tell you
over dinner you’re paying for
that it will take dinners
and many many more.

She’s every sad song
on the radio on the way home;
and the curves in the road
have you picturing hers
the way you will tonight
alone.

Brody McVittie is a struggling writer out of London, Ontario. He’s authored two full-length novels, Lion & Lamb and Writing In and Of Color, both of which are currently in the revision process. His relationship advice – which he’s grossly unqualified to dispense – can be found on http://www.loveintoronto.com/
He also writes for HEART Business Journal for Women, LifeStyle Ontario, and Daytripping magazines.

“Please stop by my blog at http://www.brodymcvittie.com/. Any and all feedback is appreciated.” - Brody

Note: For information about Brian Henry’s upcoming writing workshops and classes see here.

On finally finding my lover, Alex Strachan

Darling,
Ever since we first met I want you to know I have never stopped loving you. In that earliest dawn of blurry adoration, your softness of touch brushed against the inner self, leaving a fingerprint on our soul. Your physical beauty, your sublime graces, your great strengths were so often lost on the lusts for our new beginning. And later, in our youthful vigour, when they caught my rare attention, they seemed as if fish on the surface of a sea, noticed for but a blink of the eye, before they dive back into the great unplumbed deeps. Then and for many more years, I simply took you and all of life as infinitely invulnerable.

Not until we had formed a kinship so radical in its physical and intellectual sense of selflessness, did I began to realize how much the ‘me’ in me had become inseparable from the ‘you’ in you. These two selves, so often entirely independent in our youth, the thoughts of one and the actions of the other, have over the decades become a welded oneness. So, that as life now inexorably slips between our fingers, the sense of being begins to lose its diluted feel. It becomes thicker, more viscous, like a rich sauce that is melded together from its many parts. I have begun to taste that change in our relationship that is, how shall I say? - more munificent than what we had in that time gone by.

Although the form is not quite as it was; the damaged limbs, the scars, the waning vitality, all those medals of a life well lived; it seems the veneer of our youth and beauty was only that, a veneer, which when stripped away has exposed a framework of substance, one I had never even vaguely been aware existed, beneath our outer selves.

Like the skeleton of some great sailing ship, that has stood the wrath of heaven induced tempests, forging in it somehow a wisdom for a life of voyaging. So we have become forged with much the same wisdom by our own time of voyaging together.

What I find my darling, is that as the sands of time have whittled away at our edifice and softened its edges, they have exposed a new me and a new you. A deeper layer once uncovered has allowed us to love one another with a passion that had no such coexistence in our previous journeys. Perhaps it is because the miles we are now travelling are no longer limitless but are, of a more finite nature. As each day passes, the essence of all that time out of mind spent in each other’s company now distils into a liquor profoundly more intoxicating than any that has come before. Or perhaps, it is fragments of brain dust that have collected in the corners and been puzzled together over ten thousand nights into dreams we can now feel, touch and smell. Is this our reality finally; a new being, birthed to an old soul and body?

Hark my angel, 'tis the season of renewal and we both feel it in the air. Our step is jaunty and an ineffable energy of mind fills us with new promise. As the birds nest and new shoots make their radiant appearance, a passion for life envelopes about all things yet again. But no more so than for you my love, who embodies for me always that infinite and eternal springtime.

With all my soul, I love you.

Caledon March '09

Alex Strachan was born in England and emigrated to Canada as a teenager. He divides his time between the French River in the summers, where he designed and built a beautiful small resort http://www.frenchriver.com/, and a log cabin in Caledon north of Mississauga for the winters, where writing, reading and walking with his border collie are his main occupations. Alex founded http://www.inbalanceinternational.org/, a non-profit organization that aims to get more women on the boards of large institutions by using women's consumer power.

Notes: The photo illustrating this piece was taken at Alex's lodge on the French River.

For information about Brian Henry’s upcoming writing workshops and classes see here.

"For Writers," Therese Taylor

For Writers
By Therese Taylor

I am in control

God is in my soul

Dancing with light

Day and night

Keeping my spirit safe

Knowing I have faith

God is in my soul

I am in control

Therese Taylor has written columns for her local paper, is a former editor of Women’s Culinary Network News and an environmental activist. Co-owner of Dan T’s Inferno Foods, she has a Masters degree in Journalism and is work-shopping a book about her Mom in the Intensive course Wednesday afternoons in Oakville. She lives in Mississauga with her husband and three children and loves to write poetry.

Note: For information about Brian Henry’s upcoming writing workshops and classes see here.

Poems by Liz Crockett

Alone
by Elizabeth Crocket

An echo of pure sadness
resounds in the stillness
while the night pines dance
without you

Moving On
by Elizabeth Crocket

Sad music on the radio
Crimson lipstick on the wine glass,
Your heart in my hands

*

Elizabeth Crocket writes short fiction, poetry and haiku. She has been published in Ascent Aspirations, RKVRY online journal, Roadrunner online journal, First Thought Poetry and more and has work forthcoming in The Mastadon Dentist, Word Riot, and Everyday Poems. Her first published piece was "The Pocket Watch" in Quick Brown Fox!

Note: For information about Brian Henry’s upcoming writing workshops and classes see here.

"Boots," by Dianne Delany

You go to Sherway Gardens Mall and you walk into The Bay. You know that you’re there to return the boots that are one size too small, but previous impulsive shopping sprees have you concerned that you’ll not only return the boots but purchase more footwear. Much more.

A simple return shopping exercise is becoming a potential disaster. You enter, you see the shoe department. You circle the slipper aisles. Do you dare to pick up a pair and feel the soft, supple suede? Do you run your fingers through the feathers and the beads? Of course you do, but come on, concentrate!

Walk directly to the sales counter. Keep a purpose in your step, in your walk. No! Don’t look at the sandals! They’re not in season yet anyway. Keep your eyes focussed straight ahead. Get in line. Breathe through your mouth so you can’t smell the leather – you know how it entices you. Keep thinking about how those too small boots hurt your toes, think of all the money you’ll save not buying bunion pads and Dr. Scholl’s foot relieving products. Remind yourself you bought the wrong sized boots!

Okay, good, keep a clear head. Exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale. That’s it. Be calm. I see you trying to check out those Aerosoles, those Rockports – oh-my-god – the dreaded sale shoe rack. Look! No, don’t look. Oh you know you saw it – your size 8 – 8½, right there on the left. Oh, now you’ve done it, you looked!

Okay, turn your eyes straight forward once again. Proceed in line to the counter. You don’t need another aerosol can of boot spray. You already have four or five in the cupboard at home.

Slowly, purposefully, open your wallet and retrieve your Hudson’s Bay Card, and yes, find the sales receipt for those smallish yet totally stylish boots – you know the receipt’s there in your overstuffed wallet, because you only bought these little wonders two days ago.

Now, put the credit card and the sales receipt on the counter. Place the bag with the box of boots tidily returned to their spooned, head to tail, tail to head position, softly nestled in tissue paper and microbial defeating, non-toxic plastic bag, and return them.

It’s okay to approach the female salesperson. Yes, you can ask for a return.

”Hello Mrs. Dynamite!” the saleswoman says with a brilliant smile. “Good to see you again. Will this be an exchange?”

Answer quickly, “No, not an exchange. This is a return.” You must state this emphatically. No wavering, hesitation or dilly-dallying is allowed.

“What is the reason for the return?”

“Wrong size.”

“Can I show you our latest stock?”

You know that you want to see it – you crave more boots - but remember that fortune cookie last night at the Mandarin:

“You are headed for financial disaster.”

As sure as salt stains on your Uggs, you know you cannot afford more boots. In fact, in the back of the van, you have more footwear returns destined for Sears, Browns, Capezio, Holt Renfrew and Florsheim. Your fortune cookie should have said:

“No more boots for you, toots.”

And would you have listened? Maybe. You know how superstitious you are. Besides, that little voice inside your head is telling you no more spending on boots, or your husband will give you the boot.

Now walk on back to your parking spot and return the rest of your footwear. Good work!

Note: To return to the main page, click the Home button at the bottom of this page, or you can go straight to another story by going to the blog archive at the top of the page on the right and clicking on any story.

"My Princess," William Bloxom

Being an avid observer of human nature, I’ve always had an acute interest in people I observe in various ordinary day-to-day situations. As I people watch, I enjoy dissecting their appearances and mannerisms and divining their backgrounds. I feel I’m pretty good at it.

So it was with the Princess. I was enjoying a leisurely cup of afternoon tea in one of my favorite coffee shops when she passed by. No, that’s not accurate – she glided past, as if she were floating on an invisible cushion of sophistication and timeless good breeding.

She was stunning. She was elegant. She was a lady, no doubt about that. In spite of being dressed in ordinary, somewhat faded, hip-hugging jeans and a form-fitting jet black high neck sweater offset by a sparkling necklace and large silver earrings, she exuded hidden wealth. She was fashionably thin and her clothing accentuated an athletic and lithesome body. Her shoulder-length blonde hair framed an elegant face, and her high cheekbones, firm but understated jaw and finely sculptured nose suggested an Eastern European background. Her whole demeanor and physical forbearance cried out class, good breeding and restrained old money.

She had a young boy with her, similarly attired in modest but fashionable clothes. I assumed he was her son.

They took seats against a window near the doorway, too far away for me to hear what they were saying but nonetheless enabling me to observe clearly their grace and style. Having ordered from the waitress, they settled in their chairs and engaged in a gentle, subdued conversation.

It was immediately obvious to me that she was no ordinary person. In Canada we are accustomed to welcoming people from all parts of the world. With her decidedly European features and her graceful style and sophistication there was little doubt in my mind that she came from a family of considerable Continental stature.

There had been recent political upheavals throughout much of the former Communist Eastern bloc and countless refugees had made their way – often in tragically hazardous circumstances – to the West and many of them eventually to Canada.

I could see it clearly now. This noble family, landed gentry from time immemorial in their native land, having suffered through the vicissitudes of communist rule, had finally been forced to bear the brunt of a new post-communist persecution too horrible to imagine. I could see them now, fleeing what remained of their family estate in panic, carrying as much of their jewelry and heirlooms as they could.

It must have been awful, dodging army patrols, avoiding police roadblocks, and hiding from roving gangs of thugs bent on exacting mindless revenge on the upper classes. Undoubtedly they had spent many terrifying nights hiding in the deep dark forests and crouching in filthy ditches as they slowly made their way to freedom. And then that heart-numbing last dash across no man’s land, agonizing at the sounds of the baying guard dogs close behind. How horrible, how noble!

And now they were here. The drudgery of the displaced persons camps and the endless processing of UN refugee paperwork and their final acceptance by Canadian authorities would now be but a faded memory.

To me she was a Princess, and she and her little Prince represented a welcome infusion of class and sophistication into our social fabric. They were regal and graceful. It made me proud to have people of their caliber in our country, moving in the highest social circles and contributing to the polishing of our multi-cultured society.

Just then an old, battered and very noisy pickup truck, belching clouds of blue smoke, pulled up at the doorway, “Johnny’s Waste Collection and Tree Removal’ faintly visible on the dirt-caked passenger’s door. The driver, with an old misshapen cap pulled low over his face, barely concealing the long matted hair and a three day beard, tooted his horn impatiently.

“Come, Frankie, it’s Daddy. Let’s go to the garage sale!” my Princess screeched. She jumped up, grabbed her jacket and headed for the door, the little boy scrambling after her.

It had been a long time since I had heard such a strong Newfoundland accent.

I sat there watching my Princess and her little Prince disappeared down the street in a cloud of blue-black smoke.

I was not amused. It was just so damned unfair and dishonest of her to portray herself as a person of class and grace. Really! Some people!

Oh well, I thought to myself, you can’t win ’em all. I settled back in my chair, somewhat deflated, but determined to enjoy the last of my tea. I glanced casually around the small but well appointed coffee shop, my eyes sliding over the few remaining customers. And then I stopped, my eyes slowly reverting to the elderly distinguished looking gentleman in the far corner. Well dressed and immaculately groomed, it was apparent that he was not of an ordinary background.

It was patently obvious to me that he was a ...

***

William Bloxom is a freelance planning and development consultant who spends much of his time abroad working in developing countries. When not working, his hobbies include gardening, writing and traveling and of late he has been working on a series of short stories as well as a full length novel set in the developing world. He and his wife Lonela live in Mississauga, Ontario.

Note: To return to the main page, click the Home button at the bottom of this page, or you can go straight to another story by going to the blog archive at the top of the page on the right and clicking on any story.

"Lessons Learned," Sue Ferguson

When I was a first year student nurse, my classmate Ann and I were assigned to the same surgical rotation – early mornings before classes started. Our first day, the head nurse – a matronly battleaxe with little patience for nurturing young Florence Nightingales – welcomed us coolly and assigned us to give morning care to a very sick patient in room 210.

Room 210 turned out to be a Mrs. Havelock. Her only response to our cheery good morning was an involuntary moan, so we set about assembling the towels, soap, and basin for the bed bath.

“Look how yellow her skin is,” I whispered to Ann as I removed her gown, folded down the bedding and positioned the flannel bath sheet. I had never seen such yellow skin.

We were almost finished when the door creaked open and in strode her surgeon Dr. Farley and the Head Nurse. Ann and I backed up to the nearest wall but watched intently as he lowered the bath flannel and exposed her firmly rounded abdomen. Skillfully he prodded, poked and tapped the big belly.

“All we can do now is to maintain her comfort,” Dr. Farley said, “and pray for a miracle.” Then they left.

We crept back to the bedside.

“Wonder what he felt?” I asked Ann.

“Let’s find out,” she replied.

Clumsily we prodded, poked, and tapped the unconscious body, in earnest mimicry of Dr. Farley’s actions.

Suddenly Mrs. Havelock came to life. Her arms and legs jerked violently and her head bobbled while the whites of her eyes flashed up at us.

“Oh my God!” I yelled, and ran for the head nurse.

Real nurses and doctors barreled into the room and we were quickly hustled into the corridor. The chaos was still in progress when we left for class. Later we heard that Mrs. Havelock had died and her autopsy was the next morning.

“Do you think we killed her?” we asked each other. Terrified and uncertain we decided that our best defense was to go to the autopsy and find out. We got permission to attend only because we had been assigned to her care.

The next morning I stood trembling alongside the autopsy table with clenched hands, willing myself not to throw up, not to pass out, and not to do anything else that would embarrass me while amusing the others present. The assistant snappily folded the sheet to the corpse’s knees and exposed the abdomen. I took a deep breath.

The first cut ran from sternum to pubic bone and the second went horizontal to expose the ribs. Goosebumps erupted on my body. The bone saw screeched as it freed the rib cage so the assistant could lift it out and expose the thoracic cavity. I gulped and concentrated on breathing.

Busy hands were separating the skin, fat and muscle before delving into the cavity. Then the pathologist pointed out the cause of death…a gnarly tumour bigger than a large grapefruit pushed upward from a tiny ovary.

Thank God! We hadn’t killed her after all.

I tuned in again to the pathologist’s voice as he described other involved organs and freed them from the invasive cancerous growth. Before long, I became lost in the wonder of the master plan of the human body. It is the ultimate work of art. Glistening organs nestle into their special place. They glide effortlessly over each other in normal function. Each one works independently yet they synchronize with each other to produce homeostasis of the human body. Then layers of muscle, fat and skin protect it all from outside harm. I was awestruck by the most sophisticated, efficient machine ever conceived.

A couple of hours later in the cafeteria lineup for lunch, Ann and I chatted with relief and even laughed about our foolish imagination.

“No thanks,” I responded to the server’s query of liver or sausage for an entrée. “I think I’ll just have an egg salad sandwich please.”

That experience lives in my memory as the greatest anatomy lesson ever, and I thank Mrs. Havelock for her contribution to my education. Much later in life it occurred to me that no matter what the size, shape or colour of the package, our similarities inside are so much greater than our differences.

Nevertheless, even to this day I don’t eat liver or sausage.

*

Note: For information about Brian Henry’s upcoming writing workshops and classes see here.

“Longing II,” Tabitha Kott

I miss…
the north land in the summertime
rising glacial rock
enfolding
like a passageway through time

the ping-scent of pine and cedar
trees lending their needles
cushioning journeys on the land

the aching cry of the loon
haunting reminder of simpler times

I long for simplicity.

the vast expanse of sky
endless, breathtaking
ever-changing portal to mysteries
unknown

the canoe
rhythmically caressing water
cradled in the Ancient Ones’ hands
leading us Home

the hungry love made on the belly of the Mother
sacred energy
uniting
Creation

The absence leaves an echo in my heart.

I am longing.

Tabitha Kott lives a quiet life in an ordinary Mississauga neighbourhood. Her passions include urban farming, ecstatic dance, expressive creativity, and pushing the edges to see what she can find. Tabitha wrote “Longing II” in one of my creative writing courses in Mississauga last fall. She submitted it to the Ontario Poet’s Society Open Hearts poetry contest, where it won an honourable mention.

For more on the Ontario Poety Society Contests, see here: http://www.theontariopoetrysociety.ca/Contests.html

"Diatribe," Grant Thompson

Di`a`tribe

1: archaic: a prolonged discourse

2: a bitter and abusive speech or writing

3: ironic or satirical criticism

“Don't worry about the future. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday." - Unknown

An idle Tuesday, 3:30pm . . .

On a sunny spring day thirteen years ago, I made my way to an appointment with my family physician. Over the previous fall and winter I had experienced a minor pain in my wrist accompanied by stiffness of my fingers after typing or using the mouse on the computer for extended periods.

After the standard checks on heart, breathing and blood pressure, my doctor focused on my right wrist and elbow. He twisted and flexed the joints and kept saying, “Relax your arm”. His conclusion: there was a bit of “excess tension” in my arm. I should go to see a neurologist for further tests.

A week later I was sitting in another doctor’s office patiently waiting my turn. My name was called and I was ushered in. After ten minutes of touching my index finger to various parts of my face with eyes closed and touching my index finger to his finger while he kept moving it around, the examination was complete.

Now seated across an acre of desk from him I heard the verdict: Parkinson’s.

He gave me a prescription for amantadine, a single-sheet folded pamphlet on Parkinson’s disease, and said, “See you in six months”.

The second opinion was the same.

I had just had my 37th birthday. Now I was reading about a progressive, debilitating disease that would be with me the rest of my life. It doesn’t normally strike until your sixties or later the pamphlet said. The pamphlet said I should wear shoes with a flat solid sole and try to get up and outside if only for a little while each day. Right.

The pamphlet showed a family rallying to support octogenarian grandparents. It bore as much relation to my life as . . . . it bore no relation to my life.

Try to get outside if only for a little while each day. Right

I had two children under 10 years old. I had scouts and guides to get kids to. I had to help build Cub cars. I coached my son’s soccer team. I was a Customer Service Account Manager with a staff of 24 people across the country.

Try to get outside if only for a little while each day. Right.

For the next month I was examined, poked, prodded, and drained of blood vial by vial (There were upwards of 30 vials, sized tiny to alarmingly big). Then urine samples, some straight and then some encased in foil to avoid the light, and to crown it all, a CAT scan “with enhancement”. All this was in an effort to determine if my problem might be something other than Parkinson’s.

Since then, the Parkinson’s has progressed. I haven’t. I was a 20 year employee of a large corporation until it

I am an entrepreneur by necessity. That means I’m unemployed. After the boom years of the 90s, my firm underwent several huge downsizings. Now I’m trying to grow a business which digitally restores photos. And using photos, old and new, I create memory movies for celebration, tribute or documenting family histories.

I am still looking for a full-time job.

I haven’t found anyone who will take a chance on me yet.

I am a person with Parkinson’s.

What is it like?

I can’t relax. Even on a good day or good hour I can’t flop down on the couch and sprawl. My head won’t rest on the pillow; I have to will it so.

There are times I need to think about the steps I have to go through to flip a pancake. Shoelaces can stymie me. Tying a Windsor or Four-in-Hand knot in my tie has to be done the night before.

When I need of medication, all the muscles in my body feel as if they’re humming like high tension electrical lines. When the meds take hold it’s like an upwelling of relief from my core to my extremities.

I am never entirely sure that the person behind the counter has understood what I’ve said until the clerk gives me a happy meal that’s wrong, or the clerk asks me to repeat what I just said (which is fine) or until her jaw goes slack and she glazes over into that “waiting for further instructions” posture.

I will haul out a fistful of change to pay for something but let the cashier pick out the required coins.

I have dyskinetic attacks – which uncontrollable head, neck and body movements. Sometimes these scare people. More often they annoy people, especially anyone seated behind me in a movie theatre. The attacks also make my back and neck muscles really sore. It gets worse when I’m nervous.

I sometimes freeze. I lose my balance occasionally, though I haven’t yet fallen. I sometimes shuffle instead of walk. When I can’t walk without shuffling, I get out my hiking staff and use its rhythmic swinging motion to provide a tempo that enables me to walk; or I can run. Running is easy. But I’ve always hated running.

Random thoughts…

I am not considered disabled by the Ministries of such things, but it’s difficult to get through a job interview without eyebrows being raised, or glances between interviewers which say, “Hello, what have we got here?” I’m a little nervous at interviews. I was once asked if I had been drinking. I said no and tried to explain. My brain was saying, “Tell him you are on drugs and try to explain that.” The interview was too formal; not a time to try humour. But I have to work. I have a mortgage to pay, a kid in college and another in university. The future holds a wedding I’ll pay for and who knows what.

I just turned fifty. Inside I feel eighteen, like any fifty-year-old. I like to joke and have fun but Parkinson’s masks my good humour. I appear stone faced and often speak as though I have a mouthful of marbles. Expression takes effort. Even then, the effort might result in a grimace instead of a smile. A good belly laugh still works.

I take up to 37 pills a day. That’s up from approximately none thirteen years ago. Back then I had to crunch a single aspirin to get it down. Now seven pills in one gulp is the norm.

This is me…

I make hiking staffs as a hobby. Hand-carved, brass or steel-tipped, with grips of rope or leather cord tied in intricate knotwork.

I have learned Tai Chi.

I go camping in bear country, swim in Georgian Bay, stargaze.

I fly high performance stunt kites.

I play the pennywhistle. My wife thinks the word “play” is somewhat generous. I am going to learn to play the Irish flute anyway.

I still do all I ever could; it’s just a matter of degree and timing. When I feel good I have to do something. Anything. If not, I’ve wasted an opportunity to be “normal.”

I have two beautiful children, a supportive family and a large circle of good friends.

I have an appreciation and newly discovered compassion for those in similar straits.

In the midst of those that don’t know about Parkinson’s, who point or avoid, I have found that some people, as often as not in the places you would least expect, care without knowing you, act on your behalf without being asked, treat you as a dear friend would, and help you continue safely on your way

Parkinson’s notwithstanding and all else in its proper perspective, I’m doing fine.

*

Note: For information about Brian Henry’s upcoming writing workshops and classes see here.

Winning Aurelia, Malcolm Matthews

The following is the first chapter of Winning Aurelia, an 80,000-word young adult manuscript about an autistic child who’s a chess prodigy and has a crush on the girl across the street.

“All my games are real.” Bobby Fischer

A long time ago in his living room, Owen Robertson woke up in the middle of a war. Arrows whipped past him through a misty haze. He ducked and scrambled for cover, but there were no trees. Not even a rock or a bush to hide behind. Rain pounded down, and Owen got mad because he hated being wet. He dodged between clashing groups of huge armored men and staggered on numb feet across a cratered field toward a black stone castle looming on the other side. Owen was breathing hard when he reached it. The castle walls were rough and cold, and he knew it was real even before he touched it.

He cringed when thunder blasted like bombs above him. Clamping his hands over his ears didn’t help. He squatted on the ground, rocking, his back against the castle wall. His pajama bottoms were soaked up to his knees and caked with mud.

A skinny man in a long robe slid over to him. Owen blinked a bunch of times but could barely see him through the rain. The man snarled, “Go away” and pointed with a bony finger.

A big man with a beard shouted across the battlefield: “Come here.”

Owen shook his head and didn’t get up.

A tall woman in a black dress glided past him, winked, and said, “This is the real world, Owen. The other one’s the dream.” Owen wondered how she knew his name.

She crossed the battlefield to join the bearded man and the skinny man with the robe.

Exploding through the swirling fog, a man in white armor on a giant horse galloped over. The horse skidded to a stop, and the armored man grumbled down, “Pay attention, boy. Focus.”
The horse shuffled in place under him, stomping craters in the frozen earth with its enormous hooves and making terrible snorting sounds. Owen shivered with his legs tucked against his chest. When the armored man kicked his heels into the horse’s sides and wrenched it around to charge across the field, Owen stood and ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

Before he could get out of the castle’s shadow, a line of soldiers in metal vests marched up and blocked his way. They glared at him and stepped forward one at a time, swords raised.
Before he could run again, behind the soldiers, a girl’s face appeared on the horizon. Past the castle and beyond the men and the fog. She was pretty and far away but close somehow. Almost close enough to touch.

Thunder roared in the air, and the girl and the rain and the armies disappeared.

In the living room, Owen’s father and his father’s friend Mr. Nasser leaned over the board. They played chess every Friday night and sometimes let Owen stay up late to watch.

Owen was six years old.

He was in the game.

Since that night in February, he’s grown two feet taller, been beaten up a dozen times, seen four different doctors, five psychologists, played more chess games and woke up in the middle of more wars than he could ever hope to count.

And once, only once, Owen Robertson fell in love.

*

To learn more about this book or to read Malcolm's blog, visit him at: www.malcolmmatthews.ca

Notes: The photo is of an actual chess prodigy, Josh Waitzkin.

For information about Brian Henry’s upcoming writing workshops and classes see here.

"A Long Story," Louise King Sindos

Lizzie Long was the school female bully. There was always one of the female type and one of the male type. Lizzie, representing the females, became my challenge. Everyone was afraid of her. She ruled supreme. If Lizzie said ‘yes’ it was ‘yes’. If she said ‘no’ it was ‘no’. I don’t know how Lizzie earned the title. Had she at some point in the past won every fight that she attempted? Or had she overcome all opponents who dared challenge her? Or maybe her reputation and title were just legend, passed on from person to person, age to age without test or challenge. No beginning. No end. Just a reputation conferred from above that everyone accepted and was, therefore, governed by. Whatever the explanation, Lizzie was the school female bully. No question and no doubt.

Lizzie was in the fourth grade and I was in the seventh grade, but she was a year older than I was. I guessed her slow passage through elementary school was not so much a reflection of her intelligence but rather more of her family’s way of life. The Longs decided what they were going to do and what they would not do. That included deciding whether the children would go to school on any given day or if Mama and Daddy needed them to stay at home. This was at a time in history when there were mandatory school attendance laws but nobody paid much attention to them. Even the superintendant of schools was granted immunity from caring.

A day of absence for all or some of the Longs might be a day the children were needed to work or harvest crops. Another day of absence might be when the Longs were feeling angry with the world. This seemed to occur often. If you met one of Mama Long in the street, her expression would warn you not to get out of place.

The Longs were tough and formidable. Lizzie, even at age nine, had scars to advertize the family’s way of life. Potential visitors were informed they were not welcome by a shotgun pellets ricocheting off the tree in the yard. An unacceptable suitor of the teenage Long daughter had a crease in his scalp to communicate that he should not have bothered to come.

Back to Lizzie. On this particular day, at break time, the class had decided that we would play a ball game that required a captain of each team. I volunteered to carry the ball. When Miss Carrie rang the bell for recess, we jumped up and barreled out of the room in excitement and anticipation. Our procession was unordered and undisciplined. We were eager to break free from the regimen and stifling atmosphere that school learning imposed. Recess meant free play, no supervision, no order, no directions and only a casual glance of disapproval from a teacher, who was just as relieved as we were to be free from bossing us and trying to transform us into readers, factors, ciphers and perhaps, by unintended consequence, thinkers.

Lizzie came out of her classroom across the schoolyard. She approached me and asked me for the ball as though it were her right to have it. Absolutely anyone else would have immediately yielded the ball to Lizzie. But selfish me, with my self-centeredness, my ego insisted that I wanted to command the ball. Oh me, of little concept-testing or awareness.

Lizzie demanded that I give her the ball. The other kids urged me to give the ball to Lizzie. Some kids started crying, “She’ll beat you up,” warned one. “Please Louise, give Lizzie the ball,” begged another.

Filled with an infusion of strength, I screamed at Lizzie, “You can’t have the ball! I had it first.” I turned to my playmates and yelled, “She can’t beat me up!”

One little boy timidly reminded me in an almost whisper that no one had ever beat Lizzie up before. I imagine they were thinking of the Long’s historical legacy. I was in a fix. I did not even have the encouragement, faith or belief from my fellow playground mates.

Lizzie gave me one more chance to surrender the ball to her. I gave her one more chance to get angrier as I refused her request. Playmates tried to defuse the escalating cold war by skipping around and singing: “Lizzie is going to beat you up.”

With no further intervention, Lizzie bore down on me and came across my head with her fist. She didn’t know it but she had just rewritten the future of the school’s legends. My head was throbbing and the fire in my head cruised down through my body. I jumped on Lizzie, driven by the hurt that I was feeling. I pummeled her from head to toe without thought or mercy. There was no fear, no concern and no cares.

Lizzie became a rag doll to my fists. She begged me to let her go but I was unrelenting. I’m sure some unconscious agenda from the past which I never analyzed drove me on. I don’t know how I held Lizzie down but I did until at last I felt her pleas for mercy were sincere enough. Then I got off her and helped her up. My playground mates of little faith now turn-coated on Lizzie. They cheered in triumph and hugged and praised me.

It seems ironic now but I don’t remember wanting to hurt Lizzie. In my young mind, I think I just wanted more equality on the playground. No one should be in control of another, by thought, word or deed.

At the time I was unaware of the concept of superhuman strength attributable to the fight or flight phenomenon or to the concept of the adrenaline rush. But thanks to their presence in my life on that day, I changed the politics and organization of the Albion Academy playground.

Note: To get to the main page, click the Home button at the bottom of this page, or you can go straight to another story by going to the blog archive at the top of the page on the right and clicking on any story.

My Schedule

For details of upcoming writing workshops and classes, email Brian Henry. I'll answer your questions and put you on the distribution list for the Quick Brown Fox newsletter. The newsletter will keep you up to date and will give you the scoop on excellent writing contests, agents looking for authors, markets and other information of interest to writers. Email: brianhenry@sympatico.ca

Sun, Jan 18: “Writing Your Life,” Orangeville
Wednesday afternoons, Jan21 - Mar 18: “Extreme Creative Writing,” Burlington - full, waiting list only
Sat, Jan 24: “Real Characters,” Woodstock
Monday afternoons, Jan 26 - Mar 30: “Exploring Creative Writing,” Oakville
Sat, Jan 31: “How to Get Published,” Brampton
Sat, Feb 7: “How to Build Short Stories and Novels,” Kitchener
Sat, Feb 21: “Writing your travels & other paths into print,” Stouffville
Sat, Feb 28: “How to Build Short Stories and Novels,” Burlington
Sat, March 28: “How to Get Published,” Barrie
Sat, April 4: “How to Get Published,” St. Catharines

"Weather Report," Chris Laing

She storms into town yesterday like an Alberta clipper and smothers me with such a snow job that I’m still digging out.

We meet in the bar at the King Eddy and sip a few Howling Hurricanes, twirl our umbrellas, then a few more, and wham-bam we’re in her penthouse suite, a high-pressure area with a low ceiling.

“Fix us a couple more while I get comfy,” she says, taking off her Van Allen belt and everything else. “Isobar’s through there.”

In the bedroom, I know it’s true love when we form an occluded front and my dew point almost reaches saturation. Oh man, goes without saying, in these extremes of climatological conditions, a guy experiences oxygen deprivation. Or something.

I awake this morning in a vacuum. Search the suite for my lady love – in vane. Check the heel of my right shoe where I tuck away my rainy-day money – gone with the wind. Sneaking down the back stairway to an area of lower pressure, I’m nabbed by the manager waving the room bill.

“She said you’re understanding, sir. Fair and mild was how she put it. Sign here.”

I sign. I smile. I’m fair and mild, after all.

I read her note. “Morning, Sunshine,” it says. “I’m still on cloud nine. Ta, ta.”

I ask the manager, “What name’s on the register?”

He grins. “Betcha can’t guess.”

“Betcha I can.”

We extend imaginary umbrellas and sing, “April Showers.”

*

Note: For information about Brian Henry’s upcoming writing workshops and classes see here.

"Letter to you," Natalie Bruvels

From “Letter to You,” a novel in progress by Natalie Bruvels

I’m trying to relax in the tub. You told me to relax. To take a bath. Yeah, a bath. They do that in the movies and commercials and music videos and it always looks like it’s working, but I can never get my bubble bath to look the way it's supposed to. I’ve tried an egg beater and that does help a little. But I can never get the sheet of foam to stay as long as I’d like.

There’s a blue puffy sponge hanging from the shower rack. It looks like a lion’s head, then a head bursting through the clouds, then the god of the underworld with a pointy nose pushing through the waves. I always think like this before I write an exam when I’m supposed to be studying. Any other time I would just see a sponge on the rack that I never use. But my brain wants so desperately to be elsewhere.

Get the blue sponge. Put your head down, Harriet. Okay. Close your eyes.

Oh, I should light a candle. The matches are in the bedroom. I should holler for you but I can’t handle loud noises, especially lately, and I just don’t like the sound of my voice. I especially don’t like the sound of my voice shredding the air. It’s like pollution or something. So I decide to get the matches myself.

“Christ!" you say when you see me. "You’re dripping everywhere!”

“I needed some matches.”

“Why didn’t you just ask?”

“Well I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Go take your bath and relax.”

The water is a little nicer now. It’s not poaching my skin. I light a votive in the tub and put it on the floor.

Put your head down, Harriet. I feel the steam on my skin and I can see the stream in the candle light. Oh this is kinda nice, maybe like a Roman bath. I hear bubbles crackling all around me. I try to move them away from my ears but they are caught in my hair. I can’t even see the candle. Close your eyes. All I hear are the bubbles. Epsom salts would have been better. But bubbles are so useful especially when your skin hasn’t seen the sun or felt a flex all winter. When you are trying to hide what lurks beneath.

This isn’t going to work. I grab my towel and open it on the floor. I move the candle over and start to get rid of the bubbles. Scoops of them come out on my hands and wrists and I rub them off with the towel until the towel looks like an untoasted meringue or the foam that washes up on the shore of some rivers. Someone told me that the foam in rivers has something to do with sewage.

There are only a few baby meringues left in the tub and they can stay; they are nowhere near my ears. I lie back down and push the meringues over my belly, the most vulnerable spot in nakedness.

Luce is scratching at the door and fortuantely the handle is within reach - it's a very small bathroom we have.

She says hi but why can’t I keep the door open.

“For privacy and heat but yes you're welcome in here. That is as long as you don’t moan Lucy, I’m trying to relax. I know we need to get you fixed.”

I wish she could learn to open the door herself. I don’t even see her trying to figure it out. She positions herself on the edge of the tub and does what she always does. She dips her paw in the water. She really looks like the Queen of the Serengeti when she does this.

Lucy has a drinking problem though. She will not lap up the water from her dish. She paws it then licks between her little fingers or spills the bowl and licks the water off the parquet.

Now, as she always does, Lucy dips her paw in and tastes the water. She takes great interest in the bathtub. She sticks her paw in and watches the water move. She focuses on the floating sponge in the amazed way somebody might if they saw tiny little gnomes sprout from the centre of a daisy.

You say I am like Lucy. Nervous. Tentative. Spoiled. I am like Lucy. Black and white. Black and white. I love the little Lucy who lets me feel life at my fingertips. But you are like Lucy too. Black or white.

Lucy just comes to relax me. I know it. She doesn’t come because she expects anything special. When I feed her, I don’t even give her wet food because I like to know that her love is pure.

I think I might like this bath thing. Bath for relaxation. I might bring my music in with me next time. It’s peaceful and steamy. Eyes close. Chest rises. Chest falls. Chest rises. Chest falls. Chest rises. Chest falls. Chest rises. Chest falls. Eyes open. Luce is gone.

Time to drain the water and dry off. There’s something stuck in the drain and the bathwater screeches as it leaves. It makes me jump and stiffen my back. It’s a thunderous screech. Christ, the water doesn’t shut up! Doesn’t it know it’s only moving? It’s not dying or anything.

I can’t do this now. I’ll have to drain it in the morning. I put the plug back in, blow the candle out and hope that the noise hasn’t woken you up.

*

Note: For information about Brian Henry’s upcoming writing workshops and classes see here.