"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.

Invasion of the Snotty Badgers by Karin Weber

At first she thought they were raccoons; the spilled garbage and nightly caterwauling under the hedge. The next morning clumps of grey fur were lodged in the armpits of her garden angel. Raccoons for sure.

Luckily they ignored her garbage, and went can tipping next door. Pizza rinds and baloney wrap festooned the shared chain link fence like punk Christmas lights. The neighbours cleaned up their side. They copied her garbage security system of bungee cords, yet night after night their garbage was chosen.

Actually it was irritating. Her can, with its smears of organic humus and tofu, just didn’t rate for raiding. She glared out the window at midnight. To her surprise the raccoons were flat and had stumpy tails. Badgers! In suburban Canada? How exciting!

She googled Badgers. They couldn’t yawn but they liked corn and mushrooms. She made a portabella stew and promptly threw it out. The next morning an empty bacon package was left under her car. She felt angry. She adored Nature, religiously recycled, shopped organically, left miniscule footprints wherever she trod, and the Peaceable Kingdom up and supped on crappy food next door.

She put out fresh corn only to be greeted by shredded Pop Tart boxes on her patio. She raged. Time to shop for new tactics: Fruit Loops and Cheez Whiz. While mixing them in a big bowl, she casually licked a finger. Then, as if she had become someone else, she took another intoxicating taste.

*

Karin Weber is a writer and visual artist. "Invasion of the Snotty Badgers" won the Writers' Union of Canada's postcard story competition. Check out three poems and three photographs by Karin here.

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

Desmond and Hoover, by Alice M. de Munnik

Desmond opened one eye, peered around the room, then opened the other. He flexed each paw, extended his toes and bared his claws. Great! Everything was in working order. Desmond arched his body into a Hallowe’en hump, relaxed and settled back into the corner of the sofa where he’d been dozing for the past two hours.

Good sleep! The best he’d had for a while, nice and quiet, no one to bother him. And the dream he’d just had was everything a Maine Coon Cat could want – delicious, indulgent, satisfying. There was no snot-nosed baby to insist, despite his best efforts, on wiping her dirty, sticky hands on his fur. It took hours for him to lick his black, maroon and brown-fur coat back into pristine condition. And after all, he had a reputation to maintain. He came from pure stock. Both parents were Maine Coon Cats. His mother was given to stoutness at an early age just like Desmond was. But, make no mistake, that didn’t mean he couldn’t move fast. It just meant he took a little longer to get his 30-pound body where he wanted it to go.

What also made his dream so good was it didn’t have Hoover in it, the overgrown, slobbering Labrador, with whom he shared the house. If Hoover had been a female, Desmond would have called him theatrical, a “diva” for sure. Those sad liquid brown eyes were always on call for the next soft-hearted human he wanted something from. Hoover would look up at his human owners and anyone who came to visit and turn on his smarmy, martyr charms.

“Oh, look,” the hapless human would croon. “Isn’t he the saddest dog you’ve ever seen? He’s going to cry any minute now. See how he bows his head and looks like he hasn’t got a friend in the world?” Desmond’s gag reflex worked overtime when Hoover was in his feel-sorry-for-me mode.

Hoover was well fed and certainly didn’t lack for food. It made Desmond sick to see how he mooned over the baby in her highchair at meal times. Not only did the baby offer Hoover little bits of whatever she was having, but she spilled so much of her food on the seat and the trough at the bottom of the highchair that Hoover had trouble controlling himself. He couldn’t wait for the baby to be pulled out of her highchair and taken to the bathroom for a good hosing down. In a flash, Hoover would gulp down the spilled leftovers and be ready for more.

Desmond couldn’t stand it anymore. He was going to do something about that dog and he was going to do it soon. He’d made a plan that involved Hoover being blamed for everything that went wrong. And that would be the end of Mr. garbage disposal. Adieu Hoover, hello freedom!

For now, he relived his wonderful dream. It included bowl after bowl of cat food. Not the regular canned variety, but the gourmet hand-churned kind that Nancy, his human owner, bought from Essence Par Excellence every year as his Christmas treat. In his dream, Desmond spent endless hours together with Nancy. There was no noise, no baby to wash, feed, diaper and rock to sleep. No husband to cater to.

If truth were told, Desmond believed that Nancy was a most excellent specimen of what a human should be. She was tall, trim, beautiful, had long auburn hair with dark highlights and high cheekbones, like he had, and she loved him. When she rested after putting the baby to bed and read the historical romances she was so fond of, he always lay by her side. She would stroke his thick fur and give him a massage. He purred more contentedly when there were just the two of them. Nancy always saved some catnip for those quiet nights together. And there were saucers of thick cream, morsels of salmon saved from dinner and, his favourite of all, cashew nuts. Desmond knew that they were fattening, but he just couldn’t help himself.

Of course, these magical moments always came to an end when Nancy’s husband, Gary, came home from work. Desmond knew that if it were just he and Nancy in the house, he would want for nothing more. Nirvana would have been achieved.

The back door slammed shut. Footsteps intruded on Desmond’s reverie. He sighed. He knew he couldn’t expect to have lovely dreams all the time. He was a realist, but still ...

Nancy came into the family room and kicked off her shoes. Gary was behind her, carrying the baby whom he set down on the carpeted floor. Then he went back out to the hallway. The baby crawled to where Desmond sat, yanked on his tail and reached out her arms to him. She buried her face in Desmond’s fur.

Baah, he cried out. Get away from me, you dirty little cretin. The baby was an ankle biter and a smelly one at that and he would not let her anywhere near him.

Hoover came running from the basement, jumped on Nancy and licked her face. “Down Hoover!” Nancy yelled. Gary returned carrying what looked like a small animal carrier. There was something moving inside it.

Oh my God! It was a cat. A tiny, ugly, striped little thing. Desmond couldn’t believe it. He’d been the only cat in the house for the past twelve years. What did they need another cat for? There must be some mistake, some misunderstanding surely.

Gary took a grey tabby gently out of the cat carrier, settled it on his knee and slowly rubbed his finger along its tiny nose. The kitty looked frightened. It wanted to climb down from Gary’s leg, but Desmond saw that it was too high and it seemed too afraid to try. The kitten already had a little collar around its neck with an S.P.C.A. tag and its name on it. Fiona! Oh, no! It was a female. What was he going to do with a female cat in the house?

Gary set the kitten on the carpet. “Come on, Fiona, that’s it,” he said. “Here’s the baby.” As he said this, he lifted the baby up and set her back down onto the carpet beside Fiona. The kitten sniffed the baby all over, turned up her nose and moved away.

I don’t blame you, Desmond thought. The baby’s a real stinker, especially when… He was too well bred to say it. A disgusted meow was his only comment.

Hoover nosed around the baby and, like the kitten, quickly moved away. Instead, he hunkered down on the carpet and started licking the kitten, curling his massive front paws around Fiona in a protective arc.

This can’t be happening, Desmond thought. He hissed and gave the dog and kitten a stare that would have withered most humans.

Naturally, Hoover was oblivious and kept on licking the cat. A contented purr escaped from the kitten’s tiny mouth. She relaxed and settled into the big dog’s embrace.

That’s it, Desmond thought. It was over. My life’s over. I’ve nothing more to live for. After all I’ve had to put up with in this house, now this betrayal. He stepped to where Nancy stood observing the scene on the carpet. Desmond held his head high. His fur bloomed out and his claws were itching, ready for anything that came. He slid his large body around Nancy’s legs. He expected a pat on the head or some indication of her love from her. There was nothing! Nancy completely ignored him.

“Isn’t that the living end, Gary? Who would have thought that a big dog like Hoover would take to her? They make a nice pair. We won’t have to worry about anything happening to Fiona from you know who.”

Gary laughed and pointed at Desmond. “Look at him. Never thought he’d be jealous. He wasn’t when the baby was born. But, just look at him. He’s in a major snit. Fur all bushy, claws out, eyes focused and nothing good on his mind.”

Nancy giggled and looked down at Desmond. “What is it, Desmond? You never seen a kitty before? Come on now. You didn’t think you’d be the only cat in the house forever, did you? You’re getting old and we want to make sure that when it’s your turn to leave us, the baby will have another cat to play with.”

How could Nancy do this to him? They’d had a bond, a love for each other that transcended species, that he was sure would never end, death notwithstanding. He just wouldn’t stand for it. He knew his Nancy wasn’t to blame. She loved him. In fact, she adored him. It was Gary’s doing. Of that he was certain.

Desmond sprang onto Gary’s lap and dug his claws into his arm. The blood started immediately. Gary yelped and jumped out of his chair. “That’s it, Nancy. I’ve had it! That cat has got to go!”

Go? Well maybe till Gary calmed down, Desmond decided, and tore off towards the basement stairs.

“You’d better run!” Gary shouted. “And run fast, you fat brute. I’m serious, Nancy. I want him put down today.”

“Oh, no. Not yet, Gary. He’s not sick and he’ll behave. It was just such a surprise to him, that’s all.”

Gary muttered something, and Desmond muttered something back as he slunk down into the basement. He skulked there for the rest of the week and barely touched his food. He’d have to rethink this whole thing and decide the best way to get rid of not only Hoover, but also Fiona. No one was going to replace him. But, first, he was going to have a nice long sleep. Then he’d decide. It’s what his Mother would have done.

Awakening, Tabitha Kot

Sitting innocently in my car,

weaving my way through rush hour traffic,

distracted and crunching on a tart Macintosh.

She silently, invisibly, slinks through the

sliver-crack

of my open window.

Gliding across the breadth of my shoulders,

licking Her way up the back of my neck,

She slides seductively across my jawline,

rises up to my ear and

whispers, hotly,

Your life

is your sacred space.

And She is gone.

I blink once,

slowly,

deliberately.

My eyes open to a

whole

new

world.

She is in everything I see.

She is in everything I hear.

She is in all that I touch,

all that I taste,

all that I smell,

all that I know.

I see the jewel of Aphrodite sparkling

in everything I behold.

The world becomes precious to me

in a heartbeat

with Her

in it.

I am home.

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

Pillow Talk, Gloria Nye

I knew I was in trouble when the pillow started slipping. Mrs. Greenspan, the wardrobe assistant, had just finished pinning up my hair and I suggested she secure the strap tighter. She patted my opulent bosom with a reassuring, “You’re fine, my dear.” Then added, “If we pull the strap any tighter across your midriff, it will leave a dent. The director’s orders were to make you look like an opera singer.” She cocked her head. “And you do look large enough for one.”

I loved amateur theatre, and that fall when my grade nine teacher announced a drama class, I eagerly joined. For five months, we practiced diligently for the annual year-end school concert, culminating in a successful dress rehearsal.

Finally, it was on opening night. There I was in front of my family and friends, and I was playing opposite, Kevin, the best looking boy in school.  I thought Kevin would laugh when he saw my high-necked, salmon-coloured dress stuffed with pillows and dragging on the floor, but he looked equally strange. Wearing football pads under a white shirt and a black jacket two sizes too big for him, he resembled a crash-test dummy about to run into a brick wall. His head and shoulders moved stiffly as one, and his string necktie seemed to be strangling him. Would we pass as soprano and tenor?

The play was a take on a talent contest with a variety of acts: a spinning ballerina, a tap dancer, a frantic hip hopper, a comedian, a pop singer, a baton twirler and us - the hopeful opera duo. Sitting in a row of chairs, lined up in the middle of the stage, we all waited for our turn to audition.  After each performance, the audience clapped politely. Kevin and I were last in line.

Finally it was almost our turn. Kevin gallantly (and briefly) took my hand as I stood up.  I was feeling quite confident until I took my first step forward and that’s when I felt my front pillow drop an inch. I had four more steps to centre stage, enough I figured, to cause my stomach to fall completely to the boards.

Puccini’s noble music swelled. It was our cue. Kevin stepped up and flung his left arm out from his oversized shoulders and chest. Tentatively, I took another step, then wrapped both arms protectively across my front. Would it be enough to keep me together? I glanced over at the wing where the director was gesturing wildly for me to lift my arms. A trickle of sweat rolled down my forehead into one eye, no doubt leaving a white trail in my makeup. I blinked at the audience, took another step and began drawing in my breath for the aria. I gasped as the pillow, tied to my backside, started its slow descent.

Kevin twisted around to see why I was not keeping up with him and saw me whip my left arm behind my back to grab a fistful of flopping salmon. A strangled note escaped from my throat as I glanced desperately at the director who was now pumping his arms up and down gesturing to me to lift my arms. Alas, although I’d memorized the grand movements of divas, my arms were busy containing unruly body parts.

A titter came from the audience. The comedic parts of the play had already been presented; my part was serious. My voice cracked again as I attempted to lift my bosom back to its appropriate place and, with the other hand, tried to hold up my posterior. Kevin, singing loudly and raising his arms aloft, saw my plight. My face felt hotter and I knew it was turning red under the rivulets of sweat; he would never ask me out now.

A pin flew from my up-do and a thick strand of hair escaped. The tittering from across the footlights changed to laughter. It rose louder when Kevin reached out to grab my falling bosom but snatched his hand back abruptly before he got a handful of me under the collapsing dress. Meanwhile, I was contorting myself in vain trying to control the activity of my front and back pillows, which, being feathers rather than foam, had a mind of their own.

Another hairpin let loose and a large clump of hair tumbled down to rest on my sagging shoulder. The laughter swelled to loud guffaws and Kevin’s broad smile had turned his usually rounded notes into a wailing siren. The director was now holding his head in both hands; was he laughing or crying?

At that precise moment, I made my decision. Finding my voice, I joined Kevin in the last musical phrase as I twisted and turned in mock horror, while grasping and yanking at my falling anatomy. The higher the notes climbed, the lower the pillows sank and, as the final crescendo sounded, I raised my arms high. Then I reached down, swept both pillows majestically up into my arms, and, as the curtain fell, made a grand and awkward curtsey to a standing ovation.

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Taken, Bev Irwin

This piece is an excerpt from a juvenile novel in progress. Enjoy…

The computer-generated photo didn’t really look like him. But then that was a good thing. It had some of his features, but not enough to cause somebody to take a closer look.

Luckily Jeremy resembled his grandfather more than either of his parents. Maybe if his hair wasn’t dyed so dark… He tipped his head and examined the picture. Yeah, maybe if his hair was still blond. Jeremy shrugged and walked away.

He could have ripped the poster off the wall but that would draw attention. Somebody might wonder why he’d want to take down a profile of a missing child. They might take a closer look. They might see something familiar in the blond boy in the right hand corner of the poster.

Jeremy forced himself to keep to an even pace despite the overwhelming urge to dash out of the school and never come back. But he had to. He’d promised his grandmother that he would finish school year.

Would he never stop looking for them? It had been ten years now. I won’t tell Mom, Jeremy decided. That was the last thing she needed. As it was, she was hanging on by a thread.

Jeremy looked at his watch. Three-forty-five. He had to hurry. He had to get back to the apartment before Doc MacKay showed up. How long would it take him to clean up? He should have stayed home today but he couldn’t miss any more time. He couldn’t take a chance on the school sending anybody to check on him or teachers trying to phone his home. Nobody had bothered yet. Otherwise they’d know the number he’d put on the forms was incorrect.

The last time a teacher had tried to phone – at the last school, that was – he’d just shrugged and given them another number. By the time anybody got around to trying the new number they’d moved again. How many moves did that make? Too many to count.

He slid the key in the lock and prayed the damage was minimal. He didn’t have much time. The door squeaked open. Raised talk show voices blared from the television set. The curtains were drawn, allowing minimal light into the room. The combination living room – kitchen smelled as dank as it looked.

He saw the prone form stretched out on the worn plaid sofa. A multi-coloured crocheted afghan partially covered her swollen form. Her long brown hair was tangled and in need of a wash. It was tied in a loose, ineffective ponytail. Thin strands spread across a high forehead. He wanted to brush them off her face but he didn’t want to wake her yet. He stared down at his mother.

Her face was sallow and plump, not reflecting the years or abuse it had suffered. Her mouth was open, droops of saliva lay in the v of her lips. His shoulders sagged. At least she had made it out of bed today. He knew it was her illness and side effects of her medicine that made her this way. But on a good day, the drugs kept her this side of sane and functional. But there weren’t many good days and fewer all the time.

With his eyes closed, he thought of the picture he kept hidden in a box under his bed – a photo of a petite, laughing woman, her gleaming brown hair styled like the pixie she resembled. No one would recognize her now. He shrugged. Maybe that was a good thing.

Jeremy turned and started cleaning up the pile of magazines and papers that were scattered over the stained carpet. Next he cleaned up the empty plates and crumbs on the Arborite kitchen table. When he was done, he looked around the confined space. He crossed to his mother’s bedroom and closed the door. Doc Mac Kay would be here any minute. His attempt at tidying would have to do.

“Mom.” He shook her shoulder. “You have to get up now. Doc will be here soon.”

Her eyes drifted open. “Hi, Jeremy. School over?”

“Yeah, Mom. It’s after four. You have to get up. Brush your hair, your teeth. Remember, Doc Mackay is coming to see you.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” She smiled up at him. “Just let me sleep for a few more minutes.”
“No, Mom. You have to get up.”

He reached down and slid his arm under her shoulders, gently lifting her. He supported her unsteady steps to the bathroom. He leaned on the closed door until the toilet flushed. She had washed some of the sleep out of her eyes and the drool from her lips. Her hair was still unkempt and she had a water stain on the front of her sweat top. He guided her back to the sofa, hoping the stain would dry soon. He didn’t know if she had anything else clean to wear.

“Can I brush your hair, Mom?”

Her fingertips caressed his cheek. “That would be nice, dear.”

Jeremy drew a wide toothed brush through her brown stands. Not great, but it was an improvement.

He heard a knock at the door and shoved the brush into his backpack before crossing to the door and letting Doctor MacKay into the apartment.

“Hello, son. How is she today?”

“She’s okay.”

Jeremy picked up his backpack and disappeared into his room. He pulled a book our of his backpack and tried to focus on the words until he heard the Doc’s discreet knock on his door. The doctor came into his room and closed the door behind him.

“I’ve let a bottle of pills on the table. I’ll come back and check on her next week.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Next time, Jeremy, I won’t let you keep her at home. I’ll admit her and get her help whether she wants it or not. You shouldn’t be dealing with this. When’s your aunt coming home?”

“In a day or so,” Jeremy lied.

It was getting so easy. He opened his mouth and the lies poured out. He didn’t even flinch anymore. And Doc MacKay, he never questioned. Never asked to meet the fictitious aunt.

“Sure you can manage until your aunt gets back?”

“I can. She’s not so bad, really Doc.”

Doc raised his eyebrows and shook his head but didn’t pursue the point.

Jeremy suspected the real reason Doc didn’t admit her was more to do with him being too lazy to fill out the forms and arrange for somebody to see her in the hospital. Jeremy was sure it had nothing to do with a minor being left to fend for himself. Doc wouldn’t want social services checking in and finding out how long he had been aware of the problems and not done anything about it.

Yeah, Doc just wanted to get away with as little work as possible until he could retire. But at least Doc’s relationship with his mother had prevented the old guy from reporting them. Jeremy had insinuated just one time that he knew about it. Doc had blushed like a schoolboy, became all flustered and left in a hurry. At least they didn’t have to worry about paying for any medical treatment. If they needed any medicine, Doc would magically appear with what was needed...

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Vintage vampire, Sheila Gale

When I drank the blood of my first victim, the night was gentle, like silk against my skin. My crimson taffeta gown rustled as I followed a servant into the private dining room to sup with the handsome Prince Igor. As I neared the table, our eyes met. Desire flamed in his eyes, and I knew that, after we had enjoyed the tender venison and the rich claret, he would do my bidding…

Later, he led me to the castle ramparts, where we gazed at the stars as they twinkled in the inky sky, like fireflies. “I am a creature of the night,” I whispered. Our fingers entwined. “I believe that you, too, like the dark.”

I made the mistake of smiling. When he saw my fangs glitter in the moonlight, he let out the most blood-curdling cry. Even though he struggled to free himself, he couldn’t resist the delightful sensations that coursed through his veins. He saw my eyes no longer a soft green but red and wild. He felt my powerful grip as I pulled him towards me and sank my incisors into his throat.

For many years after that evening, I fantasized about the Russian prince. In my mind’s eye, I saw him swathed in a long black cloak as he roamed the dark alleys of St. Petersburg searching for victims. Then I found out from an old friend of Igor’s that the prince seldom ventured out at night, preferring to drink pig’s blood rather than hunt down a human victim.

I rushed around the house looking for Uncle Vladamir and found him in his blood cellar, relabelling some bottles. I told him about Prince Igor.

“So what is your problem, my dear Luna?”

“What kind of vampire drinks pig’s blood?” I raved. My uncle had been a vampire since medieval times, so he should know.

A smile played on his lips. “Becoming a vampire isn’t everyone’s cup of blood.”
“What do you mean, uncle?.”

“He didn’t choose to become vampire, remember.” He patted my hand. “I’m sure he has other strengths. Perhaps he’s a good coffin maker.”

“A coffin maker?” I couldn’t imagine the sensuous Prince Igor spending his nights hammering nails into coffins. With a heavy heart, I returned to my room. How could I respect a vampire who would rather drink animal blood than search for a human victim?

That was a long time ago. 250 years, to be precise. Today, I am launching my first book, Feast of Blood – Memoirs of the World’s Most Famous Vampires. Being of a practical nature, I’ve included a list of questions asked by aspiring vampires. Here are some sample questions from the book. To simplify things, I’ve avoided the awkward "he/she" reference and refer to all vampires as "she."

How do you know if you are changing into a vampire?

Count Dracula, the great, great, great grandson of the Count Dracula urges you to see a vampire doctor if you develop one of the following symptoms:

1. You find hair growing on the palms of your hands
2. Your index finger has grown as long as your middle finger
3. You develop a lust for blood - be warned - this is a sure sign of vampirism.

How does a vampire occupy her time?

During the day, most vampires sleep in a coffin. You must be sure the coffin is well hidden in a swamp or cave. After sunset, the vampire opens the coffin and climbs out. She searches for sustenance, but not all vampires are fussy. If human flesh can’t be found, an animal will do.

How does a vampire attack?

She hypnotizes her victim, instilling a sense of peace, well being and/or sexual desire, then attacks the jugular vein. If the vampire kills the victim, the victim in turn becomes a vampire.
She doesn’t always kill but may take sufficient blood to cause extreme lethargy, and keep the victim alive. This is known as the "store cupboard" method. It’s a bit like stocking up your freezer or pantry for future meals.

Two Disadvantages of becoming a vampire:

- She can operate only at night
- If traveling, she has to take her coffin with her so she can climb into it before dawn. In Victorian times, when Count Dracula arrived for a vacation in England, he had several specially prepared coffins in various parts of London. He could therefore expand his area of operation without fear of destruction at sunrise. These days, with baggage restrictions on flights, it’s difficult to take anything bulky like a coffin. However, you can pay extra and have it transported by cargo.

How did I acquire enough knowledge to fill 13,000 pages, you may ask? 300 years of vampirism didn’t hurt, and dear Uncle Vladamir with his centuries of experience was a tremendous source of information.

My vampire teaching certificate helped as well. I studied for the certificate so I could teach Vampirism 101. It bothered me that so many new vampires didn’t have a clue about their rich history, and their general vampire knowledge was abysmal. As I studied for the certificate, I learned many interesting facts. Did you know, for example, that some people believe vampire blood improves their sex life? There have been documented cases of vampires being drained of their blood – or V-juice as humans call it. Currently, V-juice sells on the black market for something like $1,000 a pint!

The extensive research needed for such a lengthy book couldn’t have been completed without the help of my partner, Prince Igor. We had met up again at a three-day vampire conference in Moscow and became good friends. When I told him of my plans to write the book, he tracked down and interviewed fellow vampires in various parts of Europe and Africa. He did the Transylvania portion himself. I concentrated on the Americas, including the US and Canada.
Unlike most vampires, Igor doesn’t like spending his nights in dark alleys, but he sure knows how to do research.

The book’s publisher had turned down J.K. Rowlings’ first Harry Potter book. When I submitted my manuscript, they were so pleased that they practically grabbed it out of my hands and offered me a 200-year contract. Not bad for a first book.

As for me and Prince Igor, living in the 21st century means we see a lot of each other, even though we live in two different countries. I don’t have to worry about bringing my coffin with me when I fly to Russia because he keeps spare ones for guests. We stay in a private apartment in his castle. The rest of the castle has been turned into a luxury five-star hotel. He in turn, enjoys his visits to Canada, where we take canoe trips in Algonquin Park after sunset during the summer and night ski Whistler in the winter.

These days, I seldom go searching for human victims. It’s such hard work and, over the centuries, Igor’s lack of enthusiasm for the task has rubbed off on me. Now, in the evenings, we relax by a roaring fire with a goblet of blood.

Speaking of blood, when Igor is in Canada, we like to root around Uncle Vladamir’s blood cellar. We eyeball each bottle, having learned from Uncle Vladamir that the darker the color, the more concentrated and intense the flavour. The one we usually select for special occasions is True Blood, a medieval blend of royal and peasant blood. Full-bodied, it has an earthy texture and an aroma of oxen roasted over an open fire.

This evening, we are celebrating the night that Igor became a vampire. He makes a toast in Russian. Although I don’t understand the language, his sensuous voice arouses me. My body floods with desire as he lifts my hand to his lips and runs his tongue over the fingertips. He takes me in his arms. His lips close over mine, sucking at my mouth, teasing it. With a low moan, I surrender. The goblet falls out of my hand, splattering dregs of blood over the stone floor.

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Only On Sunday, Donna Kirk

I learned early on to be wary of cloth napkins, except for my mother’s. Mom put our Sunday table linens in the Monday wash, to be dampened and ironed on Tuesday, ready to be laid out in the dining room for the next Sunday. However, this was not the case at my best friend Kathy’s house. Occasionally when we were together playing she’d ask her Mom if I could stay for dinner. This was a dubious pleasure for me. I was an only child and enjoyed the family banter between her brother and sister, but not the table napkins!

It was Kathy’s job to take them out of the buffet drawer and place one at each setting. I was horrified to see that they were stained with the residue of past meals. It spoiled dinner for me every time, watching this boisterous family eating heartily and wiping their mouths. After the meal Kathy put them back in the buffet to wait for the next evening when they would be brought back out again. I visualized residue food festering on those napkins, the inside of the buffet drawer alive with creepy crawlies.

But, almost as horrifying as the way Kathy’s family used the same napkins night after night was the way they always ate at the dining room table. Was nothing sacred? At my house, Sunday dinner was the only meal served in our dining room. My mom always cooked some kind of roast with all the trimmings, ready at precisely 6 o’clock. The table sparkled with the good dishes, silverware and table linens. As we unfolded our crisp white cloth napkins Dad said grace, also an “only on Sunday” happening.

I like to think that the best dishes, silverware and cloth napkin ritual was easier for my mother. She only had me to keep an eye on, with my Dad at the end of the table, dressed in his church attire, silently but watchfully backing her up. The family attitude was more formal too. Mom worked hard to prepare these feasts and all the proper accoutrements paid homage to her efforts.

Dad was a master carver, a skill he was proud of. Presiding over the carnivorous offering, his knife flashed over the sharpening steel many times before he was satisfied. He made an impressive display, testing the acuity of his efforts with the tips of his fingers on the knife blade while gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling.

If we had guests, Dad poured liqueurs for the adults from a carafe that sat on the buffet, which offered six different kinds in brightly coloured sections. I didn’t like crème de menthe but enjoyed all the others, when I snuck into the dining room for a sampling.

After the meal, Dad and I helped clear and tidy the room. No one entered again until the next Sunday. During the week, when he was in the living room reading his paper Dad always entered the kitchen via the front hall, never passing through the dining room, which would have been the shorter and most obvious way to go. I never sat at that table to do my homework. No plans were ever spread out and discussed there. It was a roast beef sanctuary.

After I married, Sundays at my home were less formal than at my parent’s. In four years we had three children, so the best dishes, silverware and table linens stayed put where they lived in the dining room buffet. Placemats had long been de rigueur. Punishable ones. We also used paper napkins by the ton with never a guilty feeling. My dining room sat empty on Sundays, surrounded by our glorious wedding gifts that were used only in wistful dreams.

Not to say that many of my family’s routines weren’t followed. Sunday was the one day of the week when we all ate together. With the activities of our three children and work for my husband and I, this was a day we looked forward to. My mother came each Sunday to spend the day with us. My Dad died before I was married so we were all she had, and she was all the kids had. My husband’s parents passed away early in our marriage.

While Mom was still driving she’d arrive before lunch, bringing a straw basket filled with baking, knitting and goodies for the kids. Mom always had to have a job to do at our house, thriving on “making herself useful”. My laundry room was cleared of any clothes that had been dumped there. Usually three full loads. The washer and dryer hummed all afternoon. Folding, ironing and putting away followed. If there was any time left before the dinner routine started, her knitting came out. The Salvation Army was the recipient of these efforts. Afghans, baby clothes and mittens were her specialty. She also managed to stock pile an array of baby garments for her future great grandchildren, which, sadly, she would never see.

True to tradition, and from lack of imagination, I served the same Sunday meals my mother prepared, learning to cook by watching her and copying everything she did. Mom’s specialty was her wonderful gravy. Any roasted thing in my house was also accompanied by this eighth deadly sin, and plenty of it.

When my mother’s sister and her husband, Nellie and Pat, moved to Toronto after the referendum scare in 1980, they joined us frequently for Sunday dinners. They’d arrive in my uncle’s huge black Lincoln. Uncle Pat always drove black Lincolns. I thought it must have been a status thing in Quebec. Sometimes they brought Margaret, my uncle’s spinster sister, who my kids referred to as “spun,” which I thought was unkind and immature of them, but accurate; she was more than a little dizzy.

The dialogue between my mother and her sister fascinated me. Mom said that Nellie was ‘the family favourite’ when they were growing up. Aunty reiterated that my mother had always been number one. These women were in their eighties. They criticized their two brothers, one of whom Aunty hadn’t spoken to in 30 years. My mother was somewhat sanctimonious about staying out of the family fray, but only because she lived in Toronto and they were in Montreal.

One thing Mom and Aunty both agreed upon, and let us know in the not so subtle terms of the ageing, was our lack of religious responsibility towards the children. This was a favourite Sunday topic. She and Nellie discussed the relative merits of that day’s sermon for our benefit. Uncle Pat sat silently. He was a lapsed Catholic. My aunt confided to me that he’d lost interest in the church years ago when a priest came to stay each summer at a lodge they managed. And, each summer, a different woman had accompanied him.

I acquired religious apathy from my Dad. Every Sunday, wedged between my parents, in a pew precipitously close to the lectern and buffeted by the opposing forces of my parents, I made my decision. The red faced minister, billowing arms flapping in front of me, was of no consequence. It was my parents, my role models, who guided the choice I made. I took the path of least resistance.

Dad always sat at the end of the pew, close to the aisle, falling comfortably and audibly asleep as soon as the sermon started. Mother’s rapt attention was fractured by her futile attempts to awaken him, which took a lot of effort judging by her expression, snapping fingers and hissing whispers. Of the two protagonists, Dad’s Sunday role was by far the most appealing. On the walk home after a long hypnotic service, admonishments from Mom bounced from him like bullets off Superman. He’d take her hand and smile, looking forward to the afternoon, napping and reading, while she prepared the feast.

After our third child was born we gave in to pressure and made one grand gesture, the baptism of all three kids on the same Sunday. We managed to persuade three sets of friends to stand in as godparents, an Anglican imperative. I’m sure my mother was shattered when she realized that this peace offering was not the start of a Sunday church routine. Some months after the baptism we heard that the minister ran off with one of the parishioners, leaving his wife and seven children. I loved reminding mother of this. She worried that his transgression made the baptism null and void.

Mom’s trips to our house in her own car came to a sudden end. One Sunday morning my husband Ed and I received a call from a police officer. My mother had had a mishap with her car. When we arrived at the scene we spotted mother’s car, parked on the rear bumper of someone else’s vehicle. Police officers were writing on note pads and surveying the situation. I was relieved that no one was hurt, particularly my 86 year old mother. The posture of the other driver and the officers told me that something was up besides the fender bender.

As I approached my mother, she said: “I don’t know where he came from.”

“He was right in front of you Mom, you rear ended him.” I looked towards the officers.

One distracted my mother while the other took me aside and whispered, “Your mother should not be driving.”

“You’re the authority,” I said. “You tell her.”

Within a week Mom had her car fixed and sold. From then on, each Sunday, Nellie and Pat became her chauffeur. At the end our day together, my family and I would stand in the doorway, watching these three dear old people walk towards their chariot. The drive home would be slow and steady along the city streets, no highway driving for them after dark.

One by one they exited our Sunday scene. In 1989 Uncle passed away in my Aunt’s arms, nice and quick, no complications. Nellie, after 55 years of bantering with him, was inconsolable. She died six years later, suffering the stroke she dreaded. My mother’s death was the saddest and most prolonged. At 93, after enduring the symptoms of a motor neuron disease for four years, she died in 2001, the last of our Sunday cheering section.

I can still see that Lincoln, creeping up the driveway, the passengers gathering their packages as it comes to a stop. My mother and my aunt walking slowly toward the house, carrying baskets and bags full of goodies. Uncle, trailing behind, a fedora on his head no matter what the season, waving and calling to us, his favourite hosts.

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