Category Archives: Short stories

Vignettes that echo in my mind

The word was “lemon”

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A short piece written at a local Flash Fiction show.

That old beater my dad kept in the barn hadn’t run in all the years that I could remember, but it made a hell of a playground for the kids in the neighbourhood.

One day, it was the Batmobile, screaming out of the Batcave as the Caped Crusader and his gender-neutral sidekick were off to feel all funny down there at the sight of a leather-clad Catwoman.

Other times, it was Sir Francis Drake’s Golden Hind, plying the English Channel looking for Spanish galleons or sliding on the breeze through the Caribbean, searching for buccaneer plunder.

But most of the time, it was just my dad’s old beater, sitting there year after year, slowly filling up with mouse droppings or owl scat.

I remember one summer—I was about six—when my dad and grandfather tried to get the old car running. I learned a whole new language that summer, although it was about four years later before I found out that motherfuckingsonofabitchdickwadcrankbitch wasn’t one word.

That was the summer that we found out that cats like to crawl under the hood of a car and nap on the motor. You wouldn’t think it would be hard to get cat fur out of a fan belt, but you’d be wrong. Mom never really liked Mr. Wiggles anyway.

That was also the summer that dad went away. Whenever I would ask my mom about it, she would just cry, and my grandmother would try to distract me with cookies. So now, not only do I not know what happened to my father, but I am also a 300-pound diabetic.

Maybe that’s why I kept the car, as a reminder of the man I never got to know. Mom just shakes her head and my wife wonders why I don’t get rid of that old lemon. I dunno. Maybe they’re right.

All I know is that sometimes I’ll go out late at night to sit in the car and if I’m really still, I can still hear the sounds of the wind rippling in the sails and the sailors pulling on the rigging. You know, I never noticed how much my dad looks like Sir Francis Drake.

Drake protects the shores of Toronto from marauding pirates

Drake protects the shores of Toronto from marauding pirates

Horse Island

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A novel I had started working on a while ago as part of a Humber College workshop on opening pages; i.e., how to attract the eye of acquisition editors.

Really need to get back to this.

Sasha had never had her breasts go numb before.

Sure, she’d lost feeling in her fingers and had suffered frostbitten toes more than once, but this was something else altogether. But then, she’d also never spent six hours prone on a rock in the middle of the North Atlantic.

Sasha had fought off sleep for the last two hours, listening to the rhythm of the waves that charged the beach that sprawled below her. Now that the sun had started to peek above the horizon, she could focus her attention on the dark shapes floating just offshore, knowing that not all of them would be pieces of driftwood slowly making their way from the seaside forests of Newfoundland.

“Get used to this,” she thought to herself. “You’ll probably spend your next four or five Springs this way.”

It was definitely a far cry from the relative civility of her life in Toronto—although maybe sterility was a better way of describing it. The sounds and flavours of the ocean did, however, remind her of the summers she spent with her grandparents at the family home just outside of Halifax.

Funny, she thought, this was the first time she’d thought—allowed herself to think—about her grandparents. All those years spent trying to escape the East Coast and here she was, smack in the middle of it again.

Adjusting her position ever so slightly, Sasha grunted inwardly, trying to remain the silent sentinel while allowing her blood to circulate to her chilled extremities. But even as she settled back in, she knew that something was different. Something had changed in the surf. Some of the driftwood had started to move with purpose, making a beeline for the beach.

It was time to prepare her kit and call the others.

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(Okay, I don’t have any photos of Atlantic Canada, so I’m substituting this one from Tofino.)

 

The word was “Thirsty”

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The result of another writing exercise…and the slow recognition that almost everyone I write about is seriously messed from by previous relationships. Ah, hindsight.

“Thirsty?” Jim asked, as he watched Phil throw back yet another pint of beer without coming up for a breath.

“L’il bit,” was all Phil would say as he signaled the bartender for another round.

Jim had seen Phil drink before, but there was something different tonight; something desperate about the way Phil was pounding them back that reminded Jim of a man who was trying to drown himself 12 ounces at a time.

“Something you wanna talk about?” he asked, as he watched Phil connect the sweat rings left on the bar by the humid glasses; a massive game of connect-the-dots with no picture in sight.

Phil just sat there, head down, slightly slumped forward. The fact that his eyes were open was Jim’s only clue that he hadn’t fallen asleep; that and the random ministrations of a finger on autopilot, running across the bar.

Without Jim realizing it had happened, two more pints had suddenly shown up on the bar, bubbles rising skyward to form a frothy blanket across the top of the glass. Jim looked at his own mostly full glass and realized that he was falling seriously behind. Over the sound of his own gulping, he thought he heard Phil say something.

He looked over to see Phil staring at him with very weary eyes. Jim shuddered. Phil was only two years older than his own 42 years, but right now, he had the eyes of someone twice as old; someone who had been run over by life and was too tired to hide it.

“She called today,” said a voice that seemed to come from nowhere. “She called the office.”

Without explanation, Jim knew that “she” was Phil’s ex-wife Jacklyn; a wraith who liked to appear every so often to throw Phil off kilter. It wasn’t anything malicious, mind you. It was just that neither of them had ever really accepted that they were divorced. Phil and Jacklyn were proof that no matter how much two people love each other, no matter how much you live for the other’s company, that is still no guarantee of a successful marriage.

“How is she?” Jim asked, as much to fill the void as out of interest.

“Dunno,” Phil replied, between mouthfuls of beer. “I was out.”

A new low, Jim thought. Phil hadn’t even spoken to her and he was in a state. This didn’t bode well for the rest of the evening.

Beautiful sadness was the first thing I thought when I lined up this shot (Tofino)

Beautiful sadness was the first thing I thought when I lined up this shot (Tofino)

The phrase was “club members”

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(The results of another writing exercise…and this time, it’s a complete story! Woohoo!)

Club members. Sid couldn’t believe it, but it was true. The sign on the door read “club members”.

“They can’t possibly get away with that,” he complained to his sister, who sat quietly, fumbling absent-mindedly with the window latch.

“Jessica, you’re not listening to me,” he said impatiently. She sighed, adjusted herself and rolled her head languidly to face him.

“I’m not not listening to you, Sid,” she replied, as much an exhalation as exhortation. “I’m not paying attention to you. It’s totally different.”

She then went back to fumbling with the door, smacking on yet another piece of stale Double Bubble as he stared silently back at her.

The moment’s silence, however, was broken suddenly with a “fuck you” that apparently came out of Sid’s mouth based on the change in Jessica’s demeanor.

“Look,” she said angrily, “I didn’t ask you to come on this stupid little outing. You asked me, if you remember. The only reason I’m sitting in this car is because this sounded more interesting than ‘O.C.’ reruns. And so far, I was wrong.”

“You said you’d help me with my civics assignment,” he protested.

“I will, but moral outrage in a beat up Toyota Corolla does not a civics assignment make,” she replied sarcastically. “If you don’t get something on paper, Mrs. Berkowitz will have your ass.”

And before he could finish the movement, she added, “And pointing at the front gate of the country club and spouting on about the downtrodden masses, excluded from the perks of society, shunned by the elite, and…and…” She was at a loss, but never for long. “And kicked to the curb by uber right-wing industrial fat-cats cum 21st century royalty is going to get you nowhere.”

“But wealth is the new fascism,” he cried.

“Bullshit.”

They sat quietly again, letting the echoes of their exchange die quietly in the luxurious folds of the polyester fibers that comprised Sid’s faux Guernsey seat covers. His right hand flailed as though waiting for his mouth to make a stunning riposte and struck the steering wheel whenever it realized that his tongue was determined to remain silent. Jessica peripherally watched him conduct the silent symphony before trying to engage him one more time.

“What I’m trying to say is that almost everyone in your class is going to write the same bloody paper you’re thinking about,” she said, slowly and calmly. “And the rest of your class is just too damned retarded to know what to write at all. Do you want a good mark in this class?”

“Yeah.”

“And more importantly, do you want to knock Berkowitz on her smug Yiddish ass?”

That got a smile out of him.

“Then pull a Swift on her,” she said, conspiratorially.

“A what?”

“Not what; who. Jonathan Swift.,” she responded. But when the penny still hadn’t dropped, she added, “Eat the fucking poor.”

Okay, Sid thought, now she might as well have had antlers.

Jessica rubbed her forehead in frustration. “If you want to stand out in a crowd, go the other way. If everyone else is going to bitch about the evils of the elite, you should celebrate them.”

Oh my god, they weren’t antlers, they were horns—devil’s horns. And the smile on her face just kept getting bigger. It made him uncomfortable.

“In fact, you might go as far as to argue that the poor should be happy to serve the elite for the good of everyone.”

There was no air. Sid couldn’t breathe. Somebody had hooked the car up to a vacuum pump and he was asphyxiating.

Finally, he mustered enough breath to blurt: “Are you fucking high?”

“What?” she replied, her smile belying the innocence of her tone.

“I can’t do that. What about the downtrodden?”

“Who do you think trods on them, you silly bugger?” she asked. “Well, okay, not you and me—not directly, anyhow—but Dad does. He’s a corporate lawyer, for Christ’s sake.”

It was getting warm, too. Warm and airless. That’s it! He was in Hell. Was that sulfur? He thought he could smell sulfur.

Sid just started shaking his head, and the more Jessica spoke, the more violent the shaking became.

“We’re rich, Sid,” she mocked. “Not lower middle class. Not middle class. Not even upper middle class. We are rich. We are richer than a 20-pound box of Nanaimo bars.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to make her stop.

“No, I’m not rich,” he yelled. “Maybe you’re rich, but not me. I shun all worldly goods.”

Jessica snorted derisively and smiled. It was her turn to shake her head.

“Shun worldly goods?” she chided. “Oh sure, you dress like a street person and drive the worst beater in the school parking lot, but I would hardly call you a Buddhist monk. You—we—live in a very nice house, eating very nice food, and get a very nice allowance. Try another one, Gollum.”

Pitch clogged his lungs. Brimstone burned his flesh. And fire blinded his eyes. Hell consumed him until he thought he’d started talking in tongues. It was gibberish to his ears, but it was definitely coming out of his mouth.

“Alright, you win,” he spewed and then slumped in his seat. He had succumbed. “I hate the poor. They smell, and they’re lazy.”

“Whoa, tiger, slow down a little. I’m not pushing genocide here. I’m just saying we’re not poor.” Jessica waited a moment for Sid to calm down. “So take advantage of that. Use our connections to write the most controversial paper Berkowitz will ever grade. Be the anti-Marx.”

Something flickered in Sid’s mind as he returned his gaze to the sign on the door. Club members.

“Wealthy people own the companies where poor people find employment,” he whispered to himself. “And without jobs, they’d starve.”

The flicker took hold.

“And rich people pay a lot of taxes, which help support the social safety net.”

“And most of them don’t even use the services,” Jessica added, fanning the flame. “They go to the U.S. for their healthcare and don’t receive a penny in government subsidies, leaving their share for the poor.”

It all began to crystallize for Sid. It made so much sense. He had a purpose in life.

Later that day, he went down to City Hall to register as the founding member of the Republican Party of Canada. A scant eight years before the invasion…but that’s another story.

The word was “wine”

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As I mentioned earlier (in Thoughts on Thinking), I like a little writing exercise that involves sitting in a bar or restaurant with a notebook and just writing something at random that starts with a word I see nearby. No plan, just writing.

I haven’t done much of this recently–too much “planned” writing–but here is one I did a while ago.

 

“Wine?” Henry asked as he nervously fumbled with his keys.

Jeanine had only been in town for three hours and already she was beginning to regret her decision.

“Why did I come here?” she admonished herself quietly. “He’s not interested in me. He was just being polite.”

Jeanine had only worked at the peanut plant for three weeks, but since day one she had felt like an outsider; like nuts just weren’t her thing. Henry, however; he had nuts written all over him. In fact, he had the biggest nuts contract in the company. That’s why Jeanine had agreed to come to dinner. She knew he could teach her a lot about nuts.

Suddenly, she realized that he hadn’t continued talking.

“I’m sorry, Henry,” she said in a barely audible, embarrassed whisper. “I must have faded out on you.”

He smiled at her, but there was a sadness behind his eyes. “That’s okay,” he said. “I just wondered if you’d like a glass of wine before we headed off to dinner.”

As he spoke, she watched his lips move, but somehow it was all disconnected; as though the sounds were coming out of a television playing in another room. “Sure,” she mustered. “That would be nice.”

For an almost imperceptible moment, Henry’s gaze hung on her and then his shoulders drooped as he took a shallow breath and rose from the edge of the couch. “White okay, or do you prefer red?”

“White’s fine,” she said. White’s always fine, she thought. She’d stopped drinking red some time ago. The tannic acid left a sour taste in her mouth these days. The oaky smell brought up too many painful memories.

Henry had moved to the kitchen and Jeanine could hear the fridge door open momentarily before sliding shut with a dull pfft. “It’s like you knew my preference,” Jeanine called from the couch, trying to sound lighter than her mood dictated. “But I don’t remember that question being on the job application.”

“I always like to keep a white wine in the fridge. Just in case,” Henry replied. Jeanine couldn’t be sure if he’d missed her little joke or was just ignoring it. Either way, she was glad he hadn’t tried to reply in kind.

Henry re-entered the living room with two large tumblers of wine. A Riesling if Jeanine’s nose still held. “Sorry about the glasses,” he smiled. “I guess you can give the boy a corner office, but you can’t make him shop.”

Jeanine just smiled, as Henry gave her a glass and raised his own. “Here’s to new beginnings,” he toasted. Jeanine hadn’t even realized that she had inhaled, however slightly, but Henry’s demeanor changed instantly.

“Look, Jeanine,” he started, putting his glass on a coaster without even taking a sip, “if this makes you feel awkward or uncertain, please just say so. No hard feelings.” He tried to smile, but his hands instinctively reached for his keys, giving away his unease.

“Shit, I’m blowing it,” Jeanine thought to herself. “No, Henry, please,” she said aloud. “I’m sorry. You asked me over for a drink and for some dinner to discuss work and here I am off in a fog. It’s my fault.”

Unsure what to do or how to approach her, Henry rose and walked across to the stereo to adjust the music level. It gave him a half-second to think. For the company’s biggest sales guy, Henry berated himself for his inability to function one-on-one with people.

Sales was easy. It was getting outside of yourself and being the professional. An actor as much as a sales person. But people? Individuals? Women? They made Henry nervous, for some reason.

It wasn’t Jeanine, but she didn’t know that.

“I’m really glad you asked. I really want to learn more,” she said rapidly to fill the void. Suddenly adding, “About the company.”

“Oh Christ,” she thought. “You sound like a ruddy schoolgirl. Calm down.”

Henry turned back and smiled. “Of course,” he replied, at a loss for what to say next. “I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable. You’ve only been with the company a few weeks and I ask you if you want to see my portfolio. A girl might get the wrong idea, but I want to assure you that this salesman is an honourable one.”

She smiled despite herself. “An honourable salesman?” she laughed. “A bit of an oxymoron, isn’t it?”

It was Henry’s turn to laugh. “Oxymoron,” he repeated. “I’m impressed.”

“Hey, they may not teach us much at York University,” she said mock defensively, “but I came away with a good vocabulary.”

Henry held up his hands in submission. “I surrender. I’m just a poor Ryerson grad. I don’t even think we were taught the word ‘vocabulary’.”

That seemed to have broken the ice a little and they both sat there, quietly, noses into their wine glasses, surreptitiously surveying their companion.

Jeanine was 35. A blonde by birth, a brunette by practice, she had long ago given up any hope of ever getting control of those odd silver hairs that forced their way through into the sunlight every few weeks. And given her fair complexion, sunlight was one thing she avoided religiously.

She was of middling height and had once heard herself described by her art history professor as a cross between Rubens and Botticelli. Unfortunately, she sucked at art history, so she was never sure if she should be flattered, embarrassed, or angry. In any event, she was happy with her figure, even if it was a little over-exuberant in a bathing suit.

And it never seemed to get in her way when it came to sex. By no means easy, she flattered herself, she was playful and for that very reason, had to be careful about her drinking. Everybody, it seems, loves a happy drunk.

Henry was 43 and to ask him, he’d earned every one of those years. In fact, in his eyes, he should have gotten double credit for ten of them; the ones he’d spent married. He’d married shortly after leaving college to begin a career as a traveling salesman. And cliché as it might seem, that’s exactly what led to his first divorce. And ironically his second marriage. Well, that and a ruptured condom.

Henry and Sarah, his second wife, had left on relatively amicable terms about four years ago. Together, the happy couple had produced a beautiful son, a mortgage, two ulcers, two very wealthy lawyers and for Henry, an entirely new appreciation for how much shit you can pile into a Mazda Miata. They’re roomier than you might think.

If you asked him, Henry would be just as likely to blame his salt-and-pepper mane on a decade of liquid lunches as much as his history with women. Oh, it’s not that he didn’t have definite opinions on his ex-wives, but he was too much of a realist to believe that all of life’s problems were their fault. The wine belly—if one can have a wine belly—was the other clue.