I was going down the road
When I spied a scary toad
So I picked it up and threw it in the meadow
One morning as I left the house
I saw a very sneaky mouse
I screamed, and then threw him in the meadow
I was swimming in the lake
When I saw a slinking snake
So I grabbed him up and threw him in the meadow
I was drinking apple cider
When I saw a creepy spider
So I fished him out and threw him in the meadow
My brother said “let’s take a walk”
So we went a little way down the block
And we ended up walking through the meadow
Halfway through I gave a shout
All those creatures came scurrying out
They picked me up and threw me out of the meadow
Now, as for the critters, I don’t mind ‘em
I just leave’em where I find ‘em
But I don’t think I’ll go back to the meadow
No, I don't think I'll go back to that meadow
This was written by my oldest and I on our last vacation. It was actually a song sung in the same sort of style (but not the same tune) as Johnny Cash's A Boy Named Sue.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Impetus - Poetry Daisy Chain
Impetus
Wooden floor
Cool against my skin
There is no motivation
To move from this place
I listen through the cracks
between floorboards,
waiting for the small prick
of electric, rendering me
from this space
Inert in memories caress.
But soaking in sadness
the kids need lunch
the dog needs to go out
the laundry needs to be done
Guilt propels me to stop
and redefine
With mental finger I flick
The tiny guilt propeller
Now remembering
The pieces have already
Fallen
Fallen too the appetite
Kids can fend
Chores can wait
In time the dog no longer cries
The children silenced.
Only tones from the distant past
ring in my ears and silenced soul
A dreadful sound
Generations will know
I’m here, because I’ll be
In every first step photograph
Yes this is the place of me
And this alone can make me move
From the cool and comfort
Of the floor
Back in April, I was asked by Linda from leftbrainwrite to take part in a poetry daisy chain game. I jumped at the chance. I have long been a fan of Linda's writing and her poetry is both inspired and inspiring. I was familiar with several of the other writers involved: Michael Solender, Tony Noland, Mark Kerstetter , all of whom I have been following for some time. Added to the list were Doug Matthewson, Robin Stratton, and Paige Von Liber.
The guidelines were simple, we would each start a poem and impose any restrictions we wished. The poem was then passed on to the next person on the list. That player would add a few lines and send it on to the next.
My poem very simply:
Wooden floor
Cool against my skin
There is no motivation
To move from this place
I had no restrictions, no ideas of what the end result would be. This is what eventually returned:
Wooden floor
Cool against my skin
There is no motivation
To move from this place
Inert in memories caress.
They are burning!
Sky Lab falling falling.
She hears the klaxons,
knows the panic.
Ocean is so blue.
But lying there soaking in sadness
the kids need lunch
the dog needs to go out
the laundry needs to be done
guilt propels her to sit and redefine
With mental finger I flick
The tiny guilt propeller
Toy klaxons receding
While far away
As in a movie backdrop
Now remembering
The pieces have already
Fallen
Fallen too the appetite
Kids can fend
Chores can wait
Generations will know
I’m here, because I’ll be
In every first step photograph
Yes this is the place of me
Music on the floor is not what she expected
Not harps and harpsichords
But the bell of the ice cream truck
That her father never let her buy from.
The cries of the dog
The cries of the children
The cries of the siren
Drowned in the sound
Of the bell
As she lies cooling on the
Wooden floor.
I listen through the cracks
between floorboards,
waiting for the small prick
of electric, rendering me
from this space
The dog no longer cries.
The children silenced.
The siren long still from its plaintiff wail.
Only tones from the Gamelan orchestra,
ring in my ears and silenced soul.
In order the participants were: Me, Doug, Robin, Mark, Paige, Tony, Linda, Michael.
I was surprised at what returned. It started as a poem about the need to move forward and became something about a woman struggling to find a piece of herself. It spoke to me. Two stanzas in particular stood out. Robin and Paige both grabbed at the same idea from different directions and brought the whole thing into focus. From there I was able to come up with my final edited version. I really liked the idea of toy Kalxons attacking, but they didn't go in the direction I decided to take. I did keep the part about the guilt propeller because I liked the idea of guilt being propelled.
This was a fun experiment, and I found it very interesting that each writer's style was so distinct, I could pretty much pick out who had written what without the labels.
Thank you to Linda for asking me to be a part of this game, and to the others who made the process so enjoyable, and such a learning experience.
PS: I'm featured at Leftbrainwrite today, chatting with Linda about the poem. Come along and have a read, and check out the rest of the Daisy Chain Gang while you are there.
Wooden floor
Cool against my skin
There is no motivation
To move from this place
I listen through the cracks
between floorboards,
waiting for the small prick
of electric, rendering me
from this space
Inert in memories caress.
But soaking in sadness
the kids need lunch
the dog needs to go out
the laundry needs to be done
Guilt propels me to stop
and redefine
With mental finger I flick
The tiny guilt propeller
Now remembering
The pieces have already
Fallen
Fallen too the appetite
Kids can fend
Chores can wait
In time the dog no longer cries
The children silenced.
Only tones from the distant past
ring in my ears and silenced soul
A dreadful sound
Generations will know
I’m here, because I’ll be
In every first step photograph
Yes this is the place of me
And this alone can make me move
From the cool and comfort
Of the floor
Back in April, I was asked by Linda from leftbrainwrite to take part in a poetry daisy chain game. I jumped at the chance. I have long been a fan of Linda's writing and her poetry is both inspired and inspiring. I was familiar with several of the other writers involved: Michael Solender, Tony Noland, Mark Kerstetter , all of whom I have been following for some time. Added to the list were Doug Matthewson, Robin Stratton, and Paige Von Liber.
The guidelines were simple, we would each start a poem and impose any restrictions we wished. The poem was then passed on to the next person on the list. That player would add a few lines and send it on to the next.
My poem very simply:
Wooden floor
Cool against my skin
There is no motivation
To move from this place
I had no restrictions, no ideas of what the end result would be. This is what eventually returned:
Wooden floor
Cool against my skin
There is no motivation
To move from this place
Inert in memories caress.
They are burning!
Sky Lab falling falling.
She hears the klaxons,
knows the panic.
Ocean is so blue.
But lying there soaking in sadness
the kids need lunch
the dog needs to go out
the laundry needs to be done
guilt propels her to sit and redefine
With mental finger I flick
The tiny guilt propeller
Toy klaxons receding
While far away
As in a movie backdrop
Now remembering
The pieces have already
Fallen
Fallen too the appetite
Kids can fend
Chores can wait
Generations will know
I’m here, because I’ll be
In every first step photograph
Yes this is the place of me
Music on the floor is not what she expected
Not harps and harpsichords
But the bell of the ice cream truck
That her father never let her buy from.
The cries of the dog
The cries of the children
The cries of the siren
Drowned in the sound
Of the bell
As she lies cooling on the
Wooden floor.
I listen through the cracks
between floorboards,
waiting for the small prick
of electric, rendering me
from this space
The dog no longer cries.
The children silenced.
The siren long still from its plaintiff wail.
Only tones from the Gamelan orchestra,
ring in my ears and silenced soul.
In order the participants were: Me, Doug, Robin, Mark, Paige, Tony, Linda, Michael.
I was surprised at what returned. It started as a poem about the need to move forward and became something about a woman struggling to find a piece of herself. It spoke to me. Two stanzas in particular stood out. Robin and Paige both grabbed at the same idea from different directions and brought the whole thing into focus. From there I was able to come up with my final edited version. I really liked the idea of toy Kalxons attacking, but they didn't go in the direction I decided to take. I did keep the part about the guilt propeller because I liked the idea of guilt being propelled.
This was a fun experiment, and I found it very interesting that each writer's style was so distinct, I could pretty much pick out who had written what without the labels.
Thank you to Linda for asking me to be a part of this game, and to the others who made the process so enjoyable, and such a learning experience.
PS: I'm featured at Leftbrainwrite today, chatting with Linda about the poem. Come along and have a read, and check out the rest of the Daisy Chain Gang while you are there.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
The Great Duck Rescue (Attempt)
The kids came bursting through the door yesterday afternoon, gasping for breath and talking over each other trying to tell the news - a mama duck and her babies were trapped in the basement stairs across the street. I managed to get "ducks" "trapped" and "across the street" from the jumble of information so I grabbed my camera and went to take a look.
Sure enough there was a little duck family as lost as could be on our street. By the time we got to the site a neighbour had rescued four of the ducklings and was trying to free the last three without upsetting mama.
The ducklings had obviously followed their mother into the stairwell and, because they couldn't yet fly, became trapped. Mama was pacing back and forth, quacking steadily as the four little bits of fluff did their best to stay close. After a few minutes the mother duck waddled toward the front of the house and the neighbour jumped into the stairwell and scooped up the remaining ducklings one at a time.
As soon as they were placed on the pavement the little ones took off. It was funny to watch them run to catch up with the others. There was no way that mama was leaving without them. She was quite distressed and kept up her incessant quacking until all seven of her babies were toddling behind her.
Unfortunately, ducks do not learn from their mistakes. Mama and babies went on their way, and promptly fell into another stairwell three houses down. This time mama was in the backyard and the babies were once again trapped. We could hear them peeping and went to investigate. We could see a few of them scurrying around behind garbage containers, but two of the ducklings were stuck in a net that was hanging on the wall. Once they were freed and back with their fretting mother I rushed home to call wildlife services.
I would like to say this story has a happy ending, but I really don't know what the ending is. The guy couldn't promise to have anyone out until the next day, and he said that the ducks would find their own way. I explained that the ducklings couldn't fly, and they were obviously lost. He said that there wasn't anything they could do anyway because if they touched the babies then the mother would abandon them (this, by the way, is complete bunk). I don't think he was too enthused about coming all this way on a Saturday evening.
By the time we got back to the yard to check on the ducks, they were gone. I hope they got home safely.
Sure enough there was a little duck family as lost as could be on our street. By the time we got to the site a neighbour had rescued four of the ducklings and was trying to free the last three without upsetting mama.
The ducklings had obviously followed their mother into the stairwell and, because they couldn't yet fly, became trapped. Mama was pacing back and forth, quacking steadily as the four little bits of fluff did their best to stay close. After a few minutes the mother duck waddled toward the front of the house and the neighbour jumped into the stairwell and scooped up the remaining ducklings one at a time.
As soon as they were placed on the pavement the little ones took off. It was funny to watch them run to catch up with the others. There was no way that mama was leaving without them. She was quite distressed and kept up her incessant quacking until all seven of her babies were toddling behind her.
Unfortunately, ducks do not learn from their mistakes. Mama and babies went on their way, and promptly fell into another stairwell three houses down. This time mama was in the backyard and the babies were once again trapped. We could hear them peeping and went to investigate. We could see a few of them scurrying around behind garbage containers, but two of the ducklings were stuck in a net that was hanging on the wall. Once they were freed and back with their fretting mother I rushed home to call wildlife services.
I would like to say this story has a happy ending, but I really don't know what the ending is. The guy couldn't promise to have anyone out until the next day, and he said that the ducks would find their own way. I explained that the ducklings couldn't fly, and they were obviously lost. He said that there wasn't anything they could do anyway because if they touched the babies then the mother would abandon them (this, by the way, is complete bunk). I don't think he was too enthused about coming all this way on a Saturday evening.
By the time we got back to the yard to check on the ducks, they were gone. I hope they got home safely.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Falling Through the House
My nine year old son was singing this first stanza around the house yesterday. When I asked what it was he said he just made it up and called it "Falling Through the House". It was pretty easy to carry on with such a fine idea.
Falling through the ceiling
Falling through the floor
Falling through the window
Falling through the door
Falling through the kitchen
Falling through the den
Falling down the stairs
Then falling up again
Falling on my backside
Falling on my head
The day is finally over
I'm falling into bed
Falling through the ceiling
Falling through the floor
Falling through the window
Falling through the door
Falling through the kitchen
Falling through the den
Falling down the stairs
Then falling up again
Falling on my backside
Falling on my head
The day is finally over
I'm falling into bed
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Quality, Quantity, or Both?
I would love to be one of those writers who can churn out story after story, delighting her audience every week with a fresh new tale. I really wish I could. But I am not that writer.I try to put aside some time every day to write. How much time greatly depends on what other things are happening in my house. Some days I can get a solid few hours of work done, other days I'm lucky if I can sneak a few minutes here and there.
With this time I could finish three or four stories a week, no question. They would, however, be of questionable quality. I like to take my time with my stories, turn them about, look at them from all sides. There are usually a few false starts before I find the voice and point of view I want. Every now and then I will get a story idea that flows so well I can finish the whole thing in an hour. It's nice when that happens, but it doesn't happen often.
The upside of mass production in the literary sense is that you get your name out there and you don't slip from sight. Out of sight, out of mind after all, and what could be worse to an author than losing her audience? On the flip side, would I rather be known as a prolific writer of mediocre fiction, or a sporadic author of good fiction?
I realize that "good" is relative, and no matter how much time I spend on a piece of writing it may be viewed as a waste of written words. Some of my stories have had a lukewarm reception, but I have yet to be disappointed with myself for putting a poorly written story out there. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, and I welcome it as part of the learning experience. That criticism wouldn't mean much if, deep down, I already knew those things were lacking, but just didn't take the time to do it right.
So tell me about the volume of your writing. How do you fit your story production into your schedule? Do you always give 100%? 80%? 50%? Do you publish stories that are less than perfect in order to get the feedback you need to improve it? Do you have weekly or monthly goals in mind for your stories?
Monday, May 17, 2010
Along the Track
One of my favourite things to do when I visit home is walk the track. Railway tracks once ran along this path which is now used as a walking trail and a thoroughfare for ATVs going to and from cabins and fishing ponds.
Spring is not an enjoyable season in this area. It's cold and wet and the emerging green competes with overwhelming brown and grey. Yet, in its way, it is still beautiful.
Here are some photos I took during our stroll this weekend. Looking through them over the past few days I was struck by how different this place can seem, depending on the mood. It is at turns quiet and beautiful and stark and creepy.
The first photo reminds me of the Jack-o-Lantern stories we listened to as kids. I cannot look at the dead branches without thinking of skeletal arms of those lost in the bog.
Spring is not an enjoyable season in this area. It's cold and wet and the emerging green competes with overwhelming brown and grey. Yet, in its way, it is still beautiful.
Here are some photos I took during our stroll this weekend. Looking through them over the past few days I was struck by how different this place can seem, depending on the mood. It is at turns quiet and beautiful and stark and creepy.
The first photo reminds me of the Jack-o-Lantern stories we listened to as kids. I cannot look at the dead branches without thinking of skeletal arms of those lost in the bog.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
One Million Giraffes
The lovely and always inspiring Karen Schindler spread the word about this project on her blog Miscellaneous Yammering. And she dropped my name in there so you know I felt the pressure.
Basically the thing is this guy in Norway is trying to collect one million giraffes by 2011. The giraffes must be hand made, not computer generated. Pictures of giraffes don't count, and no store bought giraffe items.
There was a lot of thinking and pondering, but I couldn't come up with an idea for a giraffe. Then last night I was looking at Lauren's little stool next to my desk. Its four little legs looked like animal legs and inspiration struck. I ended up with this:
It was actually pretty fun, creating this little guy. I'm going to encourage all you guys to give it a whirl and add your own giraffe to the gallery. Even if you don't make one yourself, have a look through the site. There are some pretty creative submissions.
Update: My Giraffe is up! See him Here.
-----
On an unrelated note, my nine year old son had his school concert last night. In the interest of fairness I told him I would put his solo on here, just like I did for his sister. Have a listen (the mic was turned down low so the audio is pretty quiet):
Basically the thing is this guy in Norway is trying to collect one million giraffes by 2011. The giraffes must be hand made, not computer generated. Pictures of giraffes don't count, and no store bought giraffe items.
There was a lot of thinking and pondering, but I couldn't come up with an idea for a giraffe. Then last night I was looking at Lauren's little stool next to my desk. Its four little legs looked like animal legs and inspiration struck. I ended up with this:
It was actually pretty fun, creating this little guy. I'm going to encourage all you guys to give it a whirl and add your own giraffe to the gallery. Even if you don't make one yourself, have a look through the site. There are some pretty creative submissions.
Update: My Giraffe is up! See him Here.
-----
On an unrelated note, my nine year old son had his school concert last night. In the interest of fairness I told him I would put his solo on here, just like I did for his sister. Have a listen (the mic was turned down low so the audio is pretty quiet):
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
How I Spent the First Week of May
It's been more than a week since I've posted something of my own here, and there's a very good reason for that. Every year for the past four years I have been involved in something spectacular. Something so huge that I have to put everything else aside and focus every ounce of my energy on this project. That thing is called Etcetera and for one whole week every May, it takes over our lives.
I'm saying one week, which includes the run of the show and the dress rehearsals, but in fact it takes several months of very hard work to get this show running. Etcetera includes performances from kids ranging from age twelve right up to grads in their twenties who stay to perform and mentor the younger ones. Songs are selected from popular radio play, traditional music, and Broadway musicals to ensure that there is something for everyone to enjoy. This year's show included music from Finding Nemo the Musical, Shrek the Musical, Hair, Lady Gaga, and Marianas Trench, to name just a few.
The show choir is a close knit group. They spend hours together singing, dancing and auditioning for parts. They encourage each other, give criticism and advice, and work hard to make sure every performance is perfection. They also travel together. The group has performed worldwide in countries such as France, Belgium, England, Japan and the United States. They have also taken part in several competitions, including a first place performance at the Show Choirs of North America Festival.
During spring break, the kids spend twelve hour days in the school gym, learning choreography and perfecting harmonies. The band takes up residence in the music room, making sure that every song is just right. Parent volunteers work on props and costumes that could put big budget shows to shame. This year over 200 fish puppets, a fish tank, and countless seaweed and coral props were created for the Nemo set, and costumes were put together for the dozens of story book characters in Shrek.
The week before the show begins all the equipment, props, costumes and staging is moved to the stadium in preparation for opening night. Ian, the stage manager, a show choir alumnus himself, spend hours making sure everything is in place and glow-taping all the necessary markers. The kids spend long days marking over their spots and rehearsing cues, and volunteers run through the show, helping with props, costuming and quick changes. By the time the final dress rehearsal comes around everyone is exhausted, but the excitement is palpable.
The kids perform eight shows in five days - three school matinees and five evening shows. Each show seats about 800 spectators, but the performers especially like the matinees. The school children in the audience clap and sing along, and shout and cheer after every song. It's an energy that is contagious and you can see it carry through to every performer.
After the final bow, when the stage has been broken down and the costumes returned, everyone involved is ready for a good long rest. But for the show choir the rest will be short. Travel plans are already in progress for a group that will take part in a special Christmas performance at Disney - the first Canadian choir ever to take part. Rehearsals and fundraising will soon begin. They wouldn't want it any other way.
Click here to listen to the Show Choir Performance of Java Jive.
(The girl singing the verse ending with "drop your nickel in my pot, Joe" is my daughter)
I'm saying one week, which includes the run of the show and the dress rehearsals, but in fact it takes several months of very hard work to get this show running. Etcetera includes performances from kids ranging from age twelve right up to grads in their twenties who stay to perform and mentor the younger ones. Songs are selected from popular radio play, traditional music, and Broadway musicals to ensure that there is something for everyone to enjoy. This year's show included music from Finding Nemo the Musical, Shrek the Musical, Hair, Lady Gaga, and Marianas Trench, to name just a few.
The show choir is a close knit group. They spend hours together singing, dancing and auditioning for parts. They encourage each other, give criticism and advice, and work hard to make sure every performance is perfection. They also travel together. The group has performed worldwide in countries such as France, Belgium, England, Japan and the United States. They have also taken part in several competitions, including a first place performance at the Show Choirs of North America Festival.
During spring break, the kids spend twelve hour days in the school gym, learning choreography and perfecting harmonies. The band takes up residence in the music room, making sure that every song is just right. Parent volunteers work on props and costumes that could put big budget shows to shame. This year over 200 fish puppets, a fish tank, and countless seaweed and coral props were created for the Nemo set, and costumes were put together for the dozens of story book characters in Shrek.
The week before the show begins all the equipment, props, costumes and staging is moved to the stadium in preparation for opening night. Ian, the stage manager, a show choir alumnus himself, spend hours making sure everything is in place and glow-taping all the necessary markers. The kids spend long days marking over their spots and rehearsing cues, and volunteers run through the show, helping with props, costuming and quick changes. By the time the final dress rehearsal comes around everyone is exhausted, but the excitement is palpable.
The kids perform eight shows in five days - three school matinees and five evening shows. Each show seats about 800 spectators, but the performers especially like the matinees. The school children in the audience clap and sing along, and shout and cheer after every song. It's an energy that is contagious and you can see it carry through to every performer.
After the final bow, when the stage has been broken down and the costumes returned, everyone involved is ready for a good long rest. But for the show choir the rest will be short. Travel plans are already in progress for a group that will take part in a special Christmas performance at Disney - the first Canadian choir ever to take part. Rehearsals and fundraising will soon begin. They wouldn't want it any other way.
Click here to listen to the Show Choir Performance of Java Jive.
(The girl singing the verse ending with "drop your nickel in my pot, Joe" is my daughter)
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Seaside Fiction Contest - Honourable Mention - Karen Schindler
Karen Schindler is a writer, editor, and all around great gal. She writes poetry, short fiction, and can tickle even the toughest of funny bones. Go see her at her blog Miscellaneous Yammering or her flash fiction zine Pow fast flash fiction
Make Mine Petite
Oceans scare me.
I much prefer Lake Erie. Just like the ocean, it has white caps and crashing surf, waves to bob in, tide to dodge while squealing and holding your skirt aloft from the rushing water. Sand enough to build your dream castle complete with indoor plumbing and of course a moat, [imaginary crocodiles optional]. Bonfires at sunset, blue water that rolls all the way to the horizon, calm days to skip a rock, breezy days to float your kite heavenward running along the beach backwards.….
Give me a great lake anytime. It’s just majestic enough, and there’s nothing lurking under the gorgeous, gleaming, glistening surface hoping that I’ll wade right on in so it can eat me.
Make Mine Petite
Oceans scare me.
I much prefer Lake Erie. Just like the ocean, it has white caps and crashing surf, waves to bob in, tide to dodge while squealing and holding your skirt aloft from the rushing water. Sand enough to build your dream castle complete with indoor plumbing and of course a moat, [imaginary crocodiles optional]. Bonfires at sunset, blue water that rolls all the way to the horizon, calm days to skip a rock, breezy days to float your kite heavenward running along the beach backwards.….
Give me a great lake anytime. It’s just majestic enough, and there’s nothing lurking under the gorgeous, gleaming, glistening surface hoping that I’ll wade right on in so it can eat me.
Seaside Fiction Contest - Honourable Mention - Jeffrey S. Callico
The quiet feel of this story really struck me. Jeffrey S. Callico (otherwise known as wiredwriter) has a way of hitting you with unexpected things. Check out his blog or his zine Negative Suck to see what I mean.
Neighbors
Gerald Evans has been living a few houses down from me for at least eight years. He moved here from middle Pennsylvania so he could get away from a troublesome family life and get near some ocean life instead. We live just a short walk from the beach, which is the only life I’ve ever known. Sometimes he comes over for coffee and a cigarette to share quiet mornings with me, a woman who wishes he would one day ask me out.
When I first met him he appeared gruff and seemingly full of anger; maybe he was then, but that was long ago. He still can be terse but no longer gruff and I think his sharing a small part of his life with a woman has soothed at least some of his anger.
One day last week he came over and I already had the coffee made, since he called the night before to tell me he would be by. I am always thrilled when he calls me, but this time I thought I detected a different tone in his voice, as if there was something troubling him; I wanted to inquire but thought better of it.
I saw him through the window as he approached the house. He was in his usual attire: tan corduroys, green pullover shirt, sandals, and that god-awful tattered Phillies cap I wish I could swipe from his head and throw in the trash.
“Morning, Brenda,” he said, unsmiling, as he made his way to my porch. He sat in the same chair beside me as always, but I knew that something was still bothering him; he averted his eyes and didn’t thank me when I handed him his cup of freshly brewed coffee.
We sat in silence for a while, the morning surf breezes cool on my face, the gulls gathering on the beach for their hopeful early fish. I took a deep breath, then exhaled audibly. Gerald looked over, finally.
“I was thinking,” he started. I waited, not knowing what was next but wondering if it was what I wanted it to be. “Do you…”
Gerald’s voice trailed off, got lost in the breeze. We drank our coffee and smoked more cigarettes than usual, but sat in silence until he left, his goodbye nearly inaudible.
He hasn’t called since, and I keep thinking I should be a bold woman and call him but something keeps me from doing it. If he wanted to ask me out all he had to do was just say it. I would have said yes right then. Maybe I should have that morning, despite his hesitancy. If I had it my way, I’d walk over there right now and pretend I need something. Well, I do need something. That’s no lie. I need Gerald Evans to share more with me than coffee and cigarettes on cool beachside mornings. But who am I but a friendly neighbor. I guess I can leave it at that.
Neighbors
Gerald Evans has been living a few houses down from me for at least eight years. He moved here from middle Pennsylvania so he could get away from a troublesome family life and get near some ocean life instead. We live just a short walk from the beach, which is the only life I’ve ever known. Sometimes he comes over for coffee and a cigarette to share quiet mornings with me, a woman who wishes he would one day ask me out.
When I first met him he appeared gruff and seemingly full of anger; maybe he was then, but that was long ago. He still can be terse but no longer gruff and I think his sharing a small part of his life with a woman has soothed at least some of his anger.
One day last week he came over and I already had the coffee made, since he called the night before to tell me he would be by. I am always thrilled when he calls me, but this time I thought I detected a different tone in his voice, as if there was something troubling him; I wanted to inquire but thought better of it.
I saw him through the window as he approached the house. He was in his usual attire: tan corduroys, green pullover shirt, sandals, and that god-awful tattered Phillies cap I wish I could swipe from his head and throw in the trash.
“Morning, Brenda,” he said, unsmiling, as he made his way to my porch. He sat in the same chair beside me as always, but I knew that something was still bothering him; he averted his eyes and didn’t thank me when I handed him his cup of freshly brewed coffee.
We sat in silence for a while, the morning surf breezes cool on my face, the gulls gathering on the beach for their hopeful early fish. I took a deep breath, then exhaled audibly. Gerald looked over, finally.
“I was thinking,” he started. I waited, not knowing what was next but wondering if it was what I wanted it to be. “Do you…”
Gerald’s voice trailed off, got lost in the breeze. We drank our coffee and smoked more cigarettes than usual, but sat in silence until he left, his goodbye nearly inaudible.
He hasn’t called since, and I keep thinking I should be a bold woman and call him but something keeps me from doing it. If he wanted to ask me out all he had to do was just say it. I would have said yes right then. Maybe I should have that morning, despite his hesitancy. If I had it my way, I’d walk over there right now and pretend I need something. Well, I do need something. That’s no lie. I need Gerald Evans to share more with me than coffee and cigarettes on cool beachside mornings. But who am I but a friendly neighbor. I guess I can leave it at that.
Seaside Fiction Contest - Honourable Mention - Sam (Future; Nostalgic)
This story by Sam (aka Future; Nostalgic) left me with lots of thoughts, sneaking up on me when I least expected it. I love when that happens. If you haven't already, do yourself a favour and head by his blog to catch up on his delightfully fun UCF stories.
Driftwood
‘Is he dead?’
The little girl shivered in the icy on-shore wind, clutched her bundle of driftwood tighter to her chest.
‘I don’t know Aeggith,’ Islaeg said, poking the body with the end of his staff, trying to show more bravado than he felt, ‘He looks dead.’
‘You’d better fetch Ma.’
Aeggith watched the gangly youth sprint out of sight among the dunes.
Overhead, wispy white clouds tacked across a washed out sky, gulls wheeling and diving in the blustery air, their plaintive mewling melting in and out of the song of waves crashing on the shore.
The wind was playful today, tugging at Aeggith’s clothes, slicing through her threadbare smock like a knife to raise goose bumps on her arms. It whipped the hair across her face, stirred up small clouds of coarse grains to sting and bite at her legs. Last night it had been a howling dark beast, madly driving a torrent of rain and roaring spume-topped breakers relentlessly onto the shoreline. It was the reason their mother had sent Aeggith and her brother down to the beach that morning - driftwood for the fire was always plentiful after such a storm.
Aeggith looked down at the man’s body lying half in, half out of the lapping waves. He had a look of her uncle about him, her uncle the huscarl, with his clothes of fine wool and linen, boots of hard, tooled leather, gold and silver at his neck and arms. The sword at his hip was like her uncle’s too, plain, unornamented, a workman’s sword - a blood-drinker, a soul-taker.
She knelt by him then, her eyes drawn to the serpent-inscribed ring of silver, one of several about his arm. A single arm-ring like that would keep her whole family for a year or more, and anyway, she thought, he had others, not that he was likely to have need of them now. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out a trembling hand, grasped the cold metal with fingers still gritted from beachcombing, and tugged.
Aeggith screamed as he grabbed her wrist, the rings on his fingers biting savagely into her flesh. She fell backwards, kicking and scratching desperately at him, her feet scrabbling against the wet sand, but he held her fast.
His eyes flashed open, fixing her with a piercing emerald gaze, spasms of coughing wracking his chest.
‘Lëorith? Have you found Lëorith?’
When she shook her head he slumped back onto the sand, shuddered, then lay still.
Slipping her hand from his, Aeggith sucked her wrist where his ring had cut her skin, salt sea tang mingling with the metallic taste of her blood.
She was standing a little way off still watching him, the driftwood bundle clutched to her chest, when Islaeg returned with their mother and Father Nistian. None of them noticed the glint of silver deep within Aeggith’s armful of kindling, nor any sign of the blood-spattered rock hastily buried in the sand beneath her feet.
‘Is he dead?’ she said.
Driftwood
‘Is he dead?’
The little girl shivered in the icy on-shore wind, clutched her bundle of driftwood tighter to her chest.
‘I don’t know Aeggith,’ Islaeg said, poking the body with the end of his staff, trying to show more bravado than he felt, ‘He looks dead.’
‘You’d better fetch Ma.’
Aeggith watched the gangly youth sprint out of sight among the dunes.
Overhead, wispy white clouds tacked across a washed out sky, gulls wheeling and diving in the blustery air, their plaintive mewling melting in and out of the song of waves crashing on the shore.
The wind was playful today, tugging at Aeggith’s clothes, slicing through her threadbare smock like a knife to raise goose bumps on her arms. It whipped the hair across her face, stirred up small clouds of coarse grains to sting and bite at her legs. Last night it had been a howling dark beast, madly driving a torrent of rain and roaring spume-topped breakers relentlessly onto the shoreline. It was the reason their mother had sent Aeggith and her brother down to the beach that morning - driftwood for the fire was always plentiful after such a storm.
Aeggith looked down at the man’s body lying half in, half out of the lapping waves. He had a look of her uncle about him, her uncle the huscarl, with his clothes of fine wool and linen, boots of hard, tooled leather, gold and silver at his neck and arms. The sword at his hip was like her uncle’s too, plain, unornamented, a workman’s sword - a blood-drinker, a soul-taker.
She knelt by him then, her eyes drawn to the serpent-inscribed ring of silver, one of several about his arm. A single arm-ring like that would keep her whole family for a year or more, and anyway, she thought, he had others, not that he was likely to have need of them now. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out a trembling hand, grasped the cold metal with fingers still gritted from beachcombing, and tugged.
Aeggith screamed as he grabbed her wrist, the rings on his fingers biting savagely into her flesh. She fell backwards, kicking and scratching desperately at him, her feet scrabbling against the wet sand, but he held her fast.
His eyes flashed open, fixing her with a piercing emerald gaze, spasms of coughing wracking his chest.
‘Lëorith? Have you found Lëorith?’
When she shook her head he slumped back onto the sand, shuddered, then lay still.
Slipping her hand from his, Aeggith sucked her wrist where his ring had cut her skin, salt sea tang mingling with the metallic taste of her blood.
She was standing a little way off still watching him, the driftwood bundle clutched to her chest, when Islaeg returned with their mother and Father Nistian. None of them noticed the glint of silver deep within Aeggith’s armful of kindling, nor any sign of the blood-spattered rock hastily buried in the sand beneath her feet.
‘Is he dead?’ she said.
Seaside Fiction Contest - Honourable Mention - Sugar
Sweetness and spice and moxie, that's what Sugar is made of. This is a slice of beach heaven. You can always find something tasty from Sugar At The Bijou.
Soul Surfer
Strolling on the beach with a calm ocean beside her, she spots him stretched out under the bright blue cabana with his striped long board abandoned in the sand. Her oversized straw hat shades her eyes from the orange glare of the setting sun as she finishes up a shell-walk that entertains her most days while he rides the coveted waves on the “locals only” surf break. She’s aware of his love for a bottom turn, and the fact that he is stoked by the lip of a wave. The perfect wave continually beckons him and is her only competition. When he catches a wave, she can sense his spiritual oneness with the ocean and his movements are art in motion. She stops walking, watches the contented rise and fall of the cowboy hat on his chest, and knows that she’s found her manana.
Soul Surfer
Strolling on the beach with a calm ocean beside her, she spots him stretched out under the bright blue cabana with his striped long board abandoned in the sand. Her oversized straw hat shades her eyes from the orange glare of the setting sun as she finishes up a shell-walk that entertains her most days while he rides the coveted waves on the “locals only” surf break. She’s aware of his love for a bottom turn, and the fact that he is stoked by the lip of a wave. The perfect wave continually beckons him and is her only competition. When he catches a wave, she can sense his spiritual oneness with the ocean and his movements are art in motion. She stops walking, watches the contented rise and fall of the cowboy hat on his chest, and knows that she’s found her manana.
Seaside Fiction Contest - Honourable Mention - Shane Benavides
If there's one way to get my attention, it's with zombies. Island Zombies are even better. Shane Benavides has both. You can read more on his blog here.
Zombie Island
Chan-Juan knelt in the shade of the tree and glared at the little rowboat that approached her island. She hated when her secluded little paradise was invaded by outsiders. Everyone that wasn’t under her control was an outsider.
A wicked smile curled the edges of her mouth as she thought of how she’d get rid of the two guys that were about to reach the shore. Still forming the plan, she walked out into the open and headed towards them. They both paused in their rowing as they caught sight of her at the same moment.
She had a small frame and a small build. The red dress showed off the shape of her body nicely and she knew just how to move it to keep their attention on her. She just kept approaching them, as they stared.
She noticed that they had similar features, they were probably brothers. One was thin and gangly, with stringy muscles. The other brother was the exact opposite, well-developed and muscular. This one could pose more trouble, because it was the build of an athlete and not of just someone who liked to lift weights.
They pulled onto the shore and hoped out of the boat. “Hello,” the athletic brother called out. “We just came to swim and just relax on the beach. I’m Marty and this is my brother, Phil.”
“Hello,” Phil said, with a little wave as he pulled the boat further onto the shore.
Chan-Juan replied with a simple, “hi.” She stopped a few feet in front of Marty and extended her hand. As he reached for it he paused and his gaze left her and focused on something behind her. Crap, he sees them she thought but kept a calm expression on her face as she turned to follow his gaze. “What are you looking at?”
He pushed her behind him just as she saw that one of her minions had stumbled out into the sunlight, obviously attracted by the lure of fresh meat. A smile spread across her face as she laughed silently. How sweet, she thought, he’s going to save me.
Just than a scream from behind drew both of their attention towards Phil who was being dragged below the surface of the water by three more creatures. Two of them were supposed to go for Marty but the other one had distracted him. That was fine with her, she mentally ordered three more to come out onto the beach and go after Marty who was running into the water after his brother.
By the time he realized there wasn’t much he could do, the other zombies shambled into the water behind him and dragged him under; drowning would be easier than trying to overpower him.
Chan-Juan looked on and smiled as the struggling slowed and then finally stopped. A few more zombies, these ones more rotted and not as useful, crept forward to join in on the feast now that the hard part was over.
Zombie Island
Chan-Juan knelt in the shade of the tree and glared at the little rowboat that approached her island. She hated when her secluded little paradise was invaded by outsiders. Everyone that wasn’t under her control was an outsider.
A wicked smile curled the edges of her mouth as she thought of how she’d get rid of the two guys that were about to reach the shore. Still forming the plan, she walked out into the open and headed towards them. They both paused in their rowing as they caught sight of her at the same moment.
She had a small frame and a small build. The red dress showed off the shape of her body nicely and she knew just how to move it to keep their attention on her. She just kept approaching them, as they stared.
She noticed that they had similar features, they were probably brothers. One was thin and gangly, with stringy muscles. The other brother was the exact opposite, well-developed and muscular. This one could pose more trouble, because it was the build of an athlete and not of just someone who liked to lift weights.
They pulled onto the shore and hoped out of the boat. “Hello,” the athletic brother called out. “We just came to swim and just relax on the beach. I’m Marty and this is my brother, Phil.”
“Hello,” Phil said, with a little wave as he pulled the boat further onto the shore.
Chan-Juan replied with a simple, “hi.” She stopped a few feet in front of Marty and extended her hand. As he reached for it he paused and his gaze left her and focused on something behind her. Crap, he sees them she thought but kept a calm expression on her face as she turned to follow his gaze. “What are you looking at?”
He pushed her behind him just as she saw that one of her minions had stumbled out into the sunlight, obviously attracted by the lure of fresh meat. A smile spread across her face as she laughed silently. How sweet, she thought, he’s going to save me.
Just than a scream from behind drew both of their attention towards Phil who was being dragged below the surface of the water by three more creatures. Two of them were supposed to go for Marty but the other one had distracted him. That was fine with her, she mentally ordered three more to come out onto the beach and go after Marty who was running into the water after his brother.
By the time he realized there wasn’t much he could do, the other zombies shambled into the water behind him and dragged him under; drowning would be easier than trying to overpower him.
Chan-Juan looked on and smiled as the struggling slowed and then finally stopped. A few more zombies, these ones more rotted and not as useful, crept forward to join in on the feast now that the hard part was over.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Seaside Fiction Contest - Honourable Mention - Lou Freshwater
I very quickly became a fan of Lou Freshwater after reading one of her #fridayflash tales. Her writing is evocative and real and stays with you long after the last word. She blogs here.
Leaving the Juke Joint
I think about things Sadie used to say an awful lot now. But lately I’ve been thinkin’ on a lot of other things, too. Like about ten years ago, when somethin’ had been building and building inside me until I felt trapped behind my own eyes – like I was constricted, bound up.
It seemed to start when I went down to Biloxi. I was visiting Sadie’s cousin, and I ended up at the beach a couple of miles down from her house. It was my first time going there. I looked at the wide sky. The clouds were like shelves, stacked on top of each other, until they disappeared into the water, into the straightest line I ever saw. I looked at the white hot gulf sand and thought about how it looked like the sun was throwin’ diamonds across it. I forgot anything else other than what I was feelin’. My world all the sudden became something it hadn’t been until then.
I could feel my senses tryin’ to measure it all up. The seagull’s sharp bark pinchin’ the deep bellow of the tide. The salt air, the water. The rot of a washed up fish in the August sun. The dryin’ seaweed, alive green all the way to so dark that it went straight on to black like collards cooked an hour too long. The happy screams of children I could barely even see. The taste on my lips. The dry on my eyelashes, and skin. An ocean breeze that carried relief, like nothin’ I had ever felt in a breeze before. The sand, sinkin’ me down into all of it. I just stood there for a while and tried to take in the bigness, the openness, the mighty potent force of the stretchin’ out of an ocean.
Since I was a little boy, I had been fightin’ little things inside me. I would always imagine how people lived in those cities up North. I would think about going to other countries some day. Somewhere with mountains and lakes and snow. But life kept comin’ at me, keepin’ me in motion. Keepin’ me in a circle. I had the juke. I had Sadie. I had friends, and my harmonica. But after Biloxi, I couldn’t fight the little things anymore. They got loud, so loud that some days I would take my lawn chair off my front porch and put it right next to the ditch and sit there for hours listening to the crickets and the frogs, or strainin’ to hear the train going down the Yellow Dog Railway, wonderin’ about who was on it and where they were going. Sometimes I would just get into my old burgundy Delta Eighty-Eight and drive for miles and miles, weavin’ around the two-lane roads in the country, like they might open me up again, like Biloxi did, like the blue of that great big ocean did.
Leaving the Juke Joint
I think about things Sadie used to say an awful lot now. But lately I’ve been thinkin’ on a lot of other things, too. Like about ten years ago, when somethin’ had been building and building inside me until I felt trapped behind my own eyes – like I was constricted, bound up.
It seemed to start when I went down to Biloxi. I was visiting Sadie’s cousin, and I ended up at the beach a couple of miles down from her house. It was my first time going there. I looked at the wide sky. The clouds were like shelves, stacked on top of each other, until they disappeared into the water, into the straightest line I ever saw. I looked at the white hot gulf sand and thought about how it looked like the sun was throwin’ diamonds across it. I forgot anything else other than what I was feelin’. My world all the sudden became something it hadn’t been until then.
I could feel my senses tryin’ to measure it all up. The seagull’s sharp bark pinchin’ the deep bellow of the tide. The salt air, the water. The rot of a washed up fish in the August sun. The dryin’ seaweed, alive green all the way to so dark that it went straight on to black like collards cooked an hour too long. The happy screams of children I could barely even see. The taste on my lips. The dry on my eyelashes, and skin. An ocean breeze that carried relief, like nothin’ I had ever felt in a breeze before. The sand, sinkin’ me down into all of it. I just stood there for a while and tried to take in the bigness, the openness, the mighty potent force of the stretchin’ out of an ocean.
Since I was a little boy, I had been fightin’ little things inside me. I would always imagine how people lived in those cities up North. I would think about going to other countries some day. Somewhere with mountains and lakes and snow. But life kept comin’ at me, keepin’ me in motion. Keepin’ me in a circle. I had the juke. I had Sadie. I had friends, and my harmonica. But after Biloxi, I couldn’t fight the little things anymore. They got loud, so loud that some days I would take my lawn chair off my front porch and put it right next to the ditch and sit there for hours listening to the crickets and the frogs, or strainin’ to hear the train going down the Yellow Dog Railway, wonderin’ about who was on it and where they were going. Sometimes I would just get into my old burgundy Delta Eighty-Eight and drive for miles and miles, weavin’ around the two-lane roads in the country, like they might open me up again, like Biloxi did, like the blue of that great big ocean did.
Seaside Fiction Contest - Honourable Mention - Linda Simoni-Wastila
Linda's writing is always so honest and full of rich imagery. It is a treat to read anything she writes. Her blog leftbrainwrite is full of treasures.
Love in the Sand
Waves crash hard and high, tickling the edge of the small towel purloined from our bed-and-breakfast. The distant smudge of this morning’s storm dents the sea’s horizon. When Nantucket’s summer rain slashed against the windows before sunrise, we made love, then drowsed through the lightning strikes.
Now, the air hangs still. The sun basks the island in warmth. Gulls careen over the empty stretch of barren dunes and pelicans skim the water in formation. Fine crystals of water-worn rock and glass squish between my toes, cool and moist. Here, I’m immune to the passage of time; nothing feels more urgent than watching the ocean lap the earth.
The tide pulls Jeremy further down the shore. He cavorts in the water, cresting big waves as they approach, sliding under smaller ones, laughing when a surge tumbles him over. Our conversation at the river last weekend seems a thousand years ago, diluted and less urgent. What does it matter if he did drugs back then? It’s all in his past. Not now. Besides, everyone’s entitled to mistakes, to bad decisions. He was so young then, so impressionable. So alone.
Every few minutes, he looks up, to make sure I’m still here, his anchor to the land. I lean back on my elbows and smile at him tangling with the surf. I wish I could be like him, live now rather than dwell in the past.
He runs out of the foamy water, laughter preceding him. Sea droplets fling from his hair, so many miniature rainbows glinting on the towel. He collapses beside me, his nut-brown arms and legs goose-pimply from the cold water. Emeralds flash at me between the wet barbs of dark lashes and something inside me moans.
I curve into him, skin rousing on contact. My sun-warmed lips seek his cold ones and their brininess fills my mouth with greedy hunger. I kiss him harder. He reaches behind my shoulder blades and pulls me on top, my bikinied breasts pressing soft against his wet chest. Cold fingers slide under spandex.
“Let’s go back,” he says between kisses.
“No.” I suck on his lower lip. “Here.”
Our legs wind tight and he rolls me under him. He glances down the empty beach, then his mouth covers mine, my neck and breasts, and I sigh, adrift in his touch, in the sun and wind, the keening of birds, and the hot sand pressing into the small of my back. He enters me and for a fleeting moment I marvel at how we are together: he is so solid, so loving, so beautiful. Perfect. Then the throbbing surge overwhelms all, the world explodes from sepia to brilliant blue and gold and blinding white, and a small voice in me whispers let go, let go, and so I do.
Love in the Sand
Waves crash hard and high, tickling the edge of the small towel purloined from our bed-and-breakfast. The distant smudge of this morning’s storm dents the sea’s horizon. When Nantucket’s summer rain slashed against the windows before sunrise, we made love, then drowsed through the lightning strikes.
Now, the air hangs still. The sun basks the island in warmth. Gulls careen over the empty stretch of barren dunes and pelicans skim the water in formation. Fine crystals of water-worn rock and glass squish between my toes, cool and moist. Here, I’m immune to the passage of time; nothing feels more urgent than watching the ocean lap the earth.
The tide pulls Jeremy further down the shore. He cavorts in the water, cresting big waves as they approach, sliding under smaller ones, laughing when a surge tumbles him over. Our conversation at the river last weekend seems a thousand years ago, diluted and less urgent. What does it matter if he did drugs back then? It’s all in his past. Not now. Besides, everyone’s entitled to mistakes, to bad decisions. He was so young then, so impressionable. So alone.
Every few minutes, he looks up, to make sure I’m still here, his anchor to the land. I lean back on my elbows and smile at him tangling with the surf. I wish I could be like him, live now rather than dwell in the past.
He runs out of the foamy water, laughter preceding him. Sea droplets fling from his hair, so many miniature rainbows glinting on the towel. He collapses beside me, his nut-brown arms and legs goose-pimply from the cold water. Emeralds flash at me between the wet barbs of dark lashes and something inside me moans.
I curve into him, skin rousing on contact. My sun-warmed lips seek his cold ones and their brininess fills my mouth with greedy hunger. I kiss him harder. He reaches behind my shoulder blades and pulls me on top, my bikinied breasts pressing soft against his wet chest. Cold fingers slide under spandex.
“Let’s go back,” he says between kisses.
“No.” I suck on his lower lip. “Here.”
Our legs wind tight and he rolls me under him. He glances down the empty beach, then his mouth covers mine, my neck and breasts, and I sigh, adrift in his touch, in the sun and wind, the keening of birds, and the hot sand pressing into the small of my back. He enters me and for a fleeting moment I marvel at how we are together: he is so solid, so loving, so beautiful. Perfect. Then the throbbing surge overwhelms all, the world explodes from sepia to brilliant blue and gold and blinding white, and a small voice in me whispers let go, let go, and so I do.
Seaside Fiction Contest - Honourable Mention - Barry Northern
Barry Northern's tales are full of imagination and his Fables are not to be missed, in written or podcast form. You can find them, and more of Barry's works, here.
Fish Hand
Right, just help me with the fishing gear, Michael, that's it. It wouldn't do to forget the rod would it? It's a long drive to the beach.
*
Here we are. Let's find the boat. The fishing gear? Leave it in the car. Why did we bring it? Appearances, Michael. What was that? No, no, we're still going fishing. Follow me, it'll all become clear.
*
Out here, where the land is just a scratch of rock against the horizon, you realise how small we are. But I didn't bring you out here to share the sea with you, Michael, it's time we got down to business. I promised your Mum a good catch for the party tonight and I've learned never to let that woman down. Back to the car? No, we have everything we need right here.
*
That's when your Grandad reached down into the waves and began pulling fish out of the sea with his bare hands. It was magical. Some kind of trick of course — your Grandad loved a practical joke - but I was a kid and to me it was pure magic. Soon the bottom of the boat beat to the rhythm of a thousand flapping fish, or so it seemed to me. Your Gran was happy that night; plenty of fish for her party. Looking back I realise he must've gone out early, netted his catch, and somehow secured it under the boat. And then he told me the tale.
*
That's the last one, Michael, Mum should be happy with that lot. Now listen. The fish hand is a secret gift. One of our ancestors, a fisherman, was blessed by a gypsy woman he showed a kindness. Ever since then the fish hand has been in our family, and we've needed neither rod nor net. Will you have it? Well, that's the question. You see that shining sparkle in your eyes, that total belief in what you've just seen? You may not believe me now, but as you grow older you'll get prouder of your own cleverness. You'll know how the world works, and that magic's just for children. When I die you'll be all grown — I hope! So when the fish hand passes from me, it'll more likely pass to one of your children.
*
I suppose we all remember moments like that at times like this. I wish your Grandad had lived to see you grow up, but he had a good innings, as he would have said, and at least you are old enough to remember him. So dry those eyes and chin up! And who knows eh? Maybe the fish hand has passed to you after all, Robert.
*
I've been a boy scount for three years and I thought I'd heard them all, but that's the stupidest story yet, Robert. What do you mean it's true? Go on then, try it. I dare you! . . . Oh my god!
Fish Hand
Right, just help me with the fishing gear, Michael, that's it. It wouldn't do to forget the rod would it? It's a long drive to the beach.
*
Here we are. Let's find the boat. The fishing gear? Leave it in the car. Why did we bring it? Appearances, Michael. What was that? No, no, we're still going fishing. Follow me, it'll all become clear.
*
Out here, where the land is just a scratch of rock against the horizon, you realise how small we are. But I didn't bring you out here to share the sea with you, Michael, it's time we got down to business. I promised your Mum a good catch for the party tonight and I've learned never to let that woman down. Back to the car? No, we have everything we need right here.
*
That's when your Grandad reached down into the waves and began pulling fish out of the sea with his bare hands. It was magical. Some kind of trick of course — your Grandad loved a practical joke - but I was a kid and to me it was pure magic. Soon the bottom of the boat beat to the rhythm of a thousand flapping fish, or so it seemed to me. Your Gran was happy that night; plenty of fish for her party. Looking back I realise he must've gone out early, netted his catch, and somehow secured it under the boat. And then he told me the tale.
*
That's the last one, Michael, Mum should be happy with that lot. Now listen. The fish hand is a secret gift. One of our ancestors, a fisherman, was blessed by a gypsy woman he showed a kindness. Ever since then the fish hand has been in our family, and we've needed neither rod nor net. Will you have it? Well, that's the question. You see that shining sparkle in your eyes, that total belief in what you've just seen? You may not believe me now, but as you grow older you'll get prouder of your own cleverness. You'll know how the world works, and that magic's just for children. When I die you'll be all grown — I hope! So when the fish hand passes from me, it'll more likely pass to one of your children.
*
I suppose we all remember moments like that at times like this. I wish your Grandad had lived to see you grow up, but he had a good innings, as he would have said, and at least you are old enough to remember him. So dry those eyes and chin up! And who knows eh? Maybe the fish hand has passed to you after all, Robert.
*
I've been a boy scount for three years and I thought I'd heard them all, but that's the stupidest story yet, Robert. What do you mean it's true? Go on then, try it. I dare you! . . . Oh my god!
Seaside Fiction Contest - Honourable Mention - Alan Davidson
This fellow islander knows all about the sea and the strange things that lurk beneath. His blog Conversations from Land's Edge is always good for a chuckle.
Unbidden
A tiny orange glow appeared above the cliffs that sheltered the bay from the ocean. James Bishop rowed the dory towards the others fishing in the middle of the calm waters. His brother Peter fussed with their gear, a cigarette hanging from his cracked lips.
James tucked away the oars when they arrived at their usual spot. Peter heaved the killick overboard, pulled in the excess rope and tied them off.
The men tossed their baited lines over the side and began jigging for cod. Each man snapped his line sharply up and then released; the hemp fibres were drawn through their callused fingers. The morning’s tranquility was broken each time a cod was caught by a neighbouring boat.
The Bishops had had no luck and fished in silence. Peter stared at their empty wicker basket and finally spoke. “We haven’t told anybody yet…Betty’s expecting again.”
“That’s wonderful news!” James said, slapping his brother on the back.
“Well, that’s the thing. We can barely manage now with the dozen youngsters we got. We don’t need another mouth to feed.”
The men continued fishing; awkward silence filled the gap between them. “What do you want to do?” James finally said.
Peter continued jigging the line, his brow furrowed in thought. “Sure, Betty will do whatever I say. I’ve heard talk of a woman in town, who takes care of such matters.”
“But that’s…it’s a mortal sin! If Father Donovan knew—“
“But he’ll never hear of the matter then, will he?” Peter shouted, staring at his brother. His attention was drawn back to fishing when a sudden tug pulled the line through his fingers. He tightened his grip and pulled in, hand over hand, stowing the excess line behind him.
Peter hoisted his catch into the boat. He gasped and stumbled back, rocking the dory. A dark, eel-like fish lay on the wooden floor with the large hook lodged firmly in one of its gills. The creature had neither eyes nor mouth and did not have scales but smooth, dark skin.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. What the hell’s that?” James whispered.
Peter stared wide-eyed at his fish; its six gills along each side opened and closed in unison. The creature began to moan loudly, drawing stares from the closer boats as thick, black liquid oozed from the evil slashes. “Toss that bloody thing overboard. Do it now, by God!” James said.
Peter held the writhing serpent down with his left hand and tried to pry the hook from its gill. He tugged the jigger sharply and wrenched it free causing the creature to wail pitifully. Peter clamped the monstrosity between his hands and cast it overboard. He wiped his bloody hands on his oilskin pants and clamped his palms to either side of his ashen face.
James whispered a prayer and crossed himself. Peter crossed himself too, leaving vertical and horizontal blood smears on his wool sweater. The men wordlessly pulled up the killick and rowed back to the sunlit shore.
Unbidden
A tiny orange glow appeared above the cliffs that sheltered the bay from the ocean. James Bishop rowed the dory towards the others fishing in the middle of the calm waters. His brother Peter fussed with their gear, a cigarette hanging from his cracked lips.
James tucked away the oars when they arrived at their usual spot. Peter heaved the killick overboard, pulled in the excess rope and tied them off.
The men tossed their baited lines over the side and began jigging for cod. Each man snapped his line sharply up and then released; the hemp fibres were drawn through their callused fingers. The morning’s tranquility was broken each time a cod was caught by a neighbouring boat.
The Bishops had had no luck and fished in silence. Peter stared at their empty wicker basket and finally spoke. “We haven’t told anybody yet…Betty’s expecting again.”
“That’s wonderful news!” James said, slapping his brother on the back.
“Well, that’s the thing. We can barely manage now with the dozen youngsters we got. We don’t need another mouth to feed.”
The men continued fishing; awkward silence filled the gap between them. “What do you want to do?” James finally said.
Peter continued jigging the line, his brow furrowed in thought. “Sure, Betty will do whatever I say. I’ve heard talk of a woman in town, who takes care of such matters.”
“But that’s…it’s a mortal sin! If Father Donovan knew—“
“But he’ll never hear of the matter then, will he?” Peter shouted, staring at his brother. His attention was drawn back to fishing when a sudden tug pulled the line through his fingers. He tightened his grip and pulled in, hand over hand, stowing the excess line behind him.
Peter hoisted his catch into the boat. He gasped and stumbled back, rocking the dory. A dark, eel-like fish lay on the wooden floor with the large hook lodged firmly in one of its gills. The creature had neither eyes nor mouth and did not have scales but smooth, dark skin.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. What the hell’s that?” James whispered.
Peter stared wide-eyed at his fish; its six gills along each side opened and closed in unison. The creature began to moan loudly, drawing stares from the closer boats as thick, black liquid oozed from the evil slashes. “Toss that bloody thing overboard. Do it now, by God!” James said.
Peter held the writhing serpent down with his left hand and tried to pry the hook from its gill. He tugged the jigger sharply and wrenched it free causing the creature to wail pitifully. Peter clamped the monstrosity between his hands and cast it overboard. He wiped his bloody hands on his oilskin pants and clamped his palms to either side of his ashen face.
James whispered a prayer and crossed himself. Peter crossed himself too, leaving vertical and horizontal blood smears on his wool sweater. The men wordlessly pulled up the killick and rowed back to the sunlit shore.
Seaside Fiction Contest - Honourable Mention - Jodi MacArthur
Jodi takes on all things bizarre and brutal. When she isn't in her cave working on her novel, she's turning out creepy flash fiction like this. You can catch up on some of her macabre pieces here.
Riptide
A black tide sweeps up the shore. It represents our love, the way it lunges in waves, leaving innards of the ocean on white sand.
My squeezed fists relax. I breathe in, then out. In the ocean, there are beautiful creatures, colors of the rainbow in fins and graceful encounters. There are also dangers. Sharp teeth one doesn’t always see-- until it’s too late.
It is time.
I stand and brush the sand from my hands. I pick up Jeremy’s feet and drag him through the sand. I drag him until the sea licks my thighs and his body floats.
He had always ignored the warning signs of riptides. Everyone knew this. I withdraw my pocketknife and throw it into the hungry waves. There are sharks in the ocean. Sharks hurt you. They kill you.
Jeremy’s pale body surges on midnight fluid, beautiful in its wake.
People say there is no such thing as black and white, only the in between gray. But I know.
I know.
Riptide
A black tide sweeps up the shore. It represents our love, the way it lunges in waves, leaving innards of the ocean on white sand.
My squeezed fists relax. I breathe in, then out. In the ocean, there are beautiful creatures, colors of the rainbow in fins and graceful encounters. There are also dangers. Sharp teeth one doesn’t always see-- until it’s too late.
It is time.
I stand and brush the sand from my hands. I pick up Jeremy’s feet and drag him through the sand. I drag him until the sea licks my thighs and his body floats.
He had always ignored the warning signs of riptides. Everyone knew this. I withdraw my pocketknife and throw it into the hungry waves. There are sharks in the ocean. Sharks hurt you. They kill you.
Jeremy’s pale body surges on midnight fluid, beautiful in its wake.
People say there is no such thing as black and white, only the in between gray. But I know.
I know.
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Seaside Contest 2nd Runner Up - Cathy Olliffe
Cathy Olliffe's tale of a young girl held hostage by romantic notions tugged at my heart strings and filled my imagination with stark images of rocky shores. This woman can turn a phrase like nobody's business. Check out more of Cathy's fiction on her blog, Life on the Muskoka River.
Plain Charlene
Charlene’s maritime heart was breaking like waves on the rocky shore.
But wasn’t it exquisite.
To be this melancholy, oh, the Wuthering Heights of it all.
She felt so dramatic.
Standing on the lonely pier, leaning into a chill October wind, scarf billowing against her ruddy acne-scarred cheeks, nose swollen from repeated clearings, thankfully unable to see her outward countenance, she was convinced she was Catherine Earnshaw or Emma Bovary, or anyone, practically, except plain Charlene Larade of Chéticamp, Cape Breton.
Plain Charlene, who lived in a yellow house that leaned into the wind much like Charlene herself.
Charlene was pining, more withering than wuthering, over her boyfriend, Robert Aucoin, who had gone off to university an entire month ago.
He was gone to Ontario, which might as well have been on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
She wondered: what was he doing now, right now. Was he thinking of her? Was he pining as she was pining? Was he counting the very days until Christmas, when he would land out of her fevered imaginings and back into her life?
And what would he think of Charlene, when he returned.
Would he beg her forgiveness?
Would he notice the difference in her?
How grown up she was?
Surely he would notice the swell of her belly, rising and sure as the tide.
He would notice, and he would sweep her off to Toronto with him, where they would live in a house that didn’t lean and there would be no endless expanse of salt-flecked blue. No rocky shores, just green grass and tidy yards and neighbours who wouldn’t know anything about Plain Charlene, a 13-year-old girl with a head full of romantic notions and a harsh dose of reality growing in her gut.
Plain Charlene
Charlene’s maritime heart was breaking like waves on the rocky shore.
But wasn’t it exquisite.
To be this melancholy, oh, the Wuthering Heights of it all.
She felt so dramatic.
Standing on the lonely pier, leaning into a chill October wind, scarf billowing against her ruddy acne-scarred cheeks, nose swollen from repeated clearings, thankfully unable to see her outward countenance, she was convinced she was Catherine Earnshaw or Emma Bovary, or anyone, practically, except plain Charlene Larade of Chéticamp, Cape Breton.
Plain Charlene, who lived in a yellow house that leaned into the wind much like Charlene herself.
Charlene was pining, more withering than wuthering, over her boyfriend, Robert Aucoin, who had gone off to university an entire month ago.
He was gone to Ontario, which might as well have been on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
She wondered: what was he doing now, right now. Was he thinking of her? Was he pining as she was pining? Was he counting the very days until Christmas, when he would land out of her fevered imaginings and back into her life?
And what would he think of Charlene, when he returned.
Would he beg her forgiveness?
Would he notice the difference in her?
How grown up she was?
Surely he would notice the swell of her belly, rising and sure as the tide.
He would notice, and he would sweep her off to Toronto with him, where they would live in a house that didn’t lean and there would be no endless expanse of salt-flecked blue. No rocky shores, just green grass and tidy yards and neighbours who wouldn’t know anything about Plain Charlene, a 13-year-old girl with a head full of romantic notions and a harsh dose of reality growing in her gut.
Monday, May 03, 2010
Seaside Contest 1st Runner Up - Michael Solender
Michael Solender's entry reminded me of the ghost stories we would tell as kids. Poetic and sorrowful, this tale is sure to give you shivers.
You can read more of Michael's fiction at Not from here, are you?, a blog that has taken on a community of faithful followers, otherwise known as NOTheads.
Forlorn Cries of Fiona Feraghty
Soft and plaintive, Fiona’s cry was more insistent in death than it had ever been in life. Her pleas from our past were yesterday’s icy breezes embracing my soul.
Seventeen winters followed seventeen autumns since I last held her close to my bosom. She left me, despondent and worried that she’d not be able to care for our unborn child. Her mother had taken her life when Fiona was just an infant. Fiona vowed to be childless, lest her own child experience the same fate.
Her cries during the daytime are easy enough for me to ignore. The faint implorations are drowned out by brilliant sunlight that accompanies me and my nets. When the cries come, I choose to hear only gulls and the breakers, pounding at high tide like rhythmic tympanis taking commands from an unseen percussionist.
It is at night though when I am vulnerable to her insistence. The ink-black sheen of the roiling sea recedes with the pull of the moon. The pull that draws me from our tiny seaside cottage promised Fiona’s love in the curl of the waves. Her nightly siren offers escape and reprieve. We can be one again, if only I’d join her.
She is right there each sundown, her singing voice, love’s melody in my ears. It teased offering remembrance.
Cold waters are warming
my cares are assuaged
our hearts full with lost love
your seed grows within
brine is elixir
life begins anew
join me my love
we’ll be one, once again!
That last night she smelled like salt, warmly pressing on my pelvis, our hair entwined in a single braid. She spoke of what was to come, a time ahead without each other, she’d just learned what our coupling produced and it troubled her so.
“No my darling”, I spoke in a whisper, “that fate will not befall you.”
Then I was lost into the sleep that came with contentment. Upon awakening I found she had gone. Her tracks led to the ocean where she has never since emerged. All I have now is the memory of our future in the briny mist off the evening break.
Tonight I’ll finally join her. Cold water is calling.
You can read more of Michael's fiction at Not from here, are you?, a blog that has taken on a community of faithful followers, otherwise known as NOTheads.
Forlorn Cries of Fiona Feraghty
Soft and plaintive, Fiona’s cry was more insistent in death than it had ever been in life. Her pleas from our past were yesterday’s icy breezes embracing my soul.
Seventeen winters followed seventeen autumns since I last held her close to my bosom. She left me, despondent and worried that she’d not be able to care for our unborn child. Her mother had taken her life when Fiona was just an infant. Fiona vowed to be childless, lest her own child experience the same fate.
Her cries during the daytime are easy enough for me to ignore. The faint implorations are drowned out by brilliant sunlight that accompanies me and my nets. When the cries come, I choose to hear only gulls and the breakers, pounding at high tide like rhythmic tympanis taking commands from an unseen percussionist.
It is at night though when I am vulnerable to her insistence. The ink-black sheen of the roiling sea recedes with the pull of the moon. The pull that draws me from our tiny seaside cottage promised Fiona’s love in the curl of the waves. Her nightly siren offers escape and reprieve. We can be one again, if only I’d join her.
She is right there each sundown, her singing voice, love’s melody in my ears. It teased offering remembrance.
Cold waters are warming
my cares are assuaged
our hearts full with lost love
your seed grows within
brine is elixir
life begins anew
join me my love
we’ll be one, once again!
That last night she smelled like salt, warmly pressing on my pelvis, our hair entwined in a single braid. She spoke of what was to come, a time ahead without each other, she’d just learned what our coupling produced and it troubled her so.
“No my darling”, I spoke in a whisper, “that fate will not befall you.”
Then I was lost into the sleep that came with contentment. Upon awakening I found she had gone. Her tracks led to the ocean where she has never since emerged. All I have now is the memory of our future in the briny mist off the evening break.
Tonight I’ll finally join her. Cold water is calling.
Seaside Contest Grand Prize Winner - Lily Mulholland
My first experience with Lily's writing was through #fridayflash. Her stories were solid, well written, always entertaining. Her entry for this challenge really made me sit up and take notice, not only for the depth of feeling woven into the tale, but also for the style. For more of Lily's fiction, check out her blog Ten Seconds a Day.
Across the Ocean
Love waits for me across the ocean, abandoned more than once. Once I promised her there would be no more voyages, I would turn my hands to farming instead. Instead I sailed away from her. Her fidelity undiminished despite this broken pledge, she waits for me, a beacon to guide me back to land. Land is now but a memory, adrift I have been on these seas, a compass without a map, a star without a night’s sky for weeks, nay, months.
Months slip away until I know not when I last saw my heart, alone, waving from the headland as my boat left the bay and entered the turgid seas, black as the clouds that hovered above, threatening to engulf her where she stood, with an arm raised in farewell.
‘Farewell, my husband,’ she said to me that morning, tears sparkling in her eyes the way sunlight shimmers upon dappled waves. Waves of regret assailed me, forcing me to my knees to encircle her waist with my arms, to bury my head in her burgeoning belly, fecund and full with my child. Child of mine I am yet to see, to smell, to hold. Hold on to the thought of me, for I shall return to claim you as my own, teach you what I have learnt of the world, guide you through the narrow straits of life, give you the father you have met only in your dreams.
Dreams guide me across the water, filling the wind-whipped canvas with snatched images, ballast to the torment in my mind. Mind tricks prey on the unsuspecting sailor, visions of death drive out the living. Living day to day, I mark notches in my soul, chipping away piece by piece the nourishing memories that sustain me until the day the ocean is behind me and I can return to my waiting love.
~~~
My love dies a little every day I am left unprotected on these untrustworthy shores. Shores bearing witness to many a ruined marriage, a coast of familial shipwrecks, teeming with cunning and hidden shoals.
Shoals of abandoned wives swim through town as one, pitying and despising each other in equal part, united in their simmering rage, forsaken once again. Again I join these widow crews, helping where there is need. Need I see firsthand the pain that is coming when alone I birth this child of yours? ‘Yours’ is what he is – I can sense the wanderlust, the way he pummels me from the inside out, demanding to be freed. Freedom is what you guard so jealously, as you scud across the ocean. Oceans of gold, onyx, sapphire and jade you will never let me see.
See the way they swallow you. You drown each night in my sleep. Sleep brings no rest, choking me with terror. Terror that my love will die.
Across the Ocean
Love waits for me across the ocean, abandoned more than once. Once I promised her there would be no more voyages, I would turn my hands to farming instead. Instead I sailed away from her. Her fidelity undiminished despite this broken pledge, she waits for me, a beacon to guide me back to land. Land is now but a memory, adrift I have been on these seas, a compass without a map, a star without a night’s sky for weeks, nay, months.
Months slip away until I know not when I last saw my heart, alone, waving from the headland as my boat left the bay and entered the turgid seas, black as the clouds that hovered above, threatening to engulf her where she stood, with an arm raised in farewell.
‘Farewell, my husband,’ she said to me that morning, tears sparkling in her eyes the way sunlight shimmers upon dappled waves. Waves of regret assailed me, forcing me to my knees to encircle her waist with my arms, to bury my head in her burgeoning belly, fecund and full with my child. Child of mine I am yet to see, to smell, to hold. Hold on to the thought of me, for I shall return to claim you as my own, teach you what I have learnt of the world, guide you through the narrow straits of life, give you the father you have met only in your dreams.
Dreams guide me across the water, filling the wind-whipped canvas with snatched images, ballast to the torment in my mind. Mind tricks prey on the unsuspecting sailor, visions of death drive out the living. Living day to day, I mark notches in my soul, chipping away piece by piece the nourishing memories that sustain me until the day the ocean is behind me and I can return to my waiting love.
~~~
My love dies a little every day I am left unprotected on these untrustworthy shores. Shores bearing witness to many a ruined marriage, a coast of familial shipwrecks, teeming with cunning and hidden shoals.
Shoals of abandoned wives swim through town as one, pitying and despising each other in equal part, united in their simmering rage, forsaken once again. Again I join these widow crews, helping where there is need. Need I see firsthand the pain that is coming when alone I birth this child of yours? ‘Yours’ is what he is – I can sense the wanderlust, the way he pummels me from the inside out, demanding to be freed. Freedom is what you guard so jealously, as you scud across the ocean. Oceans of gold, onyx, sapphire and jade you will never let me see.
See the way they swallow you. You drown each night in my sleep. Sleep brings no rest, choking me with terror. Terror that my love will die.
Saturday, May 01, 2010
Prose @ Negative Suck
My story, Prose, has a spot in this month's Negative Suck. You can read it here. It's a departure from my usual stuff. I was trying to say something. I hope that comes across. I've forgotten what it was myself.
Thanks to wiredwriter for thinking it didn't suck.
Also, if you haven't read Jodi MacArthur's Spindled Souls now's your chance. Click the Something You Should Read pen on the right of the screen to check it out.
Thanks to wiredwriter for thinking it didn't suck.
Also, if you haven't read Jodi MacArthur's Spindled Souls now's your chance. Click the Something You Should Read pen on the right of the screen to check it out.
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