Calling Shotgun

Yeah? Well, I Don't Believe in Gravity

2012-01-27T10:36:00.000-03:30

I love hanging out at my friendly neighbourhood coffee shop. I overhear all kinds of interesting things. This past week I overheard a conversation that made my brain hurt, and I think my heart broke a little.

A group of young people behind me were talking about things they had read on Facebook and Twitter. One of the group said that she didn't like Facebook because the grammar and spelling mistakes drove her crazy.

This started a spirited discussion about whether proper spelling, punctuation, and grammar were necessary in a social networking environment. Some didn't mind computer speak, some hated it. Some thought improper grammar looked really bad, others thought a spelling mistake or two was no big deal.

Then one girl spoke up, louder than all the rest. Her declaration, bless her heart, was this: I don't believe in grammar.

Her opinion was that she didn't want to spend ten minutes (!) making sure her status update had correct spelling and grammar when she could do it in ten seconds and everyone would know what she was trying to say anyway. It didn't matter if everything was proper. Good grammar isn't important in social media.

I have to disagree. Vehemently. Sure, a spelling mistake or two might slip by. Nobody is perfect. Still, I like to think one would want to put some care into what goes out there for the world to see. Maybe I'm in the minority. I know there are many people who share this girl's view. It saddens me at how often I read statements like this:

Pick me up on you're way to there house.

Ouch. And despite what you might think, it isn't just your close friends that see this. It's your colleagues, teachers, and potential employers. People will figure it out is a poor viewpoint. They will figure it out, but it doesn't do you any favours. At best you appear lazy, at worst ignorant. Taking the extra time (much less than ten minutes) to make sure that what you post makes sense is a much better choice.

I can say I don't believe in gravity all I want, but that's not going to help if I try to walk off a cliff. Like gravity, grammar exists, whether you believe in it or not. And also like gravity, if you try to ignore it, people will think you're an idiot.

Things I've Learned: Writing Dialect or Accent

2012-01-24T10:52:00.001-03:30

In my current WIP there are two distinct dialects. The story is based in outport Newfoundland, where we have a language all our own. The other belongs to my male protagonist, who is from Dublin. Luckily, many of the trickier parts of the dialect are shared. The question is just how much of this lingual diversity should be shared with the reader.

I hate reading dialogue that has the accent written phonetically. The effort it takes to figure out what the characters are saying isn't worth what the writer is trying to do. Even without the accent, the dialect can be a bit much. For example, let's take this short conversation:

"If you keep it up, you'll end up back in a cell."
"I don't think that will happen."

In Newfoundland, it might sound more like this:

"You'll wind up back in the Pen next thing."
"Oh yes, B'y. I'm sure to."

For a non-native Newfoundlander (say that 5 times fast) a whole novel written in such language would be a tough read. So while the dialect can add colour and help create authentic characters, it can also take the reader completely out of the story if it is over done.

Here's where the problem arises. If my character is from a small community in Newfoundland, she obviously isn't going to speak like someone from big city Alberta. The dialect is, I like to think, part of our charm here, and I really want it to come through in the story. So how to put it on the page?

I'm depending on speech patterns, rhythm, and an idiom or two to establish dialect. For this WIP, the language is easy because I just have to think about how I would naturally say something, as opposed to how I would normally write it.

Newfoundland grammar in its spoken form is unique. A quick example would be our tendency to be after doing something. While you may have just spilled a glass of water, I'm after spilling milk all over the floor.

I can also toss in some often used words or phrases. We like to tack sure onto our statements, for emphasis. (I never took the car, sure), or add b'y like other people would add man or mate (Move out of the way, b'y).

So that's what I learned this week. By adding these twists of grammar I can make my characters sound authentic without adding all those annoying pronunciations. With the right descriptions, and the methods mentioned above, I'm hoping the reader can get a really good feel for the characters and setting.

How do you feel about writing or reading accent and dialect?

Poe's Parlour

2012-01-19T08:32:00.000-03:30

My room, the space that is mine
is dark and dour, yet inspiration rises
from the shadows on the floor

The things that are walled up in my mind
scream and beg to be set free
and with my pen I free them.

The heart that beats beneath my floor,
louder now, and louder again,
pleads to know passion,
and with my words I comply.

The knock upon my chamber door asks me to see
things beyond this dreary space
and with my mind and my heart I create them.

These elements unite –
screaming, pleading, beating, rising.
The tintinnabulation wells
and fills my lonesome room.

With this culmination,
my soul is excited to tears
that fall upon the page.
--------------------

This was written after a marathon of Poe reading. I tried to incorporate several of his works and quotes, and capture his thoughts (as well as mine) on writing. I'm sharing it here in observance of his birthday (January 19, 1809).

Winter Reading

2012-01-17T15:10:00.000-03:30

I just found out that Calling Shotgun has made it to the second and final round of the Canadian Weblog Awards (not to be confused with the Canadian Blog Awards). The winning blogs are selected by a panel of forty-six jury members, and based on ten specific criteria. I'm tickled that Calling Shotgun made the shortlist in the Best Weblog about Writing and Literature category, and a huge thanks to the jury that liked it here. I've spent the last few days browsing through the categories and nominees and I have come to the conclusion that there are some fine, interesting people in this country. If you're looking for a great way to kill some time, you could do worse than browsing through this list of blogs.

Also on the good news front, Newfoundland and Labrador Public Libraries have finally launched an eLibrary, which is good news for everyone who got a Kindle or Kobo for Christmas. Now you can browse the catalogue, borrow a book, and have it returned without ever leaving your home. All you need is a valid library card. This is a service will be welcome in the coming winter months.

Happy reading.

Decisions

2012-01-16T08:41:00.000-03:30

Things I've Learned: Building Character

2012-01-14T11:36:00.000-03:30

I can count on one hand the number of times I've put aside a book unfinished, most often because I didn't like the characters. I didn't care if they saved the day, or ended the world, or found love. I didn't care if they lived or died. And if I didn't care, what was the point in reading on?

A character needs more than a name and a look. You can describe the his determined jaw, or her flashing eyes all you want, but it doesn't really tell me anything about them. I like to get to know my characters on a personal level, and so when I'm writing, I come up with a whole list of vital stats for each one: name, physical description, family situation, background information, where they grew up and went to school. I give them goals and motivation to meet those goals.

I also like to give my characters little quirks. Most people have them in real life. Maybe she likes to walk everywhere barefoot. Maybe he scratches his ear when he gets nervous. Even the small details help to make rich, full characters.

Sometimes, even that's not enough. Take my latest WIP for example. My male protagonist is okay. He's a nice guy. I like him...but I don't love him. Who knew that being good looking and Irish wasn't enough? It's worked for me all these years (haha!)

My protagonist isn't cardboard. He walks and talks, but I want him to sing, and dance, and write sonnets. I want him to grab the reader and say, "I'm more than words on a page. I'm a man! Love me, Dammit!" I was having a really hard time getting him to co-operate.

My problem was that I really didn't know him well enough, so I sat down and started to write a sort of synopsis from his point of view. It's the first time I've done this and it worked brilliantly. Not only did I get to know him, but through the writing, themes and motivations that I hadn't considered started to emerge. Not only was I enriching my character, I was enriching the story.

So now I've decided to do this with all my characters, even the secondary players. Someone said once (it was probably Stephen King, he's always saying stuff) that there are no supporting characters in real life, that everyone is the star of their own story, and so it should be with fiction.

That's what I learned this week, that sometimes it takes a little extra effort to get to know the characters, but the end result is well worth it. After all, if I don't care about them, the reader won't care either.

Know any tricks to getting your characters just right? Pass them along in the comments.

Gratuitous Look at Me Post

2012-01-12T08:52:00.000-03:30

Hey! Over here! Over here! Look! Look at meeee!

I haven't really done anything to warrant all this attention. I'm like a kid who begs 'watch this, watch me, watch, watch this, are you watching?' and then follows up with 'wait, I'm not ready.' But even though I haven't done anything, there's stuff happening anyway.

First, let me point you toward the Canadian Blog Awards page. Yes, those things are still going on. Calling Shotgun has made the second round in two categories: Best Blog Post and Best Culture and Literature Blog. Second round voting ends on January 20th. I'd love it if you could stop by and show me some love. You should also check out the other nominees because there are some great blogs there.

A big thanks to the person who nominated Calling Shotgun, and thank you to everyone who has already voted for us. (I always say us, even though it's just me here by my lonesome. I like to sound like a team. And there's no I in team.)

Secondly, let me direct you to Life on the Muskoka River, one of my very favourite places owned and operated by one of my very favourite people. Cathy Olliffe-Webster has come up with the best idea - Letter from a Friend. She is posting a series of letters from friends, written the way one would write before email made us all lazy. I thought this was such a brilliant and beautiful idea, and I was thrilled when she asked me to take part. Who doesn't love to get an actual letter in the mail?

You can read my letter today, along with all the nice things Cathy said about me that I don't deserve. But that's the kind of person Cathy is - the kind that makes you glad to be her friend. Make sure you keep watch for the other letters. I can't wait to read them all.

So that's it. I hope you all enjoy your day, and I hope it's warmer where you are than it is here. Thanks for coming by.

You can stop looking at me now.

Stepping Outside My Comfort Zone

2012-01-09T09:38:00.000-03:30

A shocking thing happened to me last week. Inspiration struck, and it struck hard. Never has an idea come to me so fully formed. Everything fell perfectly into place as I jotted down timelines and outlines and character sketches. Then I started writing what I initially thought would be a short story. By the time I reached 4000 words I gave in and wrote Chapter 1 on the top of the first page.

The shocking part? It's a romance.

My husband will be the first to tell you that I don't have a romantic bone in my body, and my stories usually reflect that. I write about the darker side of human nature, not the soft side. I'm more comfortable with psychological torture than sweet nothings.

How this idea came to me is a mystery. Maybe it's nature's way of telling me I have to step into the light for a little while. It's strange and kind of uncomfortable because I'm out of my element here. But you know what? It's great. I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm having a whole lot of fun doing it. I can't remember the last time I was this excited about writing.

It really shouldn't come as a surprise. Exploring the unknown is one of the best things about writing. I know as much about the meet cute* as I know about body disposal, which is to say I knew nothing until I needed to write about it. Now I can match-make and dispose of people until the cows come home.

The unsettling thing about writing in a genre that is unfamilar is wondering if I'm doing it right. I don't know the rules, or the formula (because apparently there is one). I don't know what's been done and what hasn't.

On the flip side of that, I don't know the rules, and that can be a good thing. I'm not writing this in the hopes of become a bestselling romance author. I'm writing it because right now, in this moment, it makes me happy. It's a story begging to be given a chance, and I owe it that much.

So I'm going to enjoy this little side trip outside my comfort zone and give it my best shot. But if anyone catches me strolling down the street humming Barry Manilow tunes, please take me aside and give me a stern talking to.

* Meet Cute: I just found out about this term which means a contrived encounter of two romantic partners in unusual or comic circumstances. Huh.

A Year in the Passenger Seat

2012-01-02T17:08:00.000-03:30

This was meant to be a New Year's Eve post, but we lost our Internet connection in the early evening. When Hubby called about it, he was informed that most of Atlantic Canada was down, as was some of Ontario. That sent him running to his phone to make there was no global catastrophe, and me running to the calendar to make sure that it wasn't 1999.

2011 was a great year for us here at Calling Shotgun (and by us I mean me). Here's a quick run-down of a year in the passenger seat:

Out with the old Brain Droppings and in with the new, improved Calling Shotgun.
With your help we raised almost $5000 for YACC and I was shorn like a sheep.
Six Stories published (more impressive when you know that I only wrote and submitted eight).
Travel around the province and beyond, prompting the creation of Writing Home and Writing Away
A successful run of the Lost on the Rock Short Story Contest with my pal Alan Davidson.
A close-to-full month of poetry in April
Several blog award nominations (fingers crossed)

Books

These are some of the books I've read over the past year that have stayed with me. I enjoyed them, you might too.

Come Thou Tortoise by Jessica Grant (Canadian, Literary)
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro (Literary)
A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin (Fantasy)
The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt (Canadian, Literary)
Round Ireland with a Fridge by Tony Hawks (Travel, Humour)

Blogs

This list includes some old favourites and some newly discovered blogs, destined to become old favourites. There are so many more I enjoy. For more bloggy goodness, check out my blog roll to the right of the page.

Life on the Muskoka River - I cannot express ow much I love this blog. Always fun, always honest, always a joy to read. Cathy Webster is the Canadian Blog Queen. A blog for anyone who enjoys good writing, insight that is uniquely Canadian, and a healthy dose of potty humour.

Conversations From Land's Edge - Authored by my good buddy and fellow Newfoundlander Alan Davidson. He ponders the oddities of life, gives his unique perspective on current events, and shows off his writing chops. Always funny and insightful, Mr. Davidson's blog is well worth a visit.

Alice in Paris Loves Art and Tea - A blog for those who enjoy the finer things in life. You'll find lots about Paris and art and tea, and so many other wonderful things (including some beautiful photos). Don't let the title fool you; although it is as classy as the French capital, this blog oozes Atlantic Canadian charm.

Island Girl - Another fellow islander, and this one is extremely proud of her roots, celebrating them as she travels the globe, takes amazing photos, and grabs life by the tail. She always has something interesting to say.

bluetruedream - One thousand days of graces as noted by my good friend Linda (of leftbrainwrite fame). A lovely reminder of the important little things.

A Year of Words

My plans for 2012 include reading at least as many books as I did this year, including some classics that have been collecting dust on my shelf. Thanks to John Wiswell for the push in that direction.

On the writing front, there are a few short stories that I really need to get done, and a novella I hope to complete without too much pain and procrastination. I'll be taking part in Write 1 Sub 1 on a monthly basis because sometimes I need the threat of deadline to get me moving.

Whatever your plans for the new year, here's wishing you a very happy, fulfilling, and successful 2012.

Home for the Holidays

2011-12-29T13:00:00.000-03:30

This was the most beautiful Christmas I can remember. Clear, crisp winter days and calm, frosty nights. A perfect holiday at home. The view of the snow on the Butterpots is just breathtaking.

In between the turkey, gifts, and mummers visits, we had some time to enjoy the wonderful winter weather, and then I hid away to write about it. You can visit Writing Home to read about our day on the pond.

I hope you enjoyed your holidays, and I wish you all a very happy and prosperous new year.

Merry and Bright

2011-12-24T09:30:00.000-03:30

Originally published December 23, 2010

Dad was always the first one up on those cold winter mornings. He lit the wood stove and the lanterns so that the house would warm and no one would fall down the stairs in the dark. By the time the youngest ones climbed out of bed he had breakfast made, a pot of porridge big enough to feed a family of eleven.

Mom made the tea from loose leaves, steeping it until it was good and strong. She folded the empty foil tea package and placed it into the drawer.

“Another one for the collection, Willie.” She said.

Dad nodded and sipped his tea from the saucer.

Mom started clearing the dishes from the table, and that was our cue to hurry on. Concentrating on our tasks was more difficult with Christmas only a few days away. I could hardly sleep, thinking about Christmas morning. We'd come down over the stairs to see our socks hung in the kitchen, all lumpy with apples and oranges and other treats. Focusing on chores was near impossible, wondering what Santa would bring. This year I hoped to get a new doll, one of my very own. I had one that used to be Kathleen’s, but the arm kept falling off, and there was a bare patch on the head where Nancy tried to give her a haircut.

Still, Christmas or not, there was work to be done. The chickens and sheep needed to be fed, the floors needed washing and so did the clothes. I was sweeping out the inside porch when Dad came in, his eyes sparkling. He held a big piece of tin, probably left over from someone’s roof. Dad had been collecting little shiny bits for weeks and was stashing them in his workshop. He never spoke of it, and when anyone asked about it, he just pretended not to hear, but we all knew he was down there working on something big.

The workshop was the most organized place in the house. Nestled in the basement, it was Dad’s own little corner of the house. It was cluttered and smelled of sawdust and was full of interesting bits and pieces.

I never went into the workshop while Dad was working. His thoughts were like marbles in a pouch, beautiful and bright, best kept gathered close. With the slightest nudge that pouch would fall open and the thoughts would scatter. It took him a long time to gather them again.

I would sit quietly outside the room with my back against the door frame and listen to him work. I knew each of the tools by sound: the gentle whir of the hand drill, the shush of the plane, the musical zip and warble of the saw. Dad moved from one workbench to another, tutting and murmuring to himself.

Sometimes he would invite me in to look at his projects. He would let me drill holes in scrap wood, or collect the shavings into the wood box. But these last few days the workshop door was kept firmly closed. I could hear the gentle tap tap of the little hammer, and Dad humming as he worked, but nothing more.

The rest of us were kept busy with Christmas preparations. Mom was in the kitchen night and day, cooking and baking. That left the cleaning up to the rest of us. The boys spent their time outdoors, cutting and stacking the wood. Dad spent every moment he could spare in the workshop.

Two days before Christmas, Dad went off into the woods to find our tree. He left just as the sun rose and returned within an hour with the first offering. He called to Mom and she came out to the porch, flipping the dish towel up onto her shoulder. She sized up the tree, and then put her hands on her hips.

“It’s shockin’ scrawny, isn’t it?”

Dad said nothing. He put the tree to the side of the house and went off again to find another one. This went ahead every year. Dad would find a tree and bring it back for Mom’s approval. It usually took three or four attempts before Mom decided she liked the first one best. Dad would then strip some boughs from the others before putting them on the wood pile. He bored holes in the trunk of the Christmas tree and inserted the extra boughs to fill it out.

On Christmas Eve morning, after breakfast was done, we sat at the kitchen table with scraps of paper saved up over the year. Some we folded into star shapes, others were cut into snowflakes. Mom and the older girls threaded string through them so that they could be hung on the tree. Dad, who headed to the workshop directly after breakfast, returned with a small box full of wooden stars. He dumped them onto the table and then went to the kitchen drawer and took out the stack of empty tea packages. With great care, he showed us how to cover the stars with the wrappers so that the silvery lining made them shine. We were thrilled with our new decorations. This year our tree would be the most beautiful.

That afternoon, Dad and the boys put up the tree. It was lovely, and smelled so sweet. We took out our decorations, most made of wood or paper. There were a few glass ornaments that were very special. Only Mom was allowed to handle them. We were too little, she said, and the boys were too careless. And of course we had our shiny new silver stars to hang on the tree.

It was getting dark as we finished, and Mom lit a few lanterns so that we could admire our work. It was a beautiful tree, perhaps our best ever.

Dad returned from his workshop and placed the box he was carrying on the floor. It was full of little tin ornaments. There were stars and snowflakes and wreaths. Some of the smaller pieces were cut into circles and strung together like little rain drops. Each one had been polished to perfection. We squealed with delight as we hung the new decorations.

Dad stood back and watched. When we were done he sized it up from all angles, hummed and tutted, and shook his head. He stomped off to his workshop again, and returned with his flashlight. Down on his belly, he wiggled under the tree and fit the flashlight so that it pointed up through the branches. Then, he switched it on.

The beam from the flashlight caught every one of those shiny tin ornaments. The tree sparkled and shone. No one said anything. We all just stood, staring at our glistening tree. It looked to us like someone had gathered the night stars and scattered them on every bough. Dad had done that for us.

I don’t remember if I got my doll that year, or what my stocking held on Christmas morning. The things you think are special and important aren’t always so. Those things fade away with time, but the truly important things, they stay.

All I remember about that Christmas is that magical tree, and the love of the man who made it happen.

-----

Hoping your Holiday Season is Merry and Bright.

Laurita xo

Tree of Stories

2011-12-21T11:02:00.001-03:30

My oldest daughter came home last week, telling about the beautiful Christmas tree her friend has. It was just like a designer tree, she said, all gold and silver ornaments and ribbon. They have a different tree every year. "But I still like our tree better," she said. "We have a tree of stories."

That is a perfect description of what we have. Our tree is a sight to behold, alright. It's a merry mish-mash of colours and styles. I don't know if we have any two ornaments alike, but the ones we do have are special, and every one of them has a story.

There are several Popsicle stick creations, lovingly assembled by all three kids in their time. My favourites are the triangle reindeer, and the rickety, lopsided Christmas tree (at least I think it's a Christmas tree). There are a few paper snowflakes, and one lumpy cotton ball thingy that may have been a snowman at one time.

Some ornaments are hand me downs from the grandparents, decorations hubby and I scrounged for our first Christmases. There are crocheted snowflakes and plastic canvas doodads from Jonathan's side. I saved some tiny golden bells. There's also the one pink ornament, broken and repaired and broken again, salvaged from the infamous "Dusty Rose Christmas".

We have "Baby's First Christmas" 1994, 2000, 2005. There are ornaments collected from all our travels: New York, Ireland, Scotland, France, England, Norway, and many more given to us by family. There is big Mickey Mouse eared decoration that our daughter bought on a choir trip to Disney World.

The most special are the things that aren't really ornaments at all. Three pairs of baby shoes from each of our kids, and one little boot that belonged to hubby. The pacifier that our son just wouldn't give up. Some tiny Christmas teddy bears. An old key our youngest likes to call Santa's Magic Key. Special pictures of our family. This year I'm adding a fork and spoon that belonged to Jonathan as a child.

The kids do the bulk of tree decorating. It's fun to see them re-discover the treasures every year, finding their favourites, laughing about when they made this one or that one. It is a tree of remember whens, a tree about family, a tree of stories. And that is the best kind.

Bird Seed

2011-12-14T09:09:00.000-03:30

I found the package under the stairs. It was large and heavyand marked plainly with big black letters: Bird Seed. I took someupstairs and spread them carefully across the backyard,tiny specks of yellow and brown mixed with kernels of white and oily black.

A sprinkling of snow covered my seeds overnight. I was sodisappointed, sure they were ruined. But that morning the ground was covered with dozens of tinyjuncos, chickadees and snow buntings. Bird seed worked quickly. This was betterthan magic beans.

Birds are a difficult crop to harvest. As soon as Iopened the door they skittered and took flight, a flume of small dark shadows, tinywings silhouetted against the morning sky. They called back to me, a chorus of cheeps and chirps as they said their goodbyes.

They were the most beautiful things I’d ever grown.

Have Yourself a Scary Little Christmas

2011-12-05T09:33:00.000-03:30

You can't escape it now; the Christmas season is in full swing. Once December hits, it's tinsel and fruitcake and holly as far as the eye can see. This is shaping up to be a very different sort of season with a macabre twist, as though Halloween is not quite ready to retract its claws.

I took my dog for a walk on the weekend. We approached what looked like a bundle of rags on the sidewalk. It was actually a stuffed Santa body. Two blocks later we found the head.

That evening my youngest and I were looking at some icicles hanging from the shed. Beautiful, crystal clear, perfectly formed spears of ice. "They look like snowman teeth," she said. Forget sugar plums, what I had dancing in my head that night was visions of carnivorous snowmen with long, sharp, icicle teeth.

Over the past few days, the houses in our neighbourhood have been turning on their Christmas lights. Some are covered in multi-coloured gems, others have a pattern of blue and white, like houses of ice. One neighbour has only red lights, with orange candles in his window casting a glow like the fires of hell. It looks like Christmas at the House of Usher.

It's beginning to look a lot like a very creepy Christmas. I guess I can take some of the blame. My mind does wander to the gruesome and ghastly, though I usually get a reprieve around the holidays. These scary things are just in my imagination, I told myself.

Then the mailman arrived at our door. "There's a lot of blood in the snow next to your house there," he said. Our crazy dog, I explained. She likes to chew on chunks of ice and she cut her mouth. He nodded and walked back to his van, a little faster than usual.

Now the neighbours are giving me funny looks, and I'm resigned to having a very scary Christmas.

Gifts for Readers

2011-11-29T08:53:00.000-03:30

After my last post about gifts for writers, I've had an abundance of people come to me in a snit asking if I'd forgotten about readers. Not at all! I'm an incurable one myself. Here is a list of gifts for the reader on your list.

Books. Duh. You probably already figured that out. But really, is there anything an avid reader likes more than books? Probably not. Not sure what to get? Take a look at his or her bookshelf to give you a starting point - fiction, non-fiction, mystery, romance, horror, adventure, fantasy - a quick browse will help you out. Still not sure? A gift card for a local bookstore would be a great gift too.

Ebook reader. You've probably figured out by now that this ebook fad is not going away any time soon. If your beloved doesn't have an ebook reader, this might be the time to get one. Do your research and find the best one for your needs.

Magazine Subscription. The gift that gives all year long.

Book Light. Really handy little gadget for travelling, or for reading at night without disturbing the person next to you. I like the Really Tiny Book Light (pictured) or the Itty Bitty Slim LED book light that clips to the book spine.

Journal. I said this for writers too. Journals are great for anyone who loves books, and you can get specialty journals especially for book readers that help you to keep track of the books you read and your thoughts about them.

Book Marks. I love book marks. I can never have enough. Even with a Kindle I still have three or four print books going at once. I use a lot of book marks. I also hang them on my Christmas tree. They make good stocking stuffers, or nice little additions to a gift basket.

Book Ends. I added this one because book ends are not something I would ever buy myself, but I would love to have. I have several stacks of books that could use something besides a fern and a shoe to wedge them in place. Most people with a large collection of books would appreciate a nice set of book ends. You can get them to fit any decor.

Book "Stuff". T-shirts with book quotes, tote bags for books, posters, note cards - there is an unending list of things you can get your reader.

Gifts for Writers

2011-11-25T09:31:00.000-03:30

Black Friday is upon us. Yes us. For some reason Canada has adopted this post-Thanksgiving tradition, even though our Thanksgiving is long gone. If you are one of the brave or foolish who will face the hoards today, here are some tips on what to get the writer in your life.

Notebooks or Journals: I don't know a writer that wouldn't get excited over a nice notebook or journal. I have several empty journals sitting in my desk, and I still love getting them. They will never go to waste.

Pens: To go along with that empty book, how about a pen to fill it up? There are so many options. If you want special you can get something expensive and personalized, or a nice old fashioned fountain pen. My personal favourites are not so fancy - the Pilot Precise V5 and the Sharpie fine tip pen (which is a great pen if you are left handed).

Writer's Market: A handy gift for any serious writer. A copy of the current Writer's Market is the gift that keeps on giving.

Typewriter Jewelry: Pendants, rings or bracelets made from vintage typewriter keys are a fun gift, whether it's a letter or some other key (I'm partial to backspace and the question mark myself).

Note cards: I got some blank note cards as a gift a few years ago and I loved them. They had a simple black typewriter on the front and they said "write your own story". I used them for quick personal notes, and for thank yous. A very nice and practical gift.

Voice Recorder: A little on the pricey side, but a good gift. This is a handy little device to have when inspiration strikes.

Survival kit: Throw together a basket or box full of things the writer in your life might need: pens, pencils, index cards and notepads. Then you can add some other essentials like coffee and snacks. Or wine. I know I always write better after I've had a glass or two.

Good luck in your shopping and remember: keep low and move fast.

Writing at Home and Away

2011-11-19T11:25:00.000-03:30

If you are a regular follower if this blog, you may have noticed two new page buttons just under the Calling Shotgun banner. Then again, you may not have. Who am I to judge your skills of perception? These two new mystery buttons are labeled Writing Home and Writing Away. They will take you to a page, which will take you to a link. This link will take you to a whole new page. You will then be required to answer three riddles.

I'm kidding! I'm kidding!

What you will find is that each page contains exactly what the buttons tell you - writing about home (my home that is), and writing about away (as in places other than my home). I've done a fair bit of writing about my lovely island, and I've done an equal amount of writing about being on the road, and the places I've visited. I decided, from idleness more than anything else, that these two topics needed a space of their own. Now they have one. I have a whole backlog of Away stories to finish, and hope to update them very soon.

I hope you'll join me Away. I'd also invite you to come Home with me, but that might get me into trouble. Just stop on by if you happen to be in the neighbourhood.

The Changing Landscape of Publishing?

2011-11-17T16:44:00.004-03:30

This topic is nothing new. It's been it all over the Internet since the dawn of Kindle. The new face of publishing: ebooks. Digital publishing, especially self-publishing, has turned the whole industry on it's head. The end of print has been predicted (not likely). The dawn of a new age of self-published authors has been foreseen (very likely).

So what's a big publishing house to do? Reevaluate their publishing process? Find new ways to adapt to the market? Sure. Or they could just exploit those eager young authors for fun and profit.

Penguin's online genre fiction community, Book Country, has launched a self-publishing service. For only $549, Book Country will edit, format, and publish your book in both print and ebook form. If you plan to edit and format the book yourself, or hire your own professionals (which is wise, since Book Country is way overcharging here) you can still purchase tips for formatting and marketing for $299. Book Country will do the rest, which means they will print and upload your book. These formatting and marketing tips, by the way, can be found all over the Internet. For free.

Want the cheapest option? $99 will buy you an ebook upload. Never mind that it's the easiest part of the whole process, and on sites like Createspace and Smashwords you can do it youself. Quick, easy, and free.

After you've paid to have your book published, Book Country will then take 30% of your earnings (50% for a print book). This is after you have paid to have it polished and uploaded. What are they doing to earn this 30%? Your guess is as good as mine.

Is this how the big publishers plan to adapt to the turning tide of the industry? This reminds me of the Harlequin Horizons fiasco of '09. Penguin is telling you that although your book isn't good enough to publish under its flag, it's good enough for them to take your money so that you don't self-publish.

I'm not falling for it. You shouldn't either.

Canadian Blog Awards 2011

2011-11-15T08:09:00.001-03:30

Well, yesterday was an interesting day. I was updating my blog, minding my own business, when I noticed that there was a lot of traffic arriving from the Canadian Blog Awards site. You might recall that my blog, then called Brain Droppings, took first place in the Culture and Literature category last year. I've been getting traffic from the site pretty steadily since then, but it really took a spike in the last couple of days. So I took my flashlight and decided to go check it out.

Turns out that Calling Shotgun has been nominated in two categories this year - Culture and Literature and Best Blog Post for In Defense of Coolth. Voting takes place between now and December 24, so if you don't have anything better to do, why not swing by toss a vote my way? You should also have a look at some of the other categories and blogs. I found some great new haunts and met a few new friends through the site last year.

And speaking of friends, my good pal Cathy Webster is nominated for Best Personal Blog. You really should stop by to see her, and I bet you'll decide she's worth a vote too.

Later in the day I discovered, via Twitter, that Calling Shotgun was nominated for a Canadian Weblog Award, which is apparently a whole different thing. This award is chosen by a jury, so I'm not holding my breath for that one, but it sure is swell to be nominated.

(I just used blog traffic, Twitter, and swell in one post. Nerd alert!)

To the person who keeps nominating me for these, thank you. I am deeply flattered (and also a little creeped out). And thanks to everyone who takes the time to visit and vote. High fives all around.

My Neighbour Hates Me

2011-11-14T08:00:00.000-03:30

I'm a nice person. Ask anyone. They'll say this: "She's nice". Or maybe: "She's really nice".

I give cookies to the bus driver, I pick up after my dog, I don't make noise after 10:00 pm. I'm friendly with the neighbours.

Most of the neighbours.

It started a few years ago. Well, it really started when I first moved here, but I only found out about it a few years ago. A new family moved in next door, and I asked how they were settling in.

"Just great", the husband told me. "We've met the Ryans and the Lindstroms. Yesterday we met the Hawcos down the street."

"Curt has been introducing us around, of course. He's like a department store greeter," The wife said.

Curt?

"Yes, you know. Lives across the street in the yellow house. So friendly."

Yes, I knew Curt. I just didn't get it. I'd been living on the street for eight years and he had never spoken more than two words to me. His wife Peggy was very friendly, and always stopped for a chat when we met. His kids played with my kids. I just thought he wasn't a people person.

I asked my husband about it.

"Curt? Yeah, he's friendly enough. I run into him at the store or the mailboxes and we shoot the breeze."

That's when I started watching him. I watched him stop on the street to talk to the neighbours. I watched him help the Johnstons shovel their walk. I watched him knock on the Lindstrom's door and chat for fifteen minutes. I passed him on the sidewalk three times that week. Nothing. No smile, no nod. He didn't even make eye contact.

I watched him on the days he brought his kids to the bus. He talked with the other parents, but when I entered the conversation he talked around me, never to me. No one else seemed to notice. On the days we were there alone he wouldn't speak. I wondered if I should try to talk to him, show him I was friendly. Show him I was nice. Making eye contact was difficult. He turned his back to me.

One day I spotted him at the mail boxes. This was it. There was no way he could avoid me. I said good morning in my friendliest tone.

"Hello, Dear," he said, and walked away. No warmth. No smile.

Since then he has gone out of his way to ignore me. He crosses the street when he sees me coming.

Everyone likes me. Everyone thinks I'm nice. So I really need to know.

What has he figured out?

For The Fallen

2011-11-11T06:00:00.000-03:30

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old

Age shall not weary them, not the years condemn

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning

We shall remember them

- Laurence Binyon

Giller Winner - Esi Edugyan

2011-11-10T09:18:00.001-03:30

Well, it's a good thing I am not a betting woman, because I would be a few bucks poorer today. The winner of the 2011 Giller Prize is author Esi Edugyan, who's novel Half-Blood Blues has made her a few bucks richer - $50,000 in fact.

It would have been a bad bet on my part, anyway, since I have not read Half-Blood Blues. I am very much looking forward to reading it, based on what the book jury said:

"Imagine Mozart were a black German trumpet player and Salieri a bassist, and 18th century Vienna were WWII Paris; that's Esi Edugyan's joyful lament, Half-Blood Blues. It's conventional to liken the prose in novels about jazz to the music itself, as though there could be no higher praise. In this case, say rather that any jazz musician would be happy to play the way Edugyan writes. Her style is deceptively conversational and easy, but with the simultaneous exuberance and discipline of a true prodigy. Put this book next to Louis Armstrong's "West End Blues" – these two works of art belong together."

Edugyan is also the author of internationally acclaimed novel The Second Life of Samuel Tyne.

The Giller Prize 2011

2011-11-07T10:34:00.000-03:30

The winner of the 2011 Giller Prize will be announced tomorrow evening at the Four Seasons Hotel in Toronto. Are you excited? I know you are. I bet you're already planning your wardrobe for the literary event of the season.

And who will take home the $50,000 prize? Let's take a look at the shortlist.

The Free World by David Bezmozgis

The Antagonist by Lynn Coady

The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt

Half-Blood Blues by Esi Edugyan

Better Living Through Plastic Explosives by Zsuzsi Gartner

The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje

If I were a betting woman, I would put my money on The Sisters Brothers. But I'd like to see an Atlantic Canadian take the prize, and that would be Lynn Coady.

You can read excerpts from the shortlisted books here.

Do you have a favourite to take the prize?

Advice about Writing Advice

2011-11-03T08:16:00.000-02:30

Nanowrimo is underway, and while I won't be taking part this year, I will use the time to get some of my half-finished, almost abandoned work done. I already have Writer's Back. You know, that ache that squeezes in between your shoulder blades while you are hunched over your keyboard or notebook.

One thing I have found, even at this early stage, is that there is a ton of advice being pushed out on how to get the most word count for your time. These are just a few of the things I've seen over the past few days.

* Keep writing until you can't write any more.

The best piece of writing advice I ever got was from Ernest Hemingway (via Anthony Venutolo). He said the best time to stop writing is when you're still in the groove. That way you are never stuck. If you keep writing until you can't write anymore, it's so much harder to get back at it. You don't know what comes next.

If you come to a stumbling block, write through it. Write anything. Don't stop until there is a clear path in front of you again and you know what comes next.

* Prepare an outline and stick to it.

Preparing an outline is a good idea, but if your characters are anything like mine, they take on a life of their own. Once you start getting into the guts of the story, you never know what might happen. Now don't get me wrong, having an outline is a great idea, and knowing how your story will start and finish is half the battle. But don't follow your outline to the letter if your story points you toward something new. Explore it. The story is the boss.

* Be creative with your word choice

Now I love a good word as much as the next nerd (perhaps a new tip: avoid words that rhyme). And I love a creatively placed, seldom used word if it's done correctly. But for the love of Webster, put away the thesaurus. If you are talking about a flower, don't say blossom, bud, floret, or blooming vegetation. Say flower. It's much easier, and it sounds better.

Also:

Do be careful where you get your advice

I stumbled across a blog this week, a "for writers by a writer" sort of thing. There were over two thousand followers. There were lots of tips and hints, and the author waxed poetic about being a writer. Sounds pretty good, except for the glaring spelling and grammar errors in every post. I like blogs about writing, but if I'm going to read one, I'd like it to be authored by someone who knows how to use an apostrophe.

Here are some good sites for resources:

Writer's Digest
Ask Allison
Grammar Girl
Chicago Manual of Style

And when in doubt, ask Strunk & White.

In closing, you should forget the advice and find what works for you. That's my advice.

All Hallows Eve

2011-10-31T08:00:00.001-02:30

         Four o’clock is evening’s mark
         The neighbour’s dog begins to bark
         Shadows creep across the park
         (Mind you’re home before it’s dark)

On the porch the pumpkins sit

         Faces carved and innards lit
         Full of charm, you must admit
         (Won’t you stop and stay a bit?)

Widow Perkins and her cat

         Serve up punch from a boiling vat
         She throws in bits of this and that
         (Eye of newt and tongue of bat)

Children rush along the street

Laughing, shouting “trick or treat”

         Tossing things to those they meet
         (Better check the things you eat)

        Mini-creatures growl and roar

Gobble treats and look for more

And they know what they’re looking for
(Don’t forget to lock your door)

You stay inside your room, unseen

And wait for dawn to intervene

When light begins to change the scene

You’re safe – (until next Halloween)

Originally posted in October of 2010.

Rest

2011-10-27T08:48:00.000-02:30

October is usually a very busy, very exciting time in our home. Halloween is a big celebration, and it coincides with my oldest daughter's birthday. And so I had planned a few spooky stories and other tricks and treats for the next few days.

As it turns out, it will be quiet here. I will be joining my family at home after the loss of my uncle. Sadness of course, but also the shared memories of those who knew and loved him. Another sort of celebration.

I do want to mention a few places you can haunt over the next few days. Erin Cole is running a contest of sorts at her site with a chance to win a copy of her creepy new book. Don't miss out on that. You have until October 31st to write your story and post it on your blog. The rules are here.

Also, Anthony Rapino has a contest entry up that could use your vote and comment. He's got some great teeny, creepy flash stories attached there, so those are definitely worth checking out. You can find that entry here.

Enjoy your Halloween weekend, your treats, your witch's brew, your eye of newt. Don't over do it on the candy, you'll be sorry.

I'll see you on the other side.

Bump in the Night

2011-10-21T09:59:00.000-02:30

“Marcie, I don’t want to hear it again. Just close your eyes and go to sleep.”

Marcie blinked, her eyes brimmed with tears. Rachel was getting impatient, soon she would be angry. Marcie wished mom and dad would come home. She liked it when Rachel came to babysit, but she never stayed this late. Mom and dad were always home before bedtime.

Rachel sighed. “I know you’re worried about your mom and dad, but they’re fine. They’re just waiting until the weather lets up a little bit." She tugged the blanket up to Marcie’s chin and gently smoothed it. “I told them you’d be all tucked in and fast asleep before they arrived home. You’re going to make a liar out of me.” She crossed the room and turned off the light once more. “To sleep,” she ordered, “and no more talk of monsters.”

Marcie lay in the dark, eyes steady on the ceiling. She concentrated on her breaths, keeping them slow and even and quiet. She had to remain perfectly still. Light squeezed in from the crack under the door, and threw shadows across the room. Once her eyes adjusted, and she was sure she was alone, she grabbed the blanket up over her head. Heart pounding, body trembling, she focused again, and listened.

Rain drummed against the window. Seconds went by. Minutes. If mom and dad were here everything would be ok. They would tuck her in, read her a story, kiss her good night. They would check.

Marcie’s thoughts wandered. Carelessly, she shifted her leg under the covers.

A muffled scraping sound snapped her back to attention. She lay perfectly still, held her breath. There, she heard it. Underneath the heavy thump, thump of her heart in her ears was the raspy breath of…

“RACHEL!!”

Hurried footsteps on the stairs drowned out all the other noises. Rachel threw open the door, but this time she didn’t turn on the light.

“Marcie, this had better not be about monsters.”

“I heard it, Rachel. Just like I told you. It’s there! I heard it!”

Rachel couldn’t hide her annoyance. She stepped into the darkened room and turned toward the closet. The closed door was illuminated by the light of the hallway, and despite what she had told the little one, her heart began to pound as she reached for the handle. This is ridiculous, she thought, and yanked the door open.

She let out a sigh. “There, you see. Nothing but Marcie’s clothes and toys. No monsters to be seen.” Rachel felt silly for getting wrapped up into this game, and frustrated at the little girl who refused to let it go. She marched over to the bed and stood with hands on hips. “Now enough of this talk and go to sleep.”

“But, Rachel, the monster isn’t in the closet,” Marcie cried. The look on her babysitter’s face went from annoyance, to surprise, to horror.

“It’s under the bed.”

Knock, Knock

2011-10-17T20:35:00.000-02:30

Once upon an evening clear,
while sitting in my rocking chair,
reading many spooky tales of blood and gore
While I sat there, gently rocking,
suddenly there came a knocking,
Someone knock, knock, knock knock, knocking
knocking at my chamber door

So I peeked out through the curtain
Hoping I could see this person
This visitor who was knocking
knocking at my chamber door...

Darkness there, and nothing more.

----------

OK, I'm not Poe, or even a reasonable facsimile. Tonight, however, I was very much in the shoes of his narrator in The Raven.

I was sitting in my rocking chair, as stated above, when I heard this knocking, knocking at my front door. First it was a gentle tapping, as if someone gently rapping...

Focus, Laurita.

So there was a light knocking, and from my chair I can lean back just a little and see our front step. I did this. There was nothing.

Must be the wind, I thought. Though there wasn't any wind to speak of.

A few minutes later the rapping started again, louder this time. Still darkness there, and nothing more. If it had been raining I would have freaked out a little. As it was, I was only slightly rattled.

I went to Hector. What the heck, Hector, I said.

Why are you looking at me, I'm made of iron, Hector said. And I didn't say anything. Oh.

So while I was pondering this, weak and weary, there came more knocking, louder again. This time I went to the front door and opened it. Nothing. I went out onto the step (this is the part where the crazy killer comes out of hiding and slashes the idiot who came outside). I looked up and down the street.

Nothing.

By this time I'm thinking It's the freaking lost Lenore! But I kept my cool and didn't run inside, just in case the neighbours were watching. I sort of shuffled to the door, then scrambled up the stairs.

I would love to tell you that I solved the mystery of the invisible knocker, but alas, I cannot. Maybe it was someone knocking very loudly at a house nearby. Maybe it was a ghostly visitor. I do not know. I have no explanation, only this story.

Merely this, and nothing more.

Pay It Forward Blog Hop

2011-10-14T08:33:00.000-02:30

I'M following Laura Eno's lead and hopping on the bandwagon, so to speak. The rules are easy:

Sign up for the blog hop
Write about three blogs you enjoy visiting
Check out as many other blogs as you can, and if you like what you see, folllow.

Nice and simple. You can read more about it and check out all the links here.

Three Blogs I Enjoy:

The Leaky Pencil - Some good, and often spooky writing from another Canadian, Chris Allinotte. This blog is well worth a stop for every update whether you write, or just like to read.

Leftbrainwrite - Linda's gentle blog of musings, poetry, and prose will leave you with much food for thought. One of my very favourite stops.

Conversations from Land's Edge - Fellow Newfoundlander, Alan Davidson, has a hilarious blog filled with his thoughts on current events, both foreign and domestic, and some of his own writing. Definitely worth a stop if you want a chuckle. Don't miss the Fez.

It is so hard to choose just three blogs from my blogroll. You can pick any one of the blogs I follow and you really can't go wrong. What can I say? I have impeccable taste.

Good Reads for Halloween

2011-10-13T11:11:00.002-02:30

This is supposed to be a blog about books, and reading, and writing, and all that refined type of stuff. So I would be terribly remiss if I didn't point you in the direction of some very good Halloween books to enhance your seasonal pleasure.

Some of my spooky favourites:
Dark Harvest by Norman Partridge - A very good Halloween read. Don't let the present tense narrative throw you off.

Edgar Allan Poe Stories and Poems - It wouldn't be Halloween without a little Poe. I have a gorgeous illustrated collection of his stories and poems, given to me by a friend. It takes up residence on the coffee table around October first.

We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson - Not entirely scary, but a nice atmospheric book for cold, dark evenings.

Some books for the wee ones:
Bone Dog by Eric Rohmann - It's spooky and sweet, and a bit of a tear jerker.

Coraline by Neil Gaiman - Good for kids 8 -12, but a great read for adults as well. Warning: Kids tend lot to find the story quite as spooky as the adults do, so while Jr. may sleep soundly, there's no guarantee you will.

And for those who like their scares in bite sized portions:
Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz - I read these as a kid and then didn't sleep again for three years.

Mammoth Book of Best New Horror edited by Stephen Jones - Any of these volumes make good reading (my favourite is #14)

Night Shift by Stephen King - Any of King's shot story collections make for great, spooky reading, but this one is especially good. Contains the classic Children of the Corn and my favourite, Strawberry Spring.

What are your favourite books for October?

Creature Features

2011-10-12T09:11:00.000-02:30

I lay awake last night, listening to the wind. The house creaked and moaned, and it reminded me very much of the October nights I spent in my youth, curled up on the couch watching creature features on TV. Those old movies were just scary enough for a kid new to horror films. The commercial breaks came in handy too. I could run to the kitchen for popcorn and return to my place, feet safely tucked up on the chair, before the show started again.

These are some of my favourites from those days, and from time to time I like to dust them off again, for old time's sake.

Frankenstein (1931)
Nothing like the book, but don't let that stop you from enjoying this old classic starring Boris Karloff. You know the gist of it - a mad scientist constructs a monster from the body parts of exhumed corpses. One of those movies that makes you feel for the monster. It's Aliiiiiveeee!

King Kong (1933)
You can't have a list of creature features without mentioning King Kong. A film crew is shooting on a remote tropical island when they discover a gianormous gorilla. Then they think it's a good idea to bring it to the city. Not really one of my favourites. Even in my younger days the ape looked silly and cartoonish, but it's worth watching for the epic scene atop the Empire State Building.

Wolfman (1941)
This movie, starring Lon Chaney, has it all; horrifying transfomations, fog enshrouded woods, villagers with torches. A man returns to his homeland and is attacked by a mysterious creature. He soon discovers that he has been infected with a horrible curse.

Though CGI has taken over these types of films now, the make-up work in this one is amazing. A must see for warewolf lovers.

The Blob (1958)
This is one of my absolute favourites. A somewhat silly premise, some fun dialogue, and lots of camp. An alien life form arrives on Earth and cpnsumes everything in it's path, causing it to grow to epic proportions. It's still creepy enough to keep you from eating Jell-o for the rest of the year. Steve McQueen's best, in my opinion.

The Thing (1982)
The most recent film on the list, and the scariest as well. This movie, starring Kurt Russell, stands the test of time. Another alien film, this one has scientists in the Antartic finding a shape-shifting alien that takes the form of everyone it kills. The location of this one really adds to the suspense. A great horror film in classic form.

If you haven't seen any of these, you should check them out. Long October evenings were made for creature features, and these are classics for a reason.

Don't forget the popcorn.

Giving Thanks

2011-10-10T17:19:00.000-02:30

Things I am thankful for:

My family; the crazy, the boring, the sily, the strange
Partridgeberry scones
Autumn colours
Juncos in my backyard
Generous glasses of red wine
Foggy evenings
Scary movies
Strong coffee
A kayak on a calm sea
Good books
Good friends (that means you)

Happy Thanksgiving.

The Neighbours

2011-10-06T16:00:00.009-02:30

It was disgraceful.

Marilyn’s attention was fixed on the other side of the fence, even as she continued to pull wet clothes from the basket and attach them to the line.

The Pattersons moved just over a year ago, into the tidy little home next door. It was obvious that the new owners did not place emphasis on aesthetics. The house, once lovely, had become little more than an oversized shack. From her perch at the clothesline, Marilyn had an unfortunate view of their backyard.

The grass spread sparse and thin between patches of dirt and weeds. Scraps of tar stained wood cluttered the far corner of the yard, propped against old buckets and boxes. The shed door, green paint cracked and faded, hung askew on its hinges. A rusty ladder stood against the house. It rattled in the breeze, and in the night Marilyn would hear it clatter to the ground, only to see it back in place the next day, unused but ready.

There had been one small attempt to improve the place. They had constructed a flower bed with landscaping bricks and filled it with perennials. Now the yard was littered with leftover bricks, and the stalks of last year’s plants stuck out like tiny skeletal arms, dry and broken.

“Some sight, eh?”

Ed Grable stood on his back patio, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Sad what they’ve done to this place.” He wrinkled his nose at the stench of dog droppings.

Marilyn smoothed her shirt front and shook her head. “So much for pride of ownership.”

“Glad I’m not planning to sell anytime soon. One look over the fence here and any prospective buyers would turn tail and run.” Ed studied the patio railing, ran a hand over the surface. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll go the way of the Mayers.”

Marilyn looked over her shoulder, toward the slate blue bungalow down the street. The Mayers moved in a few years ago and promptly painted the house a bright purple. They had weekly get-togethers with loud, beer-guzzling friends and a collection of garbage raiding cats. They were a curse on the neighbourhood.

Then one day they were gone. Their house was empty but for a few pieces of furniture and a lone plastic flamingo in the garden. Even the cats were gone.

A few weeks later new owners moved in. They restored the house to its original colour and invited the neighbours to an elegant wine and cheese meet and greet. Perfectly normal. Perfectly acceptable.

Marilyn nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Maybe we’ll be lucky.”

* * *

“Of course. Again.”

Marilyn placed her book in her lap and raised a hand to her forehead. She thought they would finally have a quiet evening. Six o’clock and all was still. She had barely begun the first paragraph of her book when it started – the loud, wailing bark of the Patterson’s hound dog.

Bark, bark, bark.

Her husband, Neil, stood at the window. “They’ve parked that van in front of our house again.” The large paneled van, more primer than paint, was positioned squarely under the lamp post. Neil was annoyed by the obstructed view, and horrified that someone might think the ugly thing belonged to him. He took pride in his weed free, neatly manicured lawn. Now no one could even see the damn thing.

“They’re...offensive.” Neil lowered himself into his easy chair and scowled.

“Ed Grable and I spoke about them this afternoon. He hopes they go out like the Mayers.” Marilyn paused, letting the thought hang between them.

Bark, bark, bark.

“Perhaps someone should deal with it.”

Neil sighed. “Do you think we should go over there?”

“It’s gone on long enough.” Bark, bark, bark. “Yes. I think we should.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

* * *

The doorbell was broken. Neil knocked.

Joe Patterson opened the door and belched. “Yeah?”

Marilyn and Neil looked at each other, then back at the distasteful creature before them. “Mr. Patterson, I’m Neil McGuire from next door. We’ve come to talk to you about a few matters.”

Patterson grinned, wide and mocking. “Come to have a chat, have you? Neighbourly. I suppose it’s about Bud.” He cocked his head toward the back of the house where the dog was howling. “Can’t say I can help you there.”

Marilyn moved closer. “Actually there are a few things. May we come in?”

Patterson frowned, but stepped back and let them into the small foyer. Marilyn noted that the house smelled of mothballs, and the hardwood floor was dull and scratched.

When it was apparent that they would not be invited further into the house, Neil continued. “We do have a problem with the dog, his barking, and the smell from the backyard. Maybe if you let him in from time to time?”

“Bud’s an outdoor dog. Doesn’t like to be cooped up inside.”

“Well, apparently he doesn’t like to be left outside either.” Neil went on before Patterson could respond. He kept his tone and smile friendly. “The neighbours feel that your home and yard are not kept in a condition befitting the neighbourhood. They’re upset and are hoping you will do something to spruce up the place. ”

“That so.” Patterson’s frown deepened. “Well, seems like the neighbours ought to mind their own business.”

Val Patterson came to the top of the stairs, arms crossed, brow furrowed. She said nothing.

“It wouldn’t take much.” Marilyn looked around as if she hadn’t noticed the hostility. “A few minor repairs and some cleaning up and the place would look just fine.”

Patterson snorted. “I don’t give a damn. I ain’t into doing people favours.”

Neil hissed out a breath but his smile didn’t falter. “That’s unfortunate.” A growl rumbled in his chest.

Friendly, neighbourly smiles grew long and wide, sharp teeth dripping and snapping.

“We do so regret dealing with uncooperative neighbours,” snarled the thing that was Marilyn.

Patterson opened his mouth as his neighbours closed in.

His throat was gone before he could scream.

Marilyn and Neil enjoyed every minute. It had been a long time since the Mayers.

* * *

“Hi, Ed. Just wanted to drop by with these treats I baked.” Marilyn smiled and offered the tin of cinnamon raisin cookies.

“Thanks. That’s neighbourly of you.” He nodded toward the moving truck next door. “Looks like we’ve got some fresh blood coming in. That was strange how the Pattersons up and left, huh?”

“Very. They even left poor Bud here chained out back.” Marilyn patted the old hound’s head.

“Well, he’s got a good home with you. And no more barking.” He smiled down at the dog. “There’s something to be said for good neighbours.”

Marilyn stepped out onto the walkway. A bright patch of yellow near the edge of the path caught her eye. Dandelions.

“Yes,” she said absently. “Good Neighbours.”

------
This story originally appeared At the Bijou in January 2010.

October

2011-10-04T18:39:00.000-02:30

October is finally here. I thought I'd go with a new look for the season.

THE season.

The season of short days and long, cold evenings. The season of candy apples and ghosts. The season of Ray Bradbury, H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe. The season of stories.

I'm just easing out of vacation mode, but already working overtime on some dark tales. It's not as if I have a choice. There's something in the October air that takes over. I'm just along for the ride.

Sunday in Paris

2011-09-29T09:23:00.000-02:30

Morning stretches, slow and luxurious

The markets blink open their eyes

The café is full of people-watching people

The streets are a painting

We gather coins dropped by an elderly woman

Clattering on the cobblestones

Merci beaucoup! Merci! Merci!

Her words are a poem

Jardin du Luxembourg comes to life

Stealing time from Musée d'Orsay

The bells of Notre Dame ring the hour

The history is a novel

The sun yawns and sets across Montmatre

On Pont Neuf a couple stops to kiss

Paris rests with an enigmatic smile

The city is art

Ten Years

2011-09-11T07:53:00.001-02:30

Twenty-one planes lined wing to wing, filled with people from everywhere. They waited, and worried, and wondered when things would go back to normal, and when they could go home.

They did not know what we knew. That the towers had fallen. That, for now, there was no normal.

* * *

“Did you hear what’s happening in the US?” he said, and from his voice I knew it wasn’t good. I pushed aside the freshly folded laundry and turned on the television to see the North Tower collapse. I pressed one hand to my mouth, placed the other on the round of my belly and felt the life inside move. And I wept.

* * *

We gathered what we thought was useful - blankets and towels, clothes and toys - and wished we could do more. I would see them at the shopping centre, buying what they needed to get them through. You could tell them by their faces, tired and lost. The plane people.

They were going on vacation, going home, going away. They were coming back from a honeymoon, from a business trip, from the funeral of a loved one. Instead they landed here, in a place far from everything. Some laughed as they told it, and then were ashamed for laughing.

* * *

Long days passed. The dust settled, the clean-up began, the way was cleared. The plane people left, headed for London, Vancouver, Paris, Little Rock, Frankfurt, Columbus, Oslo. New York. They left for the places they called home. We knew them now, and they knew us.

None of us would ever be the same.

September on the Shelf

2011-09-09T10:14:00.001-02:30

I just discovered that September is Be Kind to Writers and Editors month. How timely. We all know a writer or editor who could use some kindness. I've compiled a list of nice things to do for the writer or editor in your life:

Keep pencils on hand, in plain sight, sharpened and ready to use.
Make extra coffee. Writers love coffee. And while you're at it, bake some brownies. Writing is hungry work.
If your writer is staring blankly into space, do not interrupt. It may look like boredom or laziness to you, but your writer is actually hard at work.
Refrain from using such phrases as "Writing? Are you still doing that?" "Don't quit your day job" or "Those who can, do. Those who can't, edit."
Smile and nod politely when your writer offers to read from his or her latest WIP, even if you don't care about Charangorath, the Thing from Ilgnah Swamp.

September is also Library Card Sign-up Month. If you don't have a library card, now's the time to get one. This card is a must have for every reader and writer. And libraries offer so much more than books. There are always fun and interesting happenings like book clubs, story time, book sales, and story-telling workshops. Check out your local library for a list of events.

Quiet

2011-09-07T09:36:00.002-02:30

It's the first day of school. My children have gone and I am home alone to contemplate just what to do with all this quiet.

My oldest stood at the door this morning, ready to start her senior year of high school. "Where did the last twelve years go?" she asked. Indeed. Where did they go? It seems just a few moments ago she was her sister's age, starting the first grade. With one more in his last year of elementary school, it is a year of milestones.

I will take advantage of the quiet to get some writing done, and also sneak in some reading while I'm at it. I'm re-reading a book called Irish Folk and Fairy Tales (don't say that too quickly in polite company). My brother bought me this book on his last trip to Ireland, and that is an interesting story in itself. It isn't often you must pass inspection from a big sheep dog before you can make your purchase.

The book is full of the slightly creepy and mysterious bits of lore that are popular in Ireland, and also on this island. Fairies are not the sweet little things Disney would have you believe. These tales are just right for welcoming the onset of autumn, when all sorts of tricksy creatures arrive with the early dark.

It's so quiet. There's hardly a sound. Except for the wind. And that scratching in the basement...

Shadow Play

2011-09-02T09:31:00.001-02:30

The advertisements plastered all over town: Santino’s Shadow Company Spectacle. The flyers promised an unforgettable performance, and I, with nothing better to do on a cold winter evening, found myself strolling past the Shadow Company theatre. I use the word theatre in the loosest sense, as the building was little more than a shack with chairs set out for the audience and a white canvas tarp hanging from the ceiling near the front of the room. A potbelly stove crackled with heat, and that was enough to entice me inside.

I did not know what to expect from a “Shadow Spectacle” but was soon drawn in by the sight before me. Displayed on the canvas in frightening silhouette, not actors but dark metaphors playing out a tale of secrecy and betrayal, violence and tragedy. In the flickering light they shifted and danced. I was enthralled and chilled to my very bones.

I lingered long after the show ended hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the persons responsible for my unsettlement. When no one emerged I cautiously made my way behind the tarp – there was no one. I stood, stunned with disbelief. There was no back entrance, and I was certain that no one had passed me, yet I was left quite alone in this small room with the tarp and a dying fire.

I walked home, my mind still clouded with dark and obscure thoughts. As I turned onto Main Street I noticed my shadow, shifting erratically under the flickering streetlamps in a macabre display. I brought my hand to my face and felt immense relief that I was, indeed, still there.

Unfinished Update

2011-08-29T16:27:00.002-02:30

You may have noticed a lack of darkness in my blog as of late. Fear not, I'm not going soft. I've been channelling all my creepiness into my short story collection.

Way back in February I mentioned Unfinished, the anthology in progress. I think the post was lost in the void, perhaps swallowed by the hubub over my impending head shave. Since that time I have been busy putting together a good list of the stories to be included, finishing some longer pieces, and generally just trying to look busy while I wait this out.

Why wait? Well, there are a few stories I want to include that are still under contract elsewhere. This story in particular, which I can re-claim in November. When it was originally published, I refused to promote it, or even mention the book in which it appeared. I'm very excited to include it in this collection, old and improved.

So basically this is an update to tell you that Unfinished is still...unfinished. But I haven't forgotten about it. Keep watch.

Outta My Head

2011-08-26T09:29:00.003-02:30

I'm trying to do some serious writing here folks, I really am. I've got two big projects on my plate and I'm trying to squeeze every drop of time I can out of the day.
But some mornings you just wake up with stuff in your head that makes it impossible. This is what I'm dealing with this morning (unfortunately it's too late for Bad Poetry Day) edited to add Chris's suggestion:

Told me that you'd stick with me forever
Told me that I'd always be your gal
But then our love went down the $#!tter
And you unfollowed me on Twitter
Now you'd rather go out drinking with your pals

Thought that I almost could forgive you
Thought that we could try to work things out
But this morning I brought Facebook up
and read about your last hook-up
Now what I'd "like" is to punch you in the mouth

Now what the heck am I supposed to do with that? It's just begging to be finished. It's not serious, and you could make a very good argument that it isn't even writing.
If anyone has any suggestions on how to get out of this rhyming rut, I'll hear them.

That Summer (Under the Bridge)

2011-08-20T09:00:00.005-02:30

That Summer (Country Fair)

2011-08-19T09:00:00.002-02:30

Bad Poetry Day!

2011-08-18T15:15:00.000-02:30

It's here! It's finally here! Bad Poetry Day! Have I used enough exclamation points! Can you see how excited I am!

Today is the day that anyone, no matter how rhythmically challenged, can write poetry. And for those of you who hate poetry, today is the you can say "I told you so".

This year I thought a limerick would be a good way to celebrate Bad Poetry Day.

Ahem.

There once was a girl from the shore
Who was a terrible bore
When she waxed on poetic
It was like anesthetic
And her audience started to snore

Please go easy on the rotten tomatoes.

That Summer (The Shore)

2011-08-18T11:38:00.001-02:30

That Summer

2011-08-15T16:38:00.000-02:30

Calculating New Route

2011-08-05T21:26:00.000-02:30

(GPS Poetry)

Go
Continue
And head west
Keep right
Until the next exit
Searching
Searching
Do a legal u-turn
When possible
Your destination is ahead

I Know I Said I Felt Stephen King-ish, But This is Ridiculous

2011-07-21T21:28:00.000-02:30

It was one of those cool, foggy summer days. The kind where you can smell the ocean in the air. A Stephen King day. That's what I like to call it. A day that makes you think about The Mist, or Salem's Lot. I love these days. Great for reading, great for writing.

So I tweeted that I felt very Stephen King-ish. One person replied and asked "are you going to read him, write like him, or get out your axe?" Maybe all three, I thought. The possibilities are endless.

Indeed, the universe had other ideas. Perhaps if I'd remembered that Mr. King was run down by a careless driver I would have stayed at home, safely reading The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon. Instead, I foolishly ventured into the city.

It was a quick errand at the local shopping centre. I had just stepped out onto the crosswalk to enter the building when a dark grey sedan turned into my lane. On the left hand side. "That guy is going to hit me," I thought.

And then he did.

Luckily I'd been watching him, and luckily I jumped out of the way. I had to put my hands on the bonnet of his car to get out of the way, and he still didn't see me. I yelled at him that he 'almost' hit me, but he just drove on. Stupidly, I didn't get his licence number. I guess I was too shaken at that point. I didn't even think about it until later. But I was lucky, lucky. I ended up with just a nasty scrape and bruise on my leg, and a few scratches on my arm. And a good story.

The moral of this story my friends: Be careful what you tweet.

The Faerie Dance

2011-07-15T16:51:00.000-02:30

Long I’ve waited for the chance
To see the faeries in their dance

Come they now, so pale and fair

In the early summer air

Away with us, they beckon me

Away beyond the elder tree

Along the faeries lighted trail

Beyond the dusky moonlit veil

And knowing not whether I should

I follow closely through the wood

Through the evening’s misty chill

They lead me to the woodman’s hill

An apple tree stands at its crest

This is where the faeries rest

A quick repose ‘mid fallen fruit

Then away again toward fiddle and flute

Haunting music of wind and string

Calls them to the faerie ring

There they frolic to and fro

Among primrose and mistletoe

Before they stop I steal away

For at first light I’m bound to stay

Back to my bed before the dawn

Safe before they know I’m gone

Yet in my dreams I see them still

Deep in the woods beyond the hill

Tiny little specks of light

Dipping, twirling in the night

I tell you now, if you’ve the chance

Away with the faeries to see them dance

Hitting the Road

2011-07-14T09:22:00.000-02:30

Every spring I'm bitten by the travel bug, and I usually take that as a sign to get away. Camping at a Provincial Park, or jetting away to somewhere completely new - it doesn't matter to me. This year the bug bit hard around mid-April, and has been nibbling away. It may explain the Doldrums, I don't know.

We have a family vacation coming up to Hubby's home province, and we're planning another in the fall for just the two of us. Somewhere a little further afield. I can already feel inspiration creeping back.

Next to writing, travel is my favourite indulgence.

What I would really love is to hear about your favourite travel experiences. Leave me a comment about your most memorable travels. After all, isn't it all about the stories?

Writing the Ghosts Away

2011-07-12T19:05:00.001-02:30

Cathy Webster posed this on her blog, in response to being tagged in the meme "What Writing Means to Me." In it, she discusses the ups and downs of writing, and the inspiration and discouragement that comes from reading the masters of the craft. It's an interesting read.

Since being tagged in her post, I've thought about my writing and how I can explain what it means to me. To do that, I looked at the things I like to write. Some of it is purely for entertainment, but most of it comes from somewhere else - a deeper, often darker place.

Since childhood my favourite stories have been the spookier folktales, stories about fairies and phantoms. They find their way into my own tales quite often.

I can't really explain why I write, other than to say that I have stories that need to be told. Not 'need' in that it would be a loss to humankind if they are not written, but 'need' in that they insist on taking up space in my head until I exorcise them onto paper. The most insistent of these stories are often the most difficult to write. These are the stories that study sadness and despair, or observe the darker side of human nature.

So what does writing mean to me? It means seeing beneath the surface, telling the side of the story that isn't told. They may not be pretty, or happy, or bright. Maybe that's why they need to come out.

It's taken me so long to get to this post, I'm sure most of you have already been tagged. I would love for anyone reading this to post themselves - What does writing mean to you?

Canada Day

2011-07-02T01:00:00.000-02:30

A fabulous day in my home town. The pictures say it better than I can.

When in Doubt, Know Your Way Out

2011-06-28T08:11:00.000-02:30

I knew there was a good reason for this lull of mine. There was that feeling, that eerie disquiet that precedes something big. I thought it was a storm on the way, or maybe I was coming down with something.

Turns out it's a zombie apocalypse.

A road sign just outside St. John's warned drivers, not of construction or traffic delays, but of an imminent zombie invasion. According to CBC news, the sign reminded drivers of rule #2: double tap, and told them to expect apocalyptic doom.

No wonder I haven't been in the mood to write.

If you don't hear from me for a while it's because I'm doing some cardio and practicing my swing. Or the zombies have arrived, in which case I'm busy just trying to stay alive.

On the bright side, a zombie invasion is grist for the mill. Expect apocalyptic doom.

The Doldrums

2011-06-25T12:41:00.000-02:30

I'm so out of things to talk about, I can't even figure out how to start this post. I guess it's not even that I have nothing to say, but that I have no interest in saying it. I'm feeling very...meh. Let's blame the weather, which has been decidedly un-summer-like. Rain, drizzle and fog every single day for the past, oh, two months. And cold. Let's not forget the cold.

You would think that being from Newfoundland I'd be used to this weather, but it does get one down after a while. In the doldrums. That's where I am.

I do have a yaffle of new story ideas that I can't wait to work on. There really hasn't been much time to write, between home renovations and year-end madness. When I do get time I end up just staring at my notes, trying to figure out how to get them together into something that sounds like a story.

The doldrums.

The weather has not put a damper on the spirits of our neighbour. On the street behind us, a few houses down, the neighbours have a weekly party. Every Friday night they have a fire, drink lots of booze (I can assume from the increasing volume of the voices) and play music. Loud music. With a lot of bass. I can feel it throughout my house. Doomph, doomph, doomph.

Every Friday.

I have no life. On Friday night I am wiped. I just want to curl up in bed with my Kindle. I don't want to listen to doomph, doomph doomph. They must not know the things I do to bad neighbours. I have a blank page and a rubber mallet all ready for them.

All I need to do is to find my way out of the doldrums. Anyone have a map?

Things My Dad Taught Me

2011-06-19T09:08:00.000-02:30

How to bait a trout hook, catch a fly ball, shoot a lay-up
Puns are the highest form of humour
You have to walk across a lot of bog to get to the best fishing spots
Tuning out the noise around you is both an art and a science
A good sense of humour can get you through just about anything
No matter how busy you are, there's always time to "rest your eyes"

Love you, Dad.

Words of Wisdom

2011-06-18T14:20:00.000-02:30

My husband has one piece of advice that stands out above all the rest. It's a bit of wisdom that came to light when our youngest was toddling around on unsteady two-year-old legs. It has been repeated on countless occasions and it never varies.

If you fall down, keep your head up.

Every parent knows the feeling. Your little one is walking beside you, small enough to trip in pebbles and sidewalk cracks. Excitement gets the best of her and she starts to run, little legs going faster than she can control. You know a tumble to the ground is inevitable. It was an occasion just like this that prompted the first usage of the phrase.

If you fall down, keep your head up.

If you ask any of our kids what Dad's one piece of advice is, they will repeat this line verbatim. Our son heard it before his soccer games, our daughter when she was learning to ride her first bike. Our littlest one, monkey that she is, still hears it on a daily basis. Even the older two will call to her when she stumbles - Keep your head up!

A few years ago our oldest daughter was auditioning for a part in the show choir. She nailed the singing, but the dancing was another story. Coordination is not one of her strengths, and she was concerned about dancing in front of so many people. She was convinced she would trip and fall in the middle of the complicated choreography, and ruin her chances of passing the audition.

"What will you do if that does happen?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Keep my head up."

That was when I realized that the fatherly advice given hurriedly when the kids tripped or stumbled was something that applied to their whole lives. We all make mistakes, do things that, in retrospect, should have been given greater consideration. We have to learn from these things and move on, ask for forgiveness and forgive ourselves. Sometimes life will throw us things that are difficult to handle. We stumble, and sometimes fall. It's a part of growing, of living. The key is knowing how to handle yourself with grace when the worst happens.

If you fall down, keep your head up.

Duckish (Part 2)

2011-06-10T15:18:00.000-02:30

This is the second part of my story Duckish. You can read Part 1 here.

Before she could grab the rock, a hand clamped around her wrist and hoisted her over the edge.

Maggie’s knees trembled. She’d only been suspended for a short time, but the solid earth felt foreign beneath her feet. She was damp through from the fog and salt spray, and the cold was seeping its way into her bones. She lowered herself onto a rock and let her tears flow.

Then there was a blanket around her shoulders, and a strong arm keeping it there. A voice saying it was okay. Maggie focused in on the face, a face that was unfamiliar, but so full of warmth and concern that she didn’t care who this miraculous stranger was. It didn’t matter. He was there. So was she.

“Can you walk?”

Maggie nodded.

The stranger took her hand and helped her to her feet. “Come with me,” he said, and led her toward the woods.

Maggie studied her rescuer as they walked. His hair was dark and disheveled. His eyes were blue, startlingly so. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, but she was never a good judge of age. She had never seen him before, she was certain of that. How odd, in a small place like Gallows Cove, where everyone knew everyone. He couldn’t be a tourist. It was the wrong time of year, and a stranger to the cove wouldn’t know his way around Major’s woods.

“How did you find me?” Maggie’s voice seemed too loud in the silent woods.

“I heard you scream.”

She thought about this. “I didn’t realize I had.”

“You did.” The stranger looked at her. “Loudly. I just happened to be walking nearby and heard you. You’re lucky.”

Maggie was about to ask him why he was walking around the woods with a blanket when she saw the house.

It was weathered and grey, the clapboard exterior spotted with moss. It hunched in the corner of a clearing, as if trying to blend in. Or hide.

The stranger led her up the steps and into a dark kitchen. There was no electricity, but her host lit some oil lamps, and started a fire in the woodstove. The house was small, an old fashioned saltbox, but in the light she could tell it was well cared for. Cozy even. She pulled the blanket closer around her and settled into a chair at the kitchen table.

“You live here?”

The stranger put a kettle on the stove and paused to consider her question. “This is my house. Yes.”

“How long have you been here?”

Again he thought for a long time before answering. He gathered cups, tea, and sugar, and placed them on the table.

“My family has owned this house for as long as it has been here. The land for years before that.” He paused again. “We’ve been here a long time.”

Maggie closed her eyes. This place was so welcoming. She wasn’t sure if it was the warmth of the fire, or the coziness of the room, or the presence of her rescuer. She felt as though she could drift off to sleep, perfectly secure and content. She opened her eyes when he placed a cup of tea on the table in front of her.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“James. My name is James.”

“Thank you, James. For the tea. And for saving my life.” She lifted the cup and drank.

He lowered his head and smiled. “You’re quite welcome, Maggie.”

Outside, the fog rolled past the window. It was duckish now, and the shadows faded into the coming dark.

Maggie stood and placed the blanket on the chair. “I should go. My father will be worried.”

James followed her to the door. “I’ll walk with you. It’s not safe in the woods after dark.”

That was fine with Maggie. She’d had enough danger for one day, and she was suddenly very tired. The company would be good.

The walk back to town seemed to take a long time, much longer than usual. James stayed close by, his arm brushing hers as they walked in silence toward town.

There were no lights on when she finally reached home. James stood at the gate as she approached the house and opened the unlocked door.

“Da! I’m home. Are you here?” She walked into the porch and turned on the light. Her father’s boots and jacket were missing from the closet. “Da?” A quick look through the kitchen and den showed no lights or sound. She returned to the porch and looked out the window, through the branches of the plum tree that cast long shadows across the road. The gate was still open, and James was gone.

Maggie washed and dressed for bed. The events of the day were heavy on her mind, and she was tired. She climbed under the covers and lit her lamp. Her father still wasn’t home, and she wanted to wait up until he returned. She opened her book to read, but couldn’t focus on the story. Her thoughts wandered back to her fall from the cliff, the house in the woods, and James with the brilliant blue eyes.

A rough hand on her shoulder woke Maggie with a start. She jumped, and her book tumbled to the floor.

“Where were you, girl? You were gone the whole evening.”

Maggie rubbed the sleep from her eyes and focused on her father’s face. His cheeks were red from the cold, and he still wore his jacket and boots.

“You’re tracking dirt through the house.” She mumbled, and pushed herself up in the bed. “I was out wandering about. Where were you?”

“Playing cards with your Uncle Tim. Bloody cheater.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m glad you’re home safe.” He paused on his way to the door. “You didn’t go into the woods, did you.”

Maggie slid back down into the bed. “Of course not,” she lied, and closed her eyes.

Home Work

2011-06-07T09:34:00.000-02:30

Home renovating is for the birds. There, I said it, and I won't take it back. I like to strap on my tool belt as much as the next person, but after two solid weeks of cutting, nailing, plastering, painting, and all that other fun stuff, I'm ready to quit. I've filled a bazillion nail holes, cut a hundred pieces of flooring, painted for days and nights on end. My fingers hurt, my eyes are glazed, my hair is doing this weird faux hawk thing. It's exhausting.

This work is long over due. Our house once had a basement apartment, but with a growing family, we needed to room. So a few years ago we opened up the space and started to make it our own. It took this long for us to get around to actually doing something with it, other than cutting a fraggle hole in the wall as a passageway.

Once we got started, I went to the nearby paint/wallpaper/decorating store for help in choosing a paint colour. I told the decorator on staff what I was doing and what I wanted. She showed me "Natural Linen" which is actually light yellow. No good. How about "Soft Cream"? Also yellow, so no. "Fluffy Meringue?" Again with the yellow. This lady just wasn't getting it. So I explained again what I was doing. When she found out I was painting the wainscoting darker than the top of the wall, she took a long step back and looked at me with that "you are crazy" look I get a lot. Oh well, thanks for nothing.

So I picked my own colours, and then went home and got to work. Flooring in the hallway was replaced, the walls were painted and the dreaded wainscoting was installed. We've now started on the guest room, which is partially painted. I think I might leave it as it is and call it a theme. The Unfinished Room has an air of mystery, don't you think?

These are some things I have learned this week:

Nothing in our basement is standard size. It's all an inch or two smaller, or an inch or two bigger.
My husband, who claims not to have a creative bone in his body, can get pretty darn creative with his language when he realizes that the door he bought does not fit the doorway.
You should not shake a can of paint unless you are absolutely sure it is closed tight.
Dropping a door on your foot hurts.
Hammering your little finger hurts more.
Despite the hard work and mishaps, seeing the results of your labour is worth it in the end (maybe this works best when you have a bad memory).

Lost on the Rock Honourable Mention - John Wiswell

2011-05-27T07:00:00.002-02:30

The submissions for the Lost on the Rock contest were all stellar pieces of writing. Reading them was a pleasure but, as you can imagine with a theme like "Lost", is was a bit of a downer after a bit. That's why this short story stood out. It was like a quick breath of fresh air. It was also the only story where both Alan and I guessed the author before opening V's sealed envelope - a sign of this writer's inimitable style. You can read more of John's work on his blog The Bathroom Monologues.

John Wiswell is known far and wide for his razor sharp wit and clever satarical humour. Enjoy this story that was well deserving of an honourable mention. You can check out the other Honourable Mention, Gerard Smith's Numbers, at Alan's Conversations from Land's Edge.

Simply Lost

Bradley rested his forehead on his palms in that way that set his fingertips along his hairline. It was oddly comforting and he needed odd comforts right now.

He was going to miss the end of Lost. The whole final season. Those bastards stretched the show out so badly that he didn’t even know when they’d air the new episodes. Could he write the network and ask to see them early? Or at least have one of their two hundred stars drop by and tell him how it all ended? It was a stupid show. He was pretty sure at this point they were just pulling ancient smog gods and nuclear bomb-induced time travel out of their asses, but he couldn’t know for sure unless he saw it. That first season had been so smart. So calculated. At least part of it had to have some grand design. At the very least Kate was going to have to pick a man instead of bopping between Sawyer and Jack like a hormonal ping-pong ball. And he wanted to know who she'd pick, dammit.

He sighed. You never knew what would come to mind in situations like these.

“So two months?” he asked, looking up at the doctor from between his fingers. “There’s nothing we can do?”

Lost on the Rock Contest - 4th Place Story

2011-05-26T07:00:00.002-02:30

Mike Jackson is another new name that popped up during our Lost on the Rock contest. He says he is a 'late bloomer' when it comes to the writing scene, but that doesn't stop him from churning out some good stories. You can read more about Mike at Alan's Blog Conversations from Land's Edge.

This story, though short and told through one point of view, captures several aspects of the Lost theme - loss of memory, loss of self, loss of loved ones.

Where is Esther?

I wonder why this lovely policewoman wants to talk to me, I’m sure I’ve not done anything wrong. I must say she’s very pretty, but so young. They always say, don’t they, when you start to notice that people in authority are looking younger it’s a sure sign that you must be getting older. What’s that she’s saying?

“Excuse me sir, are you OK?”

What a strange question. Of course I’m OK, why shouldn’t I be? My gout is playing up a bit at the moment but I’m sure she can’t be referring to that. What would a woman her age know about gout. I suppose she’s just being polite.

“Can you hear me sir? I was asking if everything is alright?”

She’s at it again, more strange questions. I wonder why it is that she’s started talking so slowly and in a raised voice? That’s the trouble with youngsters these days, they are too quick to make assumptions. Just because I’m a bit older than her she seems to think that I’m stone deaf. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she doesn’t check out my teeth and my eyes next. What’s she doing now? Why is she holding my hand? I’m not complaining mind you, it’s a long time since a pretty young girl held my hand. I hope Esther doesn’t catch us doing this.

“Why don’t you sit down here sir, I’m sure you will be much more comfortable and maybe we can have a little chat. Do you want to tell me your name.”

Well this is a turn up for the books. Sitting on a park bench being chatted up by a pretty young lady. Mind you she’s being a bit forward, I always thought it should be the man doing all the running. Before we know what’s happening she’ll be asking me where I live and then wanting to go to the pictures or something. I’m flattered of course but I think I might be a little bit to old for her and then of course there’s Esther. That reminds me I wonder where she’s got to? I’m sure she told me to meet her in the park.

“Look sir I can’t help you if you wont speak to me. Are you supposed to be meeting someone?”

Now might be a good time to tell her about Esther, let her down gently before she gets her hopes up too much. Goodness knows what Esther will say when she comes along. She can get very jealous can my Esther. I wonder what’s keeping her? I bet she’s chatting up that butcher to see if she can get extra meat rations this week. What with the war only just ended she does a marvellous job making those food rations stretch as far as they do. Maybe she’ll get some sausages, I like sausage, not had them for a long time.

“Here you are sir, here’s my colleague, she’s got a nice warm blanket to wrap around you.”

Two pretty policewoman! Today is certainly turning out to be my lucky day. I’m not sure why they are wrapping that blanket around me, though I must admit it has gone a bit chilly. My fault I should have listened to Esther when she told me to put my scarf on this morning. Hello who’s this young chap walking towards us? He certainly looks a bit agitated. I hope he isn’t one of their boyfriends come looking for trouble. That’s all I need, Esther to catch me fighting over two young ladies. I really would be in trouble then. What’s that he's saying?

“Thank goodness you found him officers. Is he OK?”

“May we ask who you are sir?”

“Sorry, I’m his son. My wife and I have been out looking for him for ages now. He slipped out of the house earlier this morning without us noticing.”

“You do know that he’s got no clothes on don’t you sir.”

“I thought so. He often does that. He simply forgets that he’s not got dressed. I should have guessed that he’d be here. It’s where he and my mum used to do their courting just after the war.”

“Is she still alive sir, your mum?”

“No, she died almost 5 years ago now. He can’t remember that and keeps talking to her or asking where she is. I’m glad in a way, I don’t think she would have been able to cope with him as he is now. Can I take him home now before he freezes to death?”

“Of course sir.”

“Come on dad, let’s get you home and dressed. Ann has got some lovely sausages in for your breakfast. You like sausages, remember.”

Strange, that young man has stopped talking to the police and is now talking to me. He doesn’t look angry now so maybe he’s not a boyfriend looking for a fight. Though I don’t know why he’s going on about sausages, I hate sausages. Did he just call me dad? What a strange thing to say. You do get some funny people in this park nowadays, perfect strangers coming up to you and calling you dad, whatever next. Hello, what’s he doing now? He’s got hold of my arm. Where's he taking me? Constable stop him. What’s happening? Where’s my Esther?

Bio: I've come to writing late in life but have always enjoyed telling stories. As a primary school teacher and for 25 years a Headteacher I had lots of children to tell stories to! I've been retired for almost two years now and am thoroughly enjoying the time and the freedom to write. I enjoy writing stories for my 'Short Stories' blog and meeting lots of other enthusiastic writers/bloggers.

Interview with Sue Harding

2011-05-25T08:21:00.001-02:30

Susan Harding was a new name to me, but her story Oubliette, found today at Alan's blog Conversations from Land's Edge, really struck a chord. It gave me a chance to get to know her better, and I can say that I am very glad she decided to get Lost on the Rock.

Have you ever been lost? Physically? Emotionally? Gramatically?

Physically lost - I remember being lost after apparently telling my mother I could find my own way home from school – I followed the rest of the kids out of the school gate, not realising that we lived in the opposite direction, and eventually was found by a kind woman who rushed from her house to see what was the matter when she heard me bellowing my lungs out. (well, I was only 6!)

Emotionally lost – the last occasion was the demise of our faithful hound, last year.

Grammatically lost – frequently! Especially when I’m so caught up in the action of a scene I’m writing – I can end up with outrageously long sentences that have to be judiciously pruned in order to make sense when re-read!

Tell us about your writing. What is your favourite genre?

I love to read and write mystery/thrillers; especially ones with twists in the tail. I love that sense of working out why or how or whodunit and then the ‘oh, gosh – I didn’t expect that…!’ moment that runs up and smacks you in the face. I really like trying to give my readers that last minute 'slug', too.

Do you have a favourite story or character you’ve written?

Ouch – that’s a hard one! Choosing a favourite story or character would be like having to choose which of my kids to save from a burning house. Hmmm …. well, there’s a character I created called Detective Sergeant Barry Farmer who I’ve put in some pretty gut-wrenching situations in a couple of novels (‘Domino’ and ‘No Lullaby’) I’ve been working on. I have plans for more 'Farmer-torture' in the future (‘By My Side’ and ‘Side-step’)

Where is your writing space?

Sprawled on a couch in the conservatory/sun-room with my laptop, surrounded by scribbled notes and screwed up bits of paper.

Are you working on anything right now?

The aforementioned titles are ongoing, but I’ve just set myself a weekly flash-fiction theme – ‘Thursday@3’. The premise is to produce a story with ‘three’ as a focus, so it could be three sentences, three paragraphs, or three characters; in fact three in any form, even just as part of the title. With a maximum of 300 words, the weekly entries are posted on Thursdays, at.....3pm! (UK time) Anyone is welcome to visit my blog and add their own contributions!

When you think of Newfoundland, what pops into your mind?

Dogs! Great big gorgeous slobbering ones!

After eleven years' hard-labour as a Library Assistant I am fortunate to have been able to give up work this year and am now a 'kept woman'! (well, I think that sounds better then the 'pensioner' connotation of early retirement!) I now spend my days reading, writing, knitting (no, it's not boring - excellent time to mind-plot!) and in keeping with my persona as a life-member of the Campaign for Real Ale, consuming quantities of quality brews and red wine - though not both at the same time!

I hang out at my blog: I Refuse to Go Quietly. Callers there are most welcome, especially if they'd like to contribute to 'Thursday @ 3'!

Interview with Denise Covey

2011-05-24T07:00:00.001-02:30

Our 2nd Place winner, Denise Covey, is well known in the #fridayflash community. Her love of writing is quite apparent to anyone who reads her work, and her love of blogging comes a close second. She says:

I love to blog and have several. Last year I decided my writing blog, L’Aussie Writing was getting very cluttered. I decided to have different blogs for different aspects of my writing.

These blogs include:

A Travel Blog - Here I wrote daily posts during the recent A – Z Challenge so there are many exotic destinations to check out. I am currently adding my research for my next trip – France, Spain, Morocco...

A French Travel Blog - devoted to my French travels, stories and book reviews.

A #fridayflash Blog - dedicated to my #fridayflash stories most Fridays.

She also collaborates on a book review blog, Reading at Dawn, with Dawn Embers and Writers Block NZ. She posts a review every fortnight.

Denise has just launched a Romantic Friday Writers site for romance writers to showcase their work (a bit like a romantic #fridayflash.) "I've has teamed up with my Pommie blogger friend Francine Howarth from Romancing the Blog for this project," she says. "I hope any romance writers reading this will check it out and join in the fun. We are going to feature a Writer of the Week and are considering collating an anthology of the best romantic flash fiction stories to publish in Summer 2012."

Denise also had some great answers to our questions.

Have you ever been lost? Physically? Emotionally? Grammatically?

Yes, I was lost in the best possible place, Venice, where you’re supposed to get lost. I’d decided to meander through the misty early-morning streets and watch how food was delivered to the shops – no delivery trucks – they use wheelbarrows off the barges. Anyway, had no idea where I was and spoke no Italian. No one could even understand my ‘Canal Grande per favor?’ Eventually I was ‘unlost’ but what fun!

Tell us about your writing. What is your favourite genre?

That’s hard. I have very eclectic tastes. I love women’s fiction a la Jodi Picoult, Anita Shreve et al, but inhale crime/courtroom writers like James Patterson, John Lestroart, Michael Connolly and co, and adore the oldies-but-goodies like Ernest Hemingway, F Scott Fitzgerald, Jane Austen…better stop!

Do you have a favourite story or character you’ve written?

I have two novels in the edit phase and I adore both my strong female main characters – the first a young French girl following her dreams and the second a survivor with attitude. But I love my Arabian woman in my Lost on a Rock story. This is an excerpt from a much larger story where I show so much more about her. She is one tragic, yet brave lady.

Where is your writing space?

I have a few – a little home office in my inner-city Brisbane apartment, a deck at our beach house overlooking the Pacific Ocean on the Sunshine Coast, and a nook at the Brisbane Square Library which is my home away from home (and just a 5-minute walk away.)

Are you working on anything right now?

Yes, I’m doing revisions on two novels, writing and submitting short stories, creating flash fiction for the blogosphere (#fridayflash and #romanticfridaywriters) and writing travel articles which I’ve had published in Oz. I’m about to head off on a month’s trip, researching my third novel which is going to be set in the Dordogne, France. Woo hoo! Nice work if you can get it, as they say…

When you think of Newfoundland, what pops into your mind?

(I resisted the lure of google, so these are my first responses and may be way off...) Cold. Pretty houses. Ports. Bleak landscape. Sharp rocks and hills. Water everywhere. Winds. Shipping News. Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow?? I need to go there!

Denise published her first short story at eleven when her dog saved her from being bitten by a snake. She was delighted when it won a competition and so she was bitten by the writing bug. After studying Arts, she taught High School which gave her endless story scenarios. She now tutors English, and writes constantly. She has written two novels and has short stories and travel features published.

Denise loves to travel and dreams of writing a travel narrative. If she’s not at her laptop you can find her reading, researching or running. You can find her at her writing blog: http://laussieswritingblog.blogspot.com.

Lost on the Rock Contest - 1st Place

2011-05-23T07:00:00.017-02:30

The name Angel Zapata is a familiar one in online writing circles, especially if you have a taste for the dark and twisted. But beneath that terrifying exterior lies the soul of a poet, and it is that subtle touch that gives Angel's writing a keen edge, polished and sharp.

This story seems innocuous at first read, but it burrows deep. It was this lasting impression that earned it the first place prize.

Make sure to read our interview with Angel at Alan's blog Conversations from Land's Edge.

Keeners

“Are you able to cry at will?” Mr. Dennis, the funeral director, looked up from his desk and set the interview form aside. “This is a key requirement for the job.”

Jeremy stood before him and stared straight ahead. He’d taken acting classes at his community college over ten years earlier. Within thirty seconds, his baby-blues began to well and shed tears. “How’s that?”

“Good.” His eyes were piercing. “Now I need to hear you grieve.”

“Excuse me?”

“There needs to be wailing. They will expect you to take on their pain.”

Without hesitation, Jeremy connected with the core of his being. He latched onto his own personal predicament and the recent death of his mother. He cried out in genuine anguish.

“Excellent.” Mr. Dennis applauded lightly. “When can you make yourself available?”

My rent’s due at the end of the week.” Jeremy wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I can start today.”

You’ll begin tonight.” Mr. Dennis smoothed out his beard. “Wear a black suit.”

* * *

Prior to the temp agency sending him over, Jeremy had never heard of hiring a mourner.

On the way back from his interview, he stopped down at the local library and researched the position online. He discovered that in many cultures it was common to employ weepers, sometimes called wailers or keeners. They were men or women given the responsibility to promote an atmosphere of grief at the memorial service and lead the lament for lost love ones. They often aided family and friends who found themselves either emotionally exhausted or emotionally hesitant to openly express their sorrow.

He felt honored to perform such a task.

Back at his room, he faced the dull dresser mirror and combed his thin, blond hair. The sleeves on the suit and shirt he purchased from the thrift shop were way too long, but would have to make do. He was just grateful the shoes the guy next door gave him fit comfortably.

Before the big layoff, he had spent nine years installing burglar alarm systems. He was unmarried and had lived in a great neighborhood with a thriving singles scene. He missed it.

Then his mother suffered a sudden, fatal heart attack.

It had crushed him.

Three months later, he depleted his savings account and was forced to give up his apartment and move into a motel room downtown.

He was lost. But now there was hope.

He knotted his tie and rehearsed his role with a dozen perfect tears.

* * *

My name’s Becca,” she said solemnly and extended her hand to Jeremy. “I’ll be your mentor.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“Becca has been with us for almost two years,” Mr. Dennis explained. “She has assisted numerous families through the overwhelming burden of heartache.”

Jeremy stared into her dark, red-rimmed eyes and thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Are you ready for this?” Becca said softly. She reached out, hooked his arm in hers, and led him down the hall. “A mother of two very young children has passed away.”

Jeremy’s heart was pounding.

They paused in the doorway of the dimly lit parlor. A handful of mourners sat scattered about like autumn leaves.

In the front row, the husband of the deceased turned away from the coffin. His eyes were hollow holes. He caught Becca’s attention and slowly nodded consent.

Becca took a deep breath. “Remember, no matter what Mr. Dennis says, this is not some play we’re acting in,” she whispered to Jeremy. “In this moment, I am her husband.” She dropped to her knees and cried out.

Every head turned and gasped.

Becca crawled across the brown carpet, clutched her chest, and sobbed uncontrollably. She covered her mouth and bowed her head. Long, black hair came unpinned and poured down either side of her face.

The husband began to moan from deep in his throat. He’d finally given himself permission to grieve.

Jeremy slipped inside the room and sat on a folding chair against the wall. A minute later, a little girl rose from her seat, teetered up the side aisle, and approached him.

“Are you here to say good-bye to my mommy?” She crinkled her nose.

“Yes, I am,” Jeremy responded.

“Good,” she said happily and wandered off.

Jeremy smiled and let his tears flow uninterrupted.

Becca screamed and collapsed.

Everyone watched her lift her arms, stretch them toward the funerary candles, until the space between her fingers became flames of quiet light.

Angel Zapata respects the dead. His horror short story collection, The Man of Shadows is available in paperback or eBook through Panic Press and Amazon. He also edits 5x5 Fiction: 25-word stories told in 5 sentences of 5 words each. Visit http://arageofangel.blogspot.com/ and http://5x5fiction.blogspot.com/

Drum Roll Please...

2011-05-22T07:00:00.003-02:30

And now the moment you've all been waiting for. The judges and staff at Lost on the Rock would like to thank you all for being here. There were many fantastic stories, many insightful thoughts on the theme of "Lost". After many hours of reading and discussion, much pacing, and many punches thrown, we narrowed it down to four winners and two honourable mentions.

The envelope please.

Hmm, that envelope looks a bit battered. Oh well, no matter. It's what's on the inside that counts. The winners are:

1st Place
Keeners by Angel Zapata

2nd Place
Lost by Denise Covey

3rd Place
Oubliette by Susan Harding

4th Place
Where is Esther? by Mike Jackson

Honourable Mentions
Simply Lost by John Wiswell
Numbers by Gerard Smith

Many, many thanks to everyone who participated. We thoroughly enjoyed each story that was submitted. We were so impressed at the wide range of stories, as well as the number of regions represented by the submissions. There were several names in the list that were unfamiliar to us, and it's always fun to meet new writers.

I would also like to thank my co-host, Alan Davidson, and his lovely wife V, who worked diligently behind the scenes to ensure the smooth running of the contest.

The schedule for the stories and interviews here at Calling Shotgun are is as follows:
Monday - 1st Place story Keeners by Angel Zapata
Tuesday - Interview with writer Denise Covey
Wednesday - Interview with writer Susan Harding
Thursday - 4th Place story Where is Esther? by Mike Jackson
Friday - Honourable Mention story Simply Lost by John Wiswell

Over at Alan's blog Conversations from Land's Edge the schedule is:

Monday - Interview with contest winner, writer Angel Zapata
Tuesday - 2nd place story "Lost" by Denise Covey
Wednesday - 3rd place story "Oubliette" by Susan Harding
Thursday - Interview with 4th place writer Mike Jackson
Friday - Honourable mention story "Numbers" by Gerard Smith

Make sure to come back and read the award winning stories, and also see what these writers have to say about the contest, the craft, and the Rock.

I'll be the judge of that

2011-05-20T08:28:00.000-02:30

The judging for the Lost on the Rock contest 2011 is finished.

It wasn't nearly as action packed as we anticipated. I lugged my boxing gloves all the way to Alan's house for nothing. We were surprisingly in agreement on out choices, though it was very difficult to narrow them down, and choose only four winners. That left lots of time for some snacks served on a classy Muskoka platter and some wine to aid the decisions.

It was a blind judging process, so we had no idea who had written the stories as we read and discussed them - all thanks to Alan's lovely wife V, who acted as our go-between. She presented the envelope at the end of the night with a list of all the authors. It was all very exciting.

We will announce the winners on Sunday, with a schedule of appearance for the stories and interviews. Along with first, second, thrid and fourth place, we chose two honourable mentions. That was the hardest part. We wish we could run them all.

Thanks to to everyone who entered. Each story was a pleasure to read. It was interesting to see the many different takes on our theme of lost. We're fortunate to belong to such an amazing online community, rich in talent.

For more about our judging adventures, check out Alan's take over at Conversations from Land's Edge. No doubt you'll find it entertaining.

The Post That Wasn't

2011-05-14T10:57:00.000-02:30

I was going to post the second part of my story Duckish yesterday for #fridayflash, but as you may have heard, Alan broke Blogger. My window for posting was a short one, and so part two will have to wait until next week.

So instead I have this non-post. A sort of filler just to keep the place warm for my triumphant return. Well, my return will probably be more of a slow shuffle after this week, but you get the idea. I've been busy, busy busy.

I am in the process of perusing the Lost on the Rock contest entries. There are some interesting takes on the theme, and some fun stories in there. I'm also in training to take on Alan and Ellen in defense of my favourites. I'm not pulling any punches in this battle.

I've also been helping out at my very favourite event of the year. Etcetera 25 is taking place this week, a huge production starring some of the most talented kids you could ever see. This is the twenty-fifth year (hence the 25) and the show includes the best songs from previous years. It has everything from ballet to Broadway, Queen to the Backstreet Boys, and everything in between. I love being a part of it all, getting to know the kids, watching it all come together. It's really an amazing thing.

This is one of the songs being performed in the show - Butterfly by Rajaton. It's one of my favourites. I wish you could all see the Etcetera performance of it (so beautiful with the dancers) but you'll have to settle for the original. ;)

Lost Again

2011-05-10T10:54:00.000-02:30

Hi there. I'm Laurita Miller. You may remember me from such posts as Duckish (Part 1) and the abandoned poetry month.

I have been offline for a bit. Not intentionally. Life sometimes grabs us by the scruff of the neck and drags us off in directions we don't anticipate. That's what keeps things interesting. It's also what keeps us offline. I missed the last week of poetry month. Those poems are still sitting around, waiting to be used. I'll throw them out here and there over the next while. I also have the next installment of Duckish waiting in the wings. So, yeah, I know I've been missing. You could even say I've been lost...

And speaking of lost (hey Alan, You see what I did there?), the deadline for the Lost on the Rock contest has come and gone. We have a nice group of entries. Competition is fierce, and judging will not be easy. Look for those results soon, with stories and interviews from the top four entrants. You can find those here, and at Conversations from Land's Edge.

It will be a busy week for me, with the contest reading and the big Etcetera 25 show this week. But I'll be back soon, and I'm coming to visit. Put the coffee on.

Lost on the Rock 2011 Contest Update

2011-05-02T08:55:00.000-02:30

Just seven days left to get your stories in for the Lost on the Rock Flash Fiction Contest. Are you excited? I know I am. I can't wait to start reading all those "Lost" stories. If you aren't excited yet, have a look at the prizes for our lucky winners.

I have to give Alan the nod for this one as he did most of the leg work in procuring these prizes.

A copy of the 52 Stitches Horror Anthology, edited by Aaron Polson. Excellent for some late night reading, or to pass the time on a stormy night alone in your house. It includes stories from several familiar names, not the least of which is our own Alan Davidson.

The Cuffer Prize Anthology II, edited by Pam Frampton. This anthology is the product of a contest run by The Telegram (our local paper) and Creative Book Publishing. Each story takes place in Newfoundland, and they run from heartwarming to humorous, scary to sweet. You will once again recognize Alan's name in the table on contents, and you can find mine in there as well.

Haunted Shores, by Dale Jarvis. This is a collection of true Newfoundland ghost stores, collected by Jarvis, who is a folklorist, writer, storyteller and performer living in St. John's. It's all in here - ghost ships, mysterious lights, pirates, mourning ghosts and haunted streets. All of this is told with a heavy dose of Newfoundland culture and history.

To find out more about these prizes, or the contest, visit Alan's blog, Conversations from Land's Edge. You can go here to have a look at the rules. The top four stories will recieve one of these prizes, (along with a little token from Newfoundland) and have their stories and an interview published here and at Alan's place.

Lost yet?

Word Riot

2011-04-22T10:20:00.000-02:30

If I’d known then what I know now

I never would have begun

I thought that creating a story

Would be a lot of fun

It wouldn’t be very complicated

Or even very long

How was I to know that things

Would go so horribly wrong?

It started like this, it’s no lie

A comma jumped up and poked my I

Before I could blink, the letter T
Was tackled by an apostrophe

Questions marks, like little sharks

Zipped by without a pause
While a paragraph began to laugh
And showed its sharpened clause

The adverbs all left their places

And gathered together in herds

My sentence structure was horribly mangled

Infinitives split and participles dangled

I tell you the next time I decide to write

I’ll be sure to watch my words

April

2011-04-21T08:49:00.001-02:30

we still remain here
in winter's territory
spring is not ready

New Bicycle

2011-04-20T08:16:00.001-02:30

A bike! A bike!

A bike of my own

I can’t wait to get out

on the open road

The wind in my face

The wind in my hair

The whipping wind

The biting wind

The buggy wind

Cough! Ack!

Oh dear.

But I’m on the road

I like how it feels

The road rushing by
Under my wheels
The road is long
and wide and free
The winding road
The bumpy road
A pothole! A rock!
Oh! Ouch!
A tree.

Back on the path
at a slower pace
The road under my wheels
The wind in my face
Looking at things
along the way
A little dog
A running dog
A snapping dog
Yowch! Oh!
Hey!

The wind in my face
The road under my wheels
A little dog snapping
close on my heels
Why did I ever
decide to roam?
Peddling harder
Peddling faster
Peddling, peddling
Ahh, finally
Home.

Alligators

2011-04-19T08:01:00.000-02:30

I heard something very scary
And I know it must be true
I heard it from my cousin's friend
I think her name is Sue

Deep down in the sewers
Alligators grow
They were pets that no one wanted
So the owners let them go

I think I saw one yesterday
On the corner of Main Street
He was hiding in the storm drain
Trying to bite at passing feet

So now I'm very cautious
Always wary of attack
Because you never really know
When a gator wants a snack

My mother says I'm silly
My brother says I'm dumb
But I won't go near the toilet
I don't want to lose my bum!

John Wiswell reads Sprung

2011-04-17T10:46:00.001-02:30

John Wiswell, of The Bathroom Monologues fame, posted this recording of my poem, Sprung, in the comments this past week. I enjoyed it so much, I had to share.

Stop by John's blog for some of the best in wit and satire, and other good stuff too.

Lost on the Rock Contest 2011

2011-04-16T10:30:00.002-02:30

A rocky island

Far out on the Atlantic

A place to get lost

It's been about a year since I had a writing contest, and wouldn't you know it, the same goes for my good friend Alan Davidson over at Conversations from Land's Edge.

Lightbulb! Why not pool our resources and have a joint contest this year. Double your pleasure, double your fun, double your trouble. So we came up with the Lost on the Rock 2011 writing contest. The theme for this contest is "Lost" in any way you want to interpret it. Loss of life, loss of sanity, loss of teeth - it's entirely up to you. Just make sure that the theme is an integral part of the story. Deadline is May 8th.

The contest is open to anyone, anywhere. There will be prizes for the 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 4th place finishers. These talented folk will also have their stories published on our blogs, as well as an in depth interview.

The rules:

Stories of any genre that fit the ‘Lost’ theme - 1000 words or less.
We would prefer previously unpublished stories.
Send entries to lostontherock2011 (at) yahoo (dot) ca with Contest Submission, Story Title, and your name in the subject line of your email.
Place your story, and its title, in the body of the email. No attachments please. Make sure your name is in the subject line…NOT in the body of the email.
Spitting on the contest judges is strongly frowned upon.

All submissions sent to that newly created email address will be forwarded to the judges by a trusty Land’s Edge staffer. The stories will be 'blind judged' by me, Alan, Ellen, the third member or our writing group. Alan says "No pandering to the judges, please, as we are honest moral nearly impervious to such things" (I will take a bribe. Email me with your offer, but don't tell Alan).

The 1^st , 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th place entries earn bragging rights and will each receive a prize (TBA). The honourable mentions? They will also get to brag after their stories are published on our blogs.

All questions, comment an concerns can be forwarded to myself or Alan. Please feel free to pass along the word about the Lost on the Rock Contest 2011.

Happy Writing!

Cloud Tree

2011-04-15T08:01:00.000-02:30

By Lauren (age 5)

A cloud tree awakened

Early one spring

The buds all burst out

Little tufts

They grew and ripened

And then they fell off

But they didn’t fall down

They fell up

The blossoms were lovely

Soft white little clouds

That gathered together

To rain

They squeezed the drops gently

With love and great care

To water the tree

Once again

Searching

2011-04-14T08:17:00.000-02:30

I wanted to write this

To tell you that I am

    Angry

    Content

     Terribly in love

But the words are hard to gather

Truffles among thorns

And I am left with what is safe

That’s no way

to write a poem

No way to tell you that

    I will never be the same

     I will never change

I am a prisoner to the language

So please forgive

My humble attempts to tell you the things

     on my mind

     in my soul

    in my heart

I’m still searching.

Sprung

2011-04-13T08:14:00.001-02:30

The back yard is caked with mud
And thick with last year’s weeds
It is late, but still too cold
For planting any seeds

Dirty snow, once white, now grey
Clings to the yellow hills
Slushy puddles and icy rain
Combine to give you chills

Newly exhumed litter
Tumbles down the street
While the sidewalk, dark and greasy
Is slick beneath your feet

The stench of melting dog crap
Permeates the air –
All signs that spring has finally sprung
I hate this time of year

Prompt: write a poem expressing an opinion opposite to most.

Eclectic Flash

2011-04-12T05:48:00.003-02:30

My poem for today can be read in the literary journal Eclectic Flash. Have a look at my piece, Forgotten (pg 84-85), and browse through the other excellent writings. One of my favourite writers, Linda Simoni-Wastila, also has a flash in this issue, so make sure to read her Rules for Surviving Eighth Grade. The online copy of Eclectic Flash can be accessed below, or you can order a print copy here.

Thank you to the editors of Eclectic Flash for seeing something in Forgotten.

More eclectic flash

Paris

2011-04-11T09:55:00.000-02:30

Bright lights spread out below

One for every thought

That I can’t put into words.

The city watches each stolen moment

And sighs

As they slip away.
Do not worry if they fade
I will return
And have you again.

Alien Attack

2011-04-09T10:41:00.000-02:30

Last night I had a crazy dream

I was floating along in space

When an alien creature came creeping up

And clung onto my face

It was small and pink and blob-like

And clung with all its might

It wiggled around to squeeze into my ear

But I put up a fight

So it tried to tie me together

With a sticky kind of goo

That thing thought it was clever

But I was clever too

I flung that thing as hard as I could
And I’m sure you’ll understand

That I didn’t want to wait around

To see where it would land

I took off running as fast as I could

Tripping and gasping for air

I woke with a start, safe in my bed

With bubblegum stuck in my hair

Calling

2011-04-08T08:16:00.000-02:30

The pebbles are cold
hard beneath my bare feet
I close my eyes and listen
to the ocean
huuh-shh
huuh-shh
You walk along the shore
Canvas bag slung over your shoulder
Filled with the only things you need
             *
For two short weeks I keep you;
Short for me
Endless for you
I save small tasks to fill your days –
The squeaky gate
The leaf-filled gutter
You are restless
Though you pretend you are not
And I do the same
              *
Waves lap at my naked feet
And I step away from the sea
That takes what it wants
huuh-shh
huuh-shh
You take my hand and smile
“I’m off,” you say
And kiss my face
              *
“I have to go,” you tell me
On those nights
We lie awake
Long hours spent as days grow short
“The sea calls to me.”
Your voice is teasing
But you believe it true.
               *
And now you leave
Going out
as the tide comes in
huuh-shh
huuh-shh
I whisper your name
but you don't look back
               *
You have to go
I know this because
You always leave
But it is not the sea that calls you
I know this because
You always return.

Poem #7 - Dark Water

2011-04-07T08:45:00.001-02:30

Poem #6 - Regrets

2011-04-06T08:50:00.001-02:30

There’s a box of regrets
Hidden under my bed
A collection I’ve built
Over the years

It’s made up of old loves
Promises and lies
And a multitude
Of sorry tears

At times I take them out
Into the light
And carefully study
Each regret

I spend time with each one
And ponder it slowly
Just to make sure
I never forget

They aren’t very pretty
And they’re heavy to hold
All of those things
That I’ve done wrong

Then I put them all back
Far under the bed
In the darkness and dust
Where they belong

Poem #5 - Postcard from Somewhere

2011-04-05T08:04:00.001-02:30

Sixteen days and we’re still
on the road
somewhere between
here and there.
The weather’s been good
and we’re doing fine.
We’ll be in touch when
We get there.
Wherever that is.

Poem #4 - The Worstest Dog

2011-04-04T07:10:00.001-02:30

You are very bad

You’re the worstest dog

That I’ve ever had

You chewed up all my dolls

You peed on my new shoe

I don’t think there will ever be
A worser dog than you

You won’t get off my bed
You make an awful stink
You always bark so loud
I can hardly think

But I guess you’re kind of cute
You’re loyal and you’re true
Until I find a better dog
I guess that you will do

Poem #3 - Mired Dreams

2011-04-03T09:10:00.003-02:30

I wrote this poem a couple of years ago. Some might recognize it.

A young man’s shadow follows me around
The weight on my shoulders can’t hold him down
So many places he could be
Too bad he’s tied to me

Old men drinking at the bar
Some guy plays tunes on an old guitar
The seat at the farthest end is free
I think they’re saving it for me

I might be missing something
Or nothing at all
I’ll probably never know
It’s hard when your dreams are running in place
But sometimes it’s harder to go

I stayed here but I don’t know why
Guess I’m not much good at saying goodbye
Thought this town was a prison before
I don’t think that anymore

-------

Alan Davidson has a fun game up today at his blog Conversations from Land's Edge. It started off as a game to create your band name/album cover, but Alan has tweaked the rules to suit us wordsmiths. The object is to create your seedy novel, and the rules are as follows:

1. Go to Wikipedia and hit "Random article" (top left margin). The third random Wikipedia article you hit is the name of your seedy novel.

2. Go to the Prank Call Name Generator for your fictitious writer's name. Note: don't be intimidated by having to type your name. Use the name of a writing friend or someone you dislike if you choose.

3. Go to the Charlie Sheen quote generator for an endorsement for the cover of your seedy novel. Why Charlie? Well, in a seedy way he's sort of popular right now.

4. Go to Flickr and click on “Explore" (bottom centre) then click "Interesting photos from the last seven days” (right margin). The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover. If that one can not be saved, move to the next one in sequence. Note: you MAY want to give a photo credit to the Flickr person you pilfered the shot from...

5. Use Photoshop or something similar (picnik.com is a free online photo editor) to put it all together.

6. Post the photo with these instructions at your blog.

So I gave it a go, but my end result wasn't seedy at all. In fact, all the pieces came together quite nicely, in a humorous sort of way. Here it is:

Photo by maryaben

Poem #2 - Poison

2011-04-02T06:44:00.005-02:30

Shiny red and sweetest taste
The apple betrays once again
O! That I could have seen
such wickedness disguised
One bite
And now in silence I am kept
impatient
I have far better things to do
than wait here for
a prince.

From the prompt "write from the point of view of a fictional character".

National Poetry Month

2011-04-01T06:14:00.014-02:30

I tried this poet thing once before

Who knew that I'd be back for more?

To eat and sleep and breathe in rhyme

and think of poems all the time

Fussing about length, width and diamter

And speaking in iambic pentameter

Cuplets, quatrains, free verse too

Tanka, ballad, and haiku

Thirty days of poetry

worse for you, or worse for me?

Indeed, I am an April fool

It's National Poetry Month - take two.

Once again I will attempt to write one poem a day for the next 30 days. I am not a trained professional, so feel free to try this at home.

This is a Recording

2011-03-29T15:00:00.008-02:30

I came home on Sunday night to a lovely message from "Cathy Webster from Ontario". It's always a pleasure to hear from Cathy, she's like a spot of sunshine.

The gist of her message was that I should do a recording of my #fridayflash story Duckish (part1). She'd already mentioned this in the comments, but that wasn't enough. It needed a follow up call.

I've never tried to record anything I've written. I probably wouldn't have done it at all except for the phone call. Cathy was just so sweet and so damn ~~manipulative~~ convincing.

It took four tries to get this. The first three times were incoherent, even to me. I laughed myself silly. It really seemed unnatural to speak so slowly ("Slow?" you say. "Ha!" - I heard you). You might still need to read along to figure out what I'm saying. Forewarned is forearmed.

So here is my first recording attempt. Enjoy, or at least pretend you did.

Biking the Bridge

2011-03-28T08:24:00.001-02:30

When we decided on a trip to San Francisco, my husband’s main focus was planning a walk across the Golden Gate Bridge. It would be a better experience than merely driving across, he said, and the best way to get some great photos. I agreed, so we put aside a day stroll on the bridge.

But early in our trip Jonathan discovered that we could rent bicycles to ride across the bridge. This, he decided, would be the ultimate experience. His enthusiasm would have been contagious but for a small problem. I had not been on a bike in over 15 years. I had never ridden a bike with gears or handlebar brakes. I had never ridden a bike where a helmet was required. And I had certainly never ridden a bike in city traffic. I was nervous. Very nervous.

We arrived at the bike rental shop around 11:00 a.m. on the day of the outing. We were fitted for bikes and bright green helmets, given a quick rundown of the route, and we were off. I had a few false starts, but by the time we reached the first big hill, I’d mastered the gears and breaking. The first stretch of the ride was along the fisherman’s wharf, and required us to bike through traffic and across busy streets. Once we reached the bicycle path it was much easier to relax and enjoy. Jonathan, who’d biking to work for the past few years, showed considerable patience while I figured things out.

Fort Point in the fog

The day started off quite foggy, as days in San Francisco are known to do. It turned out to be perfect for biking. We took a short detour to view the bridge from Fort Point, and we watched some surfers there before heading up the steep incline to the bridge entrance. This was the most challenging part of the ride, and I had to get off and push my bike at some points.

By the time we reached the bridge, the sun had come through. I was intimidated at first by the crowds, and by the massive size of the bridge, but the ride was much easier than I expected. We took our time, being mindful of pedestrians and other cyclists, especially those who came around the pillars a little too quickly.

View from the bridge

We stopped at a few points along the way, to take some photos and enjoy the view, which is spectacular but dizzying if you lean too close to the edge. The Golden Gate Bridge itself is remarkable to see, and biking across gave us a new perspective of this iconic structure.

Once across the bridge we continued on to Sausalito, where it was suggested that we get a bite to eat and return to San Francisco, either across the bridge or on the ferry. Although I was still a little nervous at this point, neither of us was tired or ready to end our day.

Some fellow cyclists resting in Sausalito

We biked through the town at a leisurely pace, then continued on to Bothin Marsh. This was a section of the ride I particularly enjoyed. It was such a lovely day; warm, sunny. We saw egrets wading in the marsh, and many other smaller birds I couldn’t identify. It was such a peaceful place, and I tried to burn every image into my memory.

We decided to continue our course to Tiburon. This involved a few uphill climbs, but the strenuous nature of the ride was worth it for the views. We met a man with a Mark Twin moustache who nodded and offered encouragement. “Not much further,” he told us. We passed the Audubon center, and just a little further down the road, we were treated to some fresh organic lemonade, sold by a little boy and his mom outside their home. It was icy cold and so good, just what we needed to get us through the last stretch.

By the time we reached Tiburon we were famished. We shared a pizza, then strolled around the waterfront area while we awaited the ferry. By the time we returned the bikes to the rental place it was just before 7:00 pm. We had been on the road almost eight hours, and had travelled approximately 32 km (20 miles).

A word of warning for beginning bicyclists: Although I would highly recommend this outing, it is very strenuous and could be problematic for beginners. I had some trouble with the bigger hills, and although I wasn’t sore the next day, my legs felt like jello. The routes that take in the bridge alone, or the short ride to Sausalito are perfect for new or (like me) rusty cyclists.

View from the ferry

It’s interesting to note that the experience I dreaded most turned out to be the highlight of our trip. I’ll never forget it. Just like riding a bike.

Duckish (Part 1)

2011-03-25T09:05:00.003-02:30

“Think, Maggie. Think. Use the sense God gave you.”

That’s what he always said. Think. She would love to, but sure who could do that with family on all sides yammering at you? Everyone talking, nobody listening. Her father was the worst of the lot.

Maggie shifted and straightened her legs in front of her. The damp grass was beginning to soak through her skirt. Far below, the waves rolled onto the rocks with a gentle shoosh that was pure music. The sea was calm today, and it calmed Maggie as well.

Her father would have a fit if he knew she was here. He didn’t want her going too close to the cliffs, or wandering through Major’s woods to get there. His fears ranged from real dangers to superstitious nonsense. She’d slip and fall, she’d get lost, the fairies or some other ancient evil would get her. You’d swear she was two instead of twenty. But he wanted her to think, didn’t he? And this was the only place she could do that.

Everyone had an opinion about her life. Her father thought she should go back to school, become a nurse, work at the General Hospital in St. John’s. Use her brains. That’s what she had ‘em for. Her grandmother thought she should go find a man, someone with money and a big house.

They didn’t understand.

She could never live in the city. She belonged here. She liked working in the café. She wanted to get her own place, open her own little bookstore, right here in Gallows Cove. That was her dream. Marriage was hardly a concern. She’d go down that road if, and only if, the right man came along. She wasn’t going to go looking for him.

Maggie rubbed her arms. The fog was rolling in, and it was getting cold. She took one last look out over the ocean and then pushed to her feet. The ground was soft from heavy rains, and as she stood, part of the threshold gave away under her foot.

She scrambled as she fell, grabbing at stalks and grass that came away in her hands. Pebbles rained onto her head as she slid and grabbed. Her fingers grasped a narrow ridge in the rock and she clung on as the wind snatched at her clothes and hair. She was a few feet from the top, too far to reach, and with no foot hold, she couldn’t climb up.

Maggie closed her eyes. Maybe someone would find her here. Maybe her father would come looking for her. She almost laughed. Yes, or maybe the fairies would come to the rescue. Her fingers were already starting to ache. She looked around for a more secure handhold, but the only thing near enough to grab was rock jutting out from the earth a few feet to the left. It would give her a little more surface to grip, but once she let go of the ledge there was no going back. What if the rock wasn’t stable? What if her weight pulled it from the cliff and she fell into the icy water below? Maggie looked down. She would be lucky to hit the water, and not the rocks.

The ache in her fingers had turned to a sharp pain, and now a tingling numbness was setting in. That rock was her only chance of getting back on solid ground, or of hanging on long enough to be rescued. There really wasn’t much choice. Maggie clenched her jaw and swung her arm out and up.

Book Recommendation: Come, Thou Tortoise by Jessica Grant

2011-03-20T10:53:00.001-02:30

Jessica Grant’s debut novel is an enjoyable read that combines quirky humour with a captivating, insightful story.

Audrey Flowers is adrift, abandoned by her boyfriend, and living in Portland, Oregon. When she finds out that her father has been in an accident, she leaves her pet tortoise, Winnifred, with friends and travels home to St. John’s, Newfoundland.

We learn about the endearingly innocent Audrey (or Oddly as she is called by her family) through her own ordeals, and through the eyes of her beloved tortoise. More importantly, we watch as Audrey learns about herself.

Come, Thou Tortoise is a story about family, love, hope, loss, life, and maintaining a sense a humour through it all. Grant keeps up a whirlwind pace through short chapters, peculiar word play, and colourful characters. Yet, she maintains a depth that carries the story through a heartwarming conclusion.

I would not say no to more books from Jessica Grant.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

2011-03-17T09:07:00.003-02:30

It's a quiet St. Paddy's Day here. Our celebrating was done this past weekend with good friends, good music and lots of good food. And family, of course, who are always the best entertainment anyway. There were a few interesting events that will be imortalized in poem or song, for sure.

But I'll still take the time today to raise a pint to all my friends, and leave you with this toast.

May those who love us, love us.

And those who don’t love us, may God turn their hearts.

And if he doesn’t turn their hearts, may he turn their ankles,

So we may know them by their limping.

sláinte

PS: There's a free download of Roddy Doyle's short story Brilliant for anyone interested in a literary way to celebrate.

March Madness

2011-03-14T12:21:00.000-02:30

Just a couple of days gone and I have so much catching up to do.

Firstly, let me point you in the direction of Chris Allinotte's March Madness showcase. I was delighted to have my story, Paranoia, chosen to start off the week. Drop back each day this week for more stories that are sure to disturb. Chris's blog, The Leaky Pencil, has a great new look as well.

A big thanks to everyone who showed up for the grand re-opening. I had a great time. And thanks to everyone who helped clean up after the time. I tossed all the names into the sock monkey hat (two for those of you who wrote the awesome limericks) and my lovely assistant pulled out the names. Here are the winners:

Tval lotion and lipgloss
Stacey (from Word of Mouse Book Reviews)

Brilliant Ideas Mouse Pad
John Wiswell

Amazon Gift Card
Sean Patrick Reardon

Come Thou, Tortoise
Erin Cole

I'll be in touch with each of the winners to arrange the delivery of your prizes.

Thanks everyone!

Shave for the Brave - The Mane Event

2011-03-12T15:12:00.002-03:30

Before

I've been talking about it for months, and now the deed is done. I didn't sleep a wink last night, thinking about the events of the day ahead. I decided I would get up and head to the mall early to scope out the set up for the Shave for the Brave.

When I lined up at 10:00 am, there were about a dozen people ahead of me. Ten minutes later the lineup went all the way back past several stores, and around the corner. A lot of people were giving up their hair today for a good cause.

I'm lucky to have a very good friend who stopped by to bring me a coffee as I waited in line. It was so well organized, and moved so quickly that my son Jon and I barely had time to get settled after registration when our numbers were called to be shorn.

I was nervous. Very nervous. I didn't think I would be, but my hands were shaky and I had butterflies. I sat in the chair and within seconds Crystal was piling my wavy locks into my lap, and telling me how nice my head looked. There were lots of onlookers, and we could see a lot of familiar smiling (and giggling) faces in the crowd. We had some family watching, and some friends. Alan Davidson and his boy, Sean, were there to show their support and it was great to see them. Alan, having done something similar himself a while back, had some advice, but he wasn't giving up his fez.

Just the start

All my hair in my lap

In no time at all, we were all done. The staff on hand were so cheerful and encouraging, and it was just a great experience overall.

After

I learned very quickly how big a part hair plays in helping to regulate body temperature. Just walking through the mall under the air conditioning vents gave me a chill. Good thing they give us those awesome bright yellow Shave for the Brave toques.

Thank you, once again to everyone who donated, spread the word, and otherwise supported our endeavour. And thanks to all the organizers of Shave for the Brave for making it such a rewarding experience. It feels good to have been a part of something so worthwhile. Even if it is a little draughty.

Congrats to everyone involved with the Shave for the Brave on another well run, very successful event. I'm so glad that Young Adult Cancer Canada is out there, doing what they do.

Today's the Day!

2011-03-12T09:49:00.000-03:30

This is it, the long awaited day of baldness. I'm leaving soon to take part in the Shave for the Brave. Wish me luck. I'm very excited. The temperatures are above 0°c which is good. Even better is that I won't be alone.

My ten year old, Jon, has decided to shave today as well - a last minute decision so his mom wouldn't be bald alone. Together, we have raised $5,130 for Young Adult Cancer Canada.

Thank you so much to everyone who has donated and spread the word about this amazing cause. Shaving my head wouldn't mean much without your generosity.

I'll be back sometime in the next few days to tell you all about it.

Going Home

2011-03-11T08:30:00.000-03:30

She made sure to wear her good dress and shoes, ‘cause if she was going she wanted them to think it was by choice, not necessity. It had been a long time, so long she couldn’t remember the last time she licked a stamp to send a note their way, and she figured they just gave up trying to track her down.

The trip was longer than she remembered. She got off the bus at the station and walked the familiar route toward the place she once called home. The streets were all the same, just more run down, tired. She guessed she was too.

She reached her destination and stopped, double checked to make sure she had it right. She sat down on the case that held all that she had left, surrounded by the ruins of the rest. It was true what they said – you can never go home again.